Page 63 of Resurrection

Silence lays between us for a beat. The question is dumb. But after listening to Eric and Charles talking, after realizing she hasn’t gotten the things I wanted for her, I can’t stop wondering. I’m plagued by a giant what if?

Regrets are for indecisive, weak people, aren’t they?

I bend my head, my lips close to her ear, as though my weakness is a secret. “Do you ever wonder what life would have been like if that night hadn’t happened?”

She presses her forehead into my chest. “I never used to. I thought I understood, realized what we’d meant to each other.”

The implication is that she’d meant nothing, we’d been nothing to each other. God, I was such a fool. Still am. This road with me does not lead to any happiness for her. I shouldn’t ask. “And now?”

“And now, I can’t stop thinking about how happy I used to be with you.” She still won’t meet my gaze, and her manicured fingertip traces figure eights across my chest. Her closeness muddles my thoughts, turns my focus to the way her body fits against mine, how good it is to be skin to skin, buried deep inside her.

The path we’d walk is impossible. Wrong, maybe. I have no right to hope, to ask. “For the rest of my life, I’ll be a wanted man.”

“I know.”

“With me, you’ll always be checking over your shoulder. The CIA, the FBI, other mob organizations, they’ll be searching for ways to draw me out.”

She raises her head and meets my gaze, her lips only inches from mine. “I understand the reasons I shouldn’t be with you, Finn. You think I haven’t had them on repeat since I rescuedyou?” Her amber eyes sear me with sincerity. “What do you want?”

“I want you to be safe and happy.”

“What if I can’t be both?”

I run my knuckles along her cheek. “Then I want you to be safe.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “And I’ve decided I’d rather be happy.”

“The things you used to want—”

“I gave up on those a long time ago. Years ago. I’ll never be a mom. I’m not telling you I’m not sad. But the other thing I wanted? It was a partner I could trust, who would be honest with me, who would love me.” Her eyes waver from mine, a hint of unease in their depths. “You tell me the truth, even when it’s not something I want to hear.”

I stare at the wall, contemplating her words. When we were younger, she told me if I ever wanted to stop sleeping with her, all I had to do was some human trafficking. It was a hard line for her. We were in bed, and I laughed. Told her it was weird to be okay with murder and not okay with trafficking. Then I promised her I’d never do it.

Easy to lie, to tell her I forgot our conversation when Zhang’s trafficking business landed in my lap in Boston. When Antonio asked what we would do with the human arm of Zhang’s business, I thought of Carys, of the promise I made, of how after we had sex in Boston she told me she was so drunk and horny I could have been anyone. I kept Zhang’s business because I was pissed I meant so little to her when she meant so fucking much to me.

She tries to back away, and I clutch her closer.

Her nervous laugh is muffled by my chest. “Clearly, I misread this. Forget I said anything.”

“I’m thinking.” I smooth her hair and kiss the top of her head. Agreeing to be with her makes me a selfish bastard. Normally, I’m quite happy with being a bright, shining example of what it means to be both selfish and a bastard. God knows I’ve had both thrown at me so many times I’ve lost count.

“You shouldn’t have to think this hard.” She tries to escape my grasp. “If you can’t—if you don’t believe you can love me—”

I chuckle, and she slaps my chest and struggles with more force, trying to break free. “It’s not fucking funny, Finn.”

Love her? I barely remember a time when I didn’t love her. My body may have belonged to others, but my soul, what’s left of it, is hers. My obsession started when I was thirteen, jacking off into a sock at the idea of her, and it’ll end with me whispering her name on my deathbed. I laugh again, and then I realize why she doesn’t find it funny. Swallowing down my amusement, I let her get away from me.

She strides halfway across the room and stops, her back facing me, as though she’s not sure what to do with herself.

Can I let her tie herself to me? Can I be that selfish?

“You think I don’t love you?” I say.

“You’ve never said it.”

I shrug and quirk my lips up, but it isn’t with amusement. “I’ve never said it to anyone.”

When she turns, her expression is pensive. “No one? Ever?”

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