Page 92 of Merciful Lies

“I never lied to you, Anna,” I say, and I’m fucking hurt.

“You did. You said you went away on business. You said you loved me, but you were with her. Making plans to be with her,” she says, and it breaks my heart.

“That's not what that was,” I tell her.

“I heard you. You said she was why you went to Boston. And how you’re gonna keep her safe. So what’s that mean? She’s under your protection now.”

“Anna, you don’t understand.”

“You’re right,” she snaps, anger flashing in her whiskey eyes, and fuck it soothes my heart to see her like that.

Sure, it’s fucked up. But I would rather have a spitting mad wife than one who doesn’t care.

“I heard you say you’re mine. But if she’s yours, what does that make me?” Anna asks, her voice cracks on a sob and I reach for her.

But she pulls back, and this time I flinch. Anna is right. I did say that. But it’s not what she thinks.

I’m a second away from telling her, but the elevator doors open, and I refuse to put on a show for the goddamn staff.

My face is hard, showing no emotion. And I barely react when the guard greets us.

I put my hand on Anna’s back, biting my inner cheek to stop from reacting to the way she tenses, and I open the door, herding my wife inside.

She goes straight to the nursery, and I let her.

Anna is a terrific mother. I know she loves our son, and she won’t do anything stupid like try to take him, so I wait for her in our bedroom.

When forty minutes pass and she doesn’t show, I seek her out and find her sleeping in the rocking chair in the nursery.

Mrs. Pirillo, who is acting as a nanny of sorts, is on the small day bed we have inside the nursery, and I see disapproval in her eyes before she averts her gaze.

I know she is just doing her job, and I kind of like the fact she’s protective of my Anna. But no one has to protect my wife from me.

I am her protection. I am her shield against all the bad things in the world.

But I am also the one who keeps hurting her. And I have to stop. I need to do better.

The line I am trying so hard to keep between my wife and my business, it’s not working. It’s causing her pain. And I won’t have that.

I take a peek at my son, kissing my fingers and pressing them to his sweet, soft head. Then I turn to my wife, and I inhale.

I pick her up in my arms and she stirs a little. But she doesn’t wake up until I place her on our bedspread. The one she made with her own hands.

Then she sits up.

“What are you doing?”

“Bringing you to bed.”

“I don’t want sleep here,” she says, standing up.

She’s pissed. And if I thought what she is thinking, I’d be pissed too. But she’s still wearing my shirt and smelling like my soap, and the temptation is too damn great to pass up.

I grab either side of the collar and I rip it open, revealing her soft, naked skin to my hungry gaze.

“Goddamn. You’re so beautiful.”

“Nico,” her breath hitches, and she struggles, but I have the fabric pulled down to her elbows and she can’t do anything but follow my lead when I pull her tight to my body.

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