Page 61 of Deceive Me
“Great, surround sound.” Elliot retreated to lean against the counter.
Saint retrieved a cup from the cabinet. “Where’s my apology, then?”
Elliot buried her face in the faint steam still rising from her coffee. “I’m sorry, all right?”
Saint stopped, coffeepot lifted to fill his mug, to gawk at her. “That is the sorriest ‘sorry’ I’ve ever heard. My three-year-old niece does better than that.”
She glanced over at him from beneath her lashes. “Maybe the next time you manage to win a sparring match against me, I’ll give you a better one.”
King hooted. “He’s never won against you.”
She lifted a brow at him. Exactly my point.
Saint started to respond, but the kitchen door opened just in time to stop him. Jack and Conlan entered. Both men’s dark eyes zeroed in on her like junkyard dogs who’d sighted a particularly annoying trespasser.
And the morning just keeps getting better.
She threw King and Saint a look, wishing they were anywhere but here, witnessing the set down she knew she was about to receive. There was no hope for it, though; she always took her fucking lumps. After setting her coffee regretfully on the counter, she turned and brought herself to attention.
Jack came to stand in front of her, Con to one side. “Elliot.”
His tone shot steel through her spine. “Yes, sir.”
He shook his dark head, expression unreadable. “You always have been unusual.”
She couldn’t really argue with that.
“You’ve done a good job for us, always, despite your…idiosyncrasies.”
“Like putting clients on their asses?” Saint asked.
“Yes, Saint, like putting clients on their asses.” Conlan’s words were slow, sarcastic. Saint grinned.
“Seems to have worked well for her in the long run, at least in that case,” King added.
What did that mean? King could not be insinuating that Deacon cared about her. It couldn’t be true. Deacon enjoyed the sex; that was all. He probably felt some affection, sure, but he’d loved his wife, and Elliot was nothing like Julia Walsh had been, at least as far as she could tell. Deacon would want that again, not some fucked-up warrior woman who’d never even had a tea party before.
You have now, remember?
And it was a memory she’d cherish long after Deacon and Sydney forgot her name.
“Do you two mind letting me handle my own reprimand?” Jack barked.
“No, sir.”
Elliot swore sometimes that Saint and King were twins. How they managed to synchronize comebacks so often was beyond her. Or maybe great minds really did think alike.
She glanced at the two men, leaning back against the countertop, matching smirks on their faces. I wouldn’t quite go as far as ‘“great minds.”
She had her own small grin under control when Jack turned back to her. One look and she was swallowing more than amusement, though. She hadn’t realized until this moment what it would mean if Jack fired her. Yes, her team had accepted her back into the fold, but ultimately they worked at the pleasure of their boss. If Jack dismissed her, none of them would have recourse.
The kitchen door opened, admitting Deacon and Fionn. A hot wash of shame filled her as she looked at the two men. Fionn wore a loose-fitting button-down, probably to avoid lifting his arm and aggravating the stab wound below his collarbone. When he turned his head to survey the room, she saw the bandage at the back of his skull. He’d had stitches there, she knew. He had a mild concussion too. And when their eyes met, the lingering awareness of his hands around her throat, him pinning her against the wall, stared back at her.
Fionn’s injuries might or might not have occurred if she’d been honest. And Deacon…well, he might or might not have continued to be with her if she’d been honest with him too. She’d taken those choices from them—for the best of reasons, but still, she’d deceived them all. And that was something she couldn’t get away from, no matter how many punches and kicks she took trying to erase it.
She brought her focus back to Jack. “If you feel I need to go, sir, then I will,” she said quietly.
Deacon’s attention snapped to her. A frown gathered around his mouth.
