Page 21 of Malicious Wedding

I get up, pull on some clothes, get myself together in the bathroom, then tentatively head out into the kitchen.

Carson’s leaning against the counter. An enormous brown paper bag’s sitting beside him as he stares at the coffee maker. He’s wearing his slacks and his dress shirt from the night before, the sleeves rolled up, the top two buttons undone to show off his muscular chest. I stare at him, hardly believing that a man like that could be standing in my dingy kitchen, but there he is. He looks totally out of place, like a classical Greek statue transported from Athens and plopped on my freaking linoleum.

Slowly, his attention turns to me.

It’s like the sun coming out from behind clouds.

Which is normally nice. Except I didn’t wear sunscreen and he’s burning me up.

“Good morning,” he says.

I feel myself blushing. Why am I blushing? It’s not like we had sex or anything. All he did was sleep on my couch.

This big, gorgeous man, this rich mafia asshole, slept in my living room.

“You’re still here,” I manage to blurt out.

His lips curl. “Unfortunately. You know that futon monstrosity is the least comfortable thing I’ve ever had the displeasure of sleeping on?”

“Then you must be pretty lucky.” I chew my lip. “Can I have some coffee?”

“It’s your machine.” He pours me a mug, but before handing it over, he adds in milk and a tiny bit of sugar. “Just how you like it.”

“Thanks.” I take a sip. Then I pause, narrowing my eyes. “How did you know that?”

He ignores my question and pours his own coffee. He takes it black. Like the rotting depths of his soul.

“I made some calls,” he says, not looking at me, and I get the sense he just dodged my question on purpose. “Iain’s out of surgery.”

I stand up straighter. Coffee’s all but forgotten now. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s alive,” he says, glancing over. “The doctor sounded cautious. They’re not sure if he’s ever going to wake up, but the surgery went better than expected and now it’s time for him to heal.”

I slump back against the refrigerator. A small grunt escapes my throat. I should be happy, or maybe relieved, or maybe I should break down and sob for my dead family and my barely alive brother, or I should feel any emotion at all except for this total and utter drained exhaustion that seems to be wrapped around my middle. I’m tempted to crawl back into bed. Except Carson would still be here.

“That’s good news,” I finally manage.

“You don’t look like you’re happy about it.”

“I’m conflicted.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Why the hell am I admitting this to him right now? “Obviously I don’t want my brother to die. But at the same time, I don’t want him to suffer, and I sure as hell don’t want to get dragged through this mess all because of something stupid he did. That’s insanely selfish, right?”

“Would it have been easier for you if he died in surgery?”

I grimace, slumping forward, guilt piercing through my bones. “No. Of course not. I’m just angry still, that’s all. Angry and confused.”

“He wasn’t.”

I look up. Carson’s staring at me with that hungry-and-needy intensity again. “He wasn’t… what?” I ask.

“Confused. He understood what you wanted and even though he hated it, he respected your wishes. He kept his distance. He talked about you sometimes, you know.”

“Really? Why? I thought—” I hesitate, thinking back to the last time we spoke all those years ago, when I told him I didn’t want anything to do with him so long as he was in the Crowley family.

He was pissed. Livid, really, and we said some ugly things to each other. I kind of figured he was through with me.

“Your brother loved you,” Carson says simply.

And that’s the kick in the throat I need to finally start crying.

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