Page 2 of Bound

“It’s barely been a year, Tris,” I bark.

Disposing of a body because of Finnigan’s recklessness was not on my agenda for this evening. And I definitely didn’t sign up for a heart-to-heart regarding my non-existent sex life. I flex my fingers around the leather of the steering wheel, trying not to explode at Tristan. My knuckles whiten from my tightening grip when he continues to push the matter. “We both know damn well that isn’t true.”

“The fuck it isn’t!” I snap as we pull into the parking garage. Seeing red, I slam on the brakes, throw the Suburban into park, and violently fist the front of Tristan’s shirt. “I didn’t once break my vows when I was married to her, and I sure as fuck haven’t slept with anyone since Sarah.”

“Relax.” Tristan’s tone is soft as he lightly grips my wrist to pull my hands from his shirt. “I’m not implying you were ever unfaithful to her. Quite the opposite, actually. You started mourning her long before she was gone, Dec.”

He isn’t wrong.

My celibacy began well before Sarah’s actual passing, not long after I realized I was literally going to watch her die. Droppingmy grip on Tristan and sliding out of the SUV, I share, “I’m not ready. Quite frankly, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”

“None of us are pushing you to get laid. Well, except Finn,” Tristan jokes and forces me to crack a small smile. “We just don’t want you to spend the rest of your life wondering what if?”

I wish it were that simple.

Memories of our life together aren’t the only thing that has kept me from moving on.

“God forbid you ever lose Layla. You’ll finally understand, then. And, more than anything, I hope that you never actually understand an ounce of what I’ve been through.”

CHAPTER TWO

QUINN

When I wanted to get together to talk with Layla tonight, I was not expecting her driver to bring me here—Declan’s home.

It looks nothing like what I expected or what I had imagined his place would be like. With the clean-cut way he dresses and his gruff demeanor, I expected his place to mimic that—leather, dark wood, and minimalist. Instead, the massive open floor plan is warm and welcoming.

Two things he is not.

My fingers dust over the back of the soft, oatmeal tweed couch. It’s an odd design choice for someone with a preschooler, clearly evidenced by the squiggly, bright green trail of marker beneath my fingertips. I round the sofa with my glass of Pinot Noir and take a seat, sinking into the softness of the cushion as I adjust the navy throw pillow beside me. Waiting for Layla to join me with her glass, my gaze roams over the room.

The soft brown walls are adorned with floral art in various muted tones to accent the soft coziness of the space; and black and white family photographs spanning as far back as pictures ofthe Evans brothers younger than when I first met them. Tucked in the corner not far from the couch is an adorable midnight-blue, Fiona-sized armchair and a small bookshelf packed full of childhood favorites. Other toys are scattered haphazardly around the living area, and Layla gathers a handful of them before dropping them into a small wicker basket as she makes her way to the couch and takes a seat beside me.

Even though I only met Declan’s late wife, Sarah, a handful of times before she fell ill, everything about this space reminds me of her. She was always so warm, welcoming, and down to earth.

“I know you don’t want it,” Layla continues our conversation from the kitchen, “but you know the boys will take care of you.”

Swallowing my sip of red wine, I exhale. “I know.” The Evans brothers have been footing my bills since that night at the bar, each of them letting me know countless times that there is no expiration for their offers to take care of me. All of them harbor an element of guilt for what happened to me—something that was clearly not their fault. “But you’re right. I don’t want it. I just can’t keep taking their money for nothing.”

“It’s not for nothing,” Layla corrects. “You’re family to all of them, and they are merely taking care of someone they love.”

I’m not their family…

Her words both warm and break my heart. I’ve always wanted to be a part of this family, but not like this. I don’t want to be the charity case they all feel theyneedto take care of.

It wasn’t always like this between us. We were all thick as thieves when we were younger, and for the longest time, the Evans brothers were like my actual brothers.The five of them would do anything to protect me. Other kids. My mother’s manyboyfriends. No one stood a chance against the boys who had practically adopted me as their sister.

At least until we all went and fucked it up.

“It feels wrong, like I’m taking advantage. I would feel better about it if I were actually earning my keep.” Unfortunately, I’m basically useless being hired for any kind of job that would be worthwhile for them. Crowds, loud noises, and sometimes simply being out in public often result in a panic attack.Sweaty and hyperventilating isn’t exactly a good look on me.“I can’t go back to the bar. And while I know it’s quieter and has more security, I don’t think I’m at a place where I could handle the atmosphere of the club either.”

“I get that, Quinn. I really do. But you also know these boys aren’t exactly capable of taking ‘no’ for an answer, right?” Layla slaps her hand over her mouth. “Shit! That was insensitive as fuck. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I’m notthatbroken.” I force a slight smile because Iamstillthatbroken. But Layla is the one person who doesn’t walk on eggshells with me, and I’m determined to keep it that way. “I’ve known them my whole life. They might be assholes at times, but not one of them would ever?—”

My thoughts are cut short when the door opening to the apartment startles me, nearly causing me to spill my wine over the light cushion of the couch beneath me. My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass—with enough force that I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in my fist—as my heart begins to race. Seeing my distress, Layla leans forward and lightly wraps her hand around mine, clutching the wine stem. “It’s okay.” Her tone is soft and comforting. “It’s just Tris and Declan.”

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and count backward—five, four, three, two, one—unsuccessfully trying to calm myself and slow my speeding heart before I spiral into a full-blown panic attack. Opening my eyes, I suddenly find myself locked with Declan’s slightly bewildered gaze from across the room. My sudden panic might be dissipating, but my heart still thumps a little harder.

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