Page 31 of Crimson Tears

Everyone's eyes are on Cillian at the table. He clears his throat and stands. “Nice evening, lads. I’m going to take this call up to my private space now. Drive safe.”

He waves a hand and walks out of the room. My eyes track him the whole way as he jokes with Nessa. I may not be great at poker, but even I can read it on his face.

The tattoo is for her.

I had a feeling ever since I met him that the red mark had something to do with my little fox, but seeing his reaction now is confirmation enough. I want to know what he is telling her. What made him get it there? Why does she need to know so badly?

“You can follow him,” Alexi says, reading me well.

However, I am not that person. Whatever Nessa and Cillian talk about, they have the right to keep between the two of them. I shake my head as Alexi deals the final hand, and we fall into a tense silence.

Damien reaches out, taking Lev’s hand as Alexi leans close to Damien. You can see how comfortable they all are with each other. It makes sense how their dynamic works so well, even if I didn’t understand it in the beginning.

And while I might understand them, I simply cannot picture that for myself. I do not want to be close to Cillian. I do not have any urge to touch him or be in the same bed as him.

While my brain has wandered to what the two of us could do to Nessa, I always settle on the idea that it would be temporaryor he would leave after. Never something as permanent as what my son has.

Is that selfish of me?

I can see all the ways Nessa is cared for when she is with Cillian. He makes her laugh and brings out the youth in her. With me, it is as if we are an old married couple. We enjoy the silence and the peace, but is that all she wants? Am I everything she really needs, or is my place in her life something that should have been temporary?

I fold in the first round, unable to pay attention to anything other than my spiraling thoughts.

If Cillian is what is best for her, do I have the strength in me to actually walk away?

Chapter 10

Boris went to pick up Nessa after finding out just how skuttered she was. The two of us listened to her complain about not wanting to leave her car at Evie’s until Alexi offered to drive it back.

Her emotional attachment to that vehicle is unhealthy.

And we know that means a lot coming from me.

The front door bangs open, and Nessa laughs uncontrollably. I round the corner to find her lying on the foyer floor with Boris’ jacket wrapped around her legs.

“I told you to go slow,” Boris says, chuckling as he helps her to her feet.

I’m already ready for bed, so I wait there in black sweatpants and a white tank while watching them together.

When Evie first suggested I find a way to make things work between the three of us, I was worried that I would feel loads of jealousy. However, when I see the two of them together now, it’s not like that at all.

Nessa spent so many years under her father’s thumb, and I always took it as my job to find a way to bring her joy during that time. I would joke, insisting weeds were flowers and things of such. I would dance any chance I got just to see her laugh at me.

There was nothing I wasn’t willing to do to put a smile on her face. And it seems Boris feels the same.

Although we do things differently for her, at the end of the day, she is happy. I can’t help but remember the day she saved me. The same day I vowed I would do anything for this woman until my dying breath.

We are moving, I can feel it. The back of the truck is large, but the mass of stacked crates shrinks the space down until I feel trapped. Looking around, I see the faces of five scared children from our village, all varying in age.

Even my young brain can tell that this has something to do with the mafia that has grown exponentially in our town. It never used to be quiet or safe, but I never thought I would be dragged out of my bed in the middle of the night.

Yet, that’s what happened.

I try to take a deep breath, but it keeps getting caught in my lungs. The car hits a bump, causing the kids to scream as they are jostled around. My bound hands scramble to hold on to the wooden crate next to me, as I feel terror sinking into my bones.

As my breathing kicks up, a small girl crawls to my side. Something about her is different. She can’t be much older than six or seven to my eleven-year-old self. Light auburn hair that sweeps in front of her face almost hides away her expression.

But I see it. She isn’t scared.

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