Page 70 of Beat of Love
She turned with him, refusing to let him escape into deflection. “Then tell me.”
His throat worked around the words, dry and raw. “I destroy the women near me,” he said, barely above a whisper. “First, my wife. Thenher.”
He met her gaze then, steady and unflinching, like he needed her to see the truth. “Now you.”
Those two words landed between them like a warning.
Her brow furrowed, but she didn’t flinch. “What happened with your wife wasn’t on you.”
He shook his head slowly, the movement tight with guilt. He’d let his guard down. Let himself believe he could have a life with Charlie, something peaceful and loving, something easy. But easy had no place in his world. Complacency had killed his wife — that was the truth he carried like a stone in his chest.
“My mistake cost Charlie her life,” he said, voice flat with self-loathing.
Silence spread between them, dense and expectant.
“And…her?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
His jaw tightened. “Kamila.” Her name burned his tongue. “I approached her with good intentions. I was going to infiltrate, gather intel, feed it back to the DEA. But once I was inside …”
He paused, breath catching. “I didn’t have to fake it anymore. I found Ilikedcartel life. The structure. The power. The violence. It was clean, in its own way.”
He glanced at her, eyes hooded. “I fit there. No pretending, no guilt. Just action. Just survival. They didn’t ask me to be anything other than what I was — brutal, ruthless, effective. A killer.”
She didn’t move, didn’t speak — just watched him with those steady eyes that made him feel more seen than he wanted.
“We became lovers,” he said, the words tasting like ash. “Not out of necessity. Out of choice.” He flexed his hands, fingers curling, the memories still vivid. “When the truth came out …”
His throat worked. “In a way, I broke her. Just as much as she broke me. She had to save face in front of her men. And so, she picked up the knout. But it cost her. Twisted her.” He looked away, fighting the flood rising in his chest. The scars Kamila had left were more than physical — they were stitched into his psyche, his sense of self.
Not just the pain, but the betrayal.
The way she’d looked at him that last time, as if he’d carved out her heart with his own hands. “That’s who I am,” he said finally. “A man who ends up ruining every woman who gets close.”
He braced for rejection, for the quiet dismissal he knew was coming.
But instead, she stepped closer. “You won’t ruin me.”
He looked at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. “You don’t get it,” he said, his voice rough, frayed at the edges. “Iwillruin you. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow — but I will. It’s what I do.” He dropped his gaze. “I don’t want to pull you into this mess called my life.”
“Too late,” she said simply. “I’m already here.”
“Red,” he groaned, like her name was both a prayer and a warning.
His hands hovered at his sides, fists clenched as if holding back a tide. She stood there — calm, grounded, but with fire in her eyes. And God help him, she wasn’t backing down.
He took a half step forward, chest heaving with the pressure of everything he wanted and everything he didn’t deserve. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do,” she said, voice low. “I’ve seen the wreckage. And I’m still here.”
Her words undid him.
He reached for her — slowly, reverently — his palm cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing the softness of her cheek. Her breath caught, but she didn’t move away. Didn’t flinch.
Instead, her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, pulling him until their foreheads touched. “Kiss me,” she whispered.
That was it — the last thread of control snapped.
He kissed her like a man starved, like he’d been drowning in silence and shame for years and she was the first breath of clean air. It wasn’t gentle. It was raw and hungry, all the pain and longing and guilt crashing into that single point of contact.
