Page 93 of Control's Undoing

Eric shook his head, not in denial but because—as always—he was trying to shove away something he didn’t want to admit.“It doesn’t matter.Colum, you know why I can’t be with her.”

Colum used to understand Eric’s reasons, aware the man was eaten up with guilt over his first wives and Josephine.Colum had suffered from the emotion as well, hating himself for letting Josephine leave the archive alone that night.She’d just wanted to have a goddamn meal with him, and he’d refused.He had spent every night since then imagining what she must have gone through, how scared she’d been, the pain she’d suffered at the hands of that killer, how he hadn’t been there for her, how his last words to her had been “get away from me.”

He’d almost let that guilt convince him he wasn’t worthy of happiness or love, but he was wrong.Eric was wrong too.

Colum held Eric’s gaze.“I can’t give you the answer to this thing between the two of ye.Christ knows I can barely figure out my own shite.All I do know is, I’m not living the life Josephine would have wanted for me.Neither of us is.”

Eric held his gaze for a long time, his eyes filled with sorrow.“I’m sorry, Colum.”

He wasn’t apologizing for the trinity marriage but for what happened to Josephine, even though Colum didn’t blame him.He never had.

“That’s not an apology you need to make.”

Eric bowed his head, Colum’s words falling on deaf ears.

“It’s time we both stop wallowing in our grief, Eric.Time we reach for those things Josephine wanted for us.Happiness.Love.Family.”

Eric lifted his gaze.“I want those things for you too.”

“And for yourself?”

Eric shook his head.“I…can’t.”

Colum understood that response, even though he hated it.

“Give me a few days,” Eric said, his no-nonsense fleet admiral tone firmly in place.

Colum nodded, aware that was as much as he could hope for.

His American broker was calling.

Glancing at the phone, he debated declining the call.His various brokers all knew his preferences for jobs, and they wouldn’t call him with something that wasn’t interesting, lucrative, or related to his special interest.

The issue was, he wasn’t in the U.S.and right now, he had no intention of leaving Eastern Europe.He’d had fun in Crimea and was enjoying himself playing a game of death by a thousand cuts with a pretty woman.

Of course, she didn’t know they were playing.She thought she was in serious, near-constant danger.

She also didn’t know she was bait.

It had surprised him how strong she was.How resilient.Bullet wound, broken leg…she kept going.And she hadn’t called for help.It had been a long time since someone surprised him, but she had.It was making him want to do something foolish…like talk to her.

Meet her.

Maybe do more.

Distracted by that thought, he answered the phone.

“Spaniard,” his broker said in greeting.

“I can’t come to America right now.”

“The client is American, the job in Dublin.”

Dublin?He jerked his attention away from the screen where he was staring at stills from a drone video taken of her in her back garden, after she’d stepped on the bear trap he’d left for her.

“What’s the job?”

“I can’t be certain,” the broker said.“But it might relate to your special interest.Or something close to it.”

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