Page 93 of The Devil's Torment

She cocks an eyebrow and tilts her head to one side. “Really?” Rubbing her eyes, she grabs her phone. “Has he emailed them to Beth, too?”

“If he has, then sleeping with the fishes is the least of his worries.” I’d specifically told him that Victoria was to be the first to know what her results were. That’s why I had one of our doctors take the lead on the testing.

She picks up her phone. “There’s a text from Mum.” Frowning, she reads it, then sighs. “Neither she nor Dad is a match. Guess it’s all down to me, now.”

I fucking hate this. I’m powerless to change what’s already happened and what might happen. I almost have to sit on my hands to stop from grabbing the phone from her, deleting the email, and telling her it isn’t happening. I’ll lock her in these rooms if I have to. But it’s a fantasy. There’s nothing I can do but wait.

A few seconds later, she drops the phone into her lap.

“Well?”

Her lips rub together. “It says here it’s a negative crossmatch.”

“What does that mean? Are you compatible or not?” I fucking hate how the medical community loves to over complicate everything. Why can’t they just say you’re a match or you’re not a fucking match? Without the fucking bit, obviously.

“Yes,” she whispers. “I’m compatible.”

Fuck.

Covering my nose and mouth with my hands, I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. This is the worst possible outcome. I don’t want her to be a match. I don’t want her to put her body through surgery to benefit Elizabeth. And I don’t give a flying fuck what it says about me that I’d happily let her sister die rather than risk my wife’s health.

I’ve read all the material. Hell, over the last couple of days while we waited for the results to come back, I’ve devoured countless articles and reports, and they all say the risks to the living donor are low. But they’re not zero, and that’s the only circumstances under which I could possibly accept this.

But it’s not my decision, and I refuse to be the arsehole who puts a different kind of pressure on her. The last thing she needs is her parents and Elizabeth on one side, pleading with her to donate, and me on the other side, begging her to put herself first and screw her sister.

I’m scared.

Strike that. I’m fucking petrified. Of losing her. Of what I’m capable of if the worst happens.

With her, I barely recognize myself. She’s softened me, smoothed out all my roughened edges, but make no mistake, I can turn that other shit on like flicking a light switch. Losing her would set off a chain reaction. I’d burn the fucking world down, starting with Elizabeth and her parents.

I can’t lose her.

I just can’t.

“—hear me.”

I blink, suddenly cognizant she’s been talking to me, and I haven’t heard a word. “Sorry, miles away. What?”

She straddles me, cupping my face. “I’m scared, too.”

A pained breath forces its way out through a compressed chest. When did she figure me out? I’ve always had a poker face. It’s why my brothers hate playing cards with me, and why I usually come out on top when I do force them into a game or two at De Luxe. Yet Victoria has seen right through me, right to my terrified heart.

“Do you know what you’re going to do?” My voice rasps, like each word is being pushed through a sieve made of razor blades.

“No. I’m going to sleep on it and decide tomorrow.”

On Christmas Day. Happy fucking Christmas.

“Nicholas?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you make love to me, please.”

My chest aches with how fragile this moment feels. “Yes,” I manage, my eyes flitting over her face, memorizing every detail. “I’ve got you, Half-pint. I’ve got you.”

ChapterThirty-Two

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