Page 11 of Savage Love

It can’t be about Elena.I tell myself that it must be some Kings’ business as I throw clothes into a duffel, something that Niall has been told not to talk about over the phone, something that is being kept quiet until I can speak to the McGregors in person. I ignore the voice in the back of my head that tells me that if that were the case, if it were business that important, either Connor or Liam would have called me themselves, not delegated it to Niall. That if it were that important, they likely wouldn’t have called me at all and would have gone straight to Viktor.

I ignore it, because if it’s not about the Kings, then it’s about Elena—and if something is that serious, then she’s either horribly sick, or…

It can’t be that.But even as I think it, I know it can.

We weren’t careful. And if it is that, it’s entirely my fault.

The thought haunts me all the way to Boston. I tell myself over and over that it can’t possibly be, that Niall will meet me and take me to talk with Connor and Levin, that this is business—but I can’t shake the feeling in my gut.

It only gets worse when Niall greets me with a serious expression, his face warning me that whatever this is about, he meant it when he said on the phone that it wasn’t good.

“We’re going to the house,” he tells me without preamble as we head out to the car. “And be warned, Isabella ispissedwith you. She has been, ever since she found out—”

“Since she found out what?” I demand, feeling that knot of dread in my stomach again. Isabella finding out about my relationship with Elena would be bad enough, but this feels worse. Niall wouldn’t drag me all the way to Boston over Isabella finding out that I slept with her sister, unless Connor is actually that furious about it, and it’s both something having to do with Elena and Kings’ business.

Niall glances toward me. There’s no judgment in his expression; I hadn’t expected that there would be. After all, he and Isabella weren’t meant to be together, either. He’d fallen for her by accident, without realizing who she was, and their road to a happily ever after had been as fraught as most of the couples I know, however happy they are now. But I can see from the look on his face that he’s concerned.

“You should have told me,” he says finally as we get into the car. “I could have—I don’t know. Warned Isabella ahead of time. Prepared her so if it did come out—if Elena told her, it wouldn’t be such a shock.”

“She didn’t want anyone to know.” I stare out the window at the city as it goes by, lighting up the darkness. “She covered for me with Connor—I think he picked up that something was going on. She told him nothing had happened between us. That made me think she wanted to keep it between us.”

“So you just left.” There’s still no judgment in Niall’s voice—it’s a flat statement of fact, but I can tell he doesn’t entirely approve of how I handled things. “As I recall, you headed out so early we weren’t even up yet.”

“I thought it was better that way, for Elena. I had already said goodbye to her, the night before that. I didn’t want to put her through another one.”

Niall nods silently, as if he’s considering that. “You know,” he says finally, “you still could have talked to me. I’ve had my own share of—questionable entanglements.”

I know what he’s referring to. There had been a time when he’d been in love with the woman who is now Connor’s wife, when they had very nearly had something together, back when Connor and Saoirse were nothing but a marriage of convenience. I remember very well how difficult that had been for him. “It’s not the same,” I say quietly. “Saoirse was older. A woman who knew her own mind. And Isabella—”

“I think Elena knows her own mind just as well as either of them,” Niall says wryly. “But I also think you already know that.”

He pulls up in front of the house, and I see the warm light flooding out from the windows, out across the lawn. It looks soft and homey, like an embrace in structural form, and I feel a strange sort of longing in my chest, one that I haven’t had in a long time.

Lidiya and I never had a house like that. We never got that far. The bed I found her dead in was in an apartment we shared together, one that we had shared since the day we got back from Tokyo, and I went to make things right with Vladimir. She had spent that first day apartment hunting in Moscow—something to take her mind off of worrying about me, she had said. When I came back home that evening with a bloody nose but fewer fears about recrimination, she had shown me the glossy pamphlet with pictures of the high rise that would eventually become our home.

We had talked a number of times about buying a house. When she told me about the baby, the idea of it started to feel more like a reality. Like something we should actually do—a place meant for raising a family, instead of the crisp and architectural apartment we lived in at the time. We had imagined what it might look like, talked about whether we wanted to stay near Moscow or go somewhere else altogether. We had talked about moving closer to her grandmother, far from the city, somewhere peaceful and quiet. I had told her I was leaving the Syndicate. We could do that. It wouldn’t matter anymore. I could live whatever life I wanted—whatever lifewewanted.

And then I came home to sheets drenched in blood, and I knew that was always a fool’s dream for me. There would be no cozy house, no nursery, no home that we would make together.

That was never written in the cards for me.

What if it could be now?

The thought sends a flood of guilt through me as I walk into the house after Niall, towards the living room. I see the tops of both Elena and Isabella’s heads over the sofa, and then I see Isabella turn, her face sharpening instantly when she sees me.

She gets up immediately, crossing the room before Niall and I can walk in, standing in the doorway. “I’m glad to see you made it so quickly,” she says crisply. “I thought it might take you a lot longer to make your way here.”

“Why would it?” I frown at her, trying not to rise to the bait. “I don’t even know what’s going on, Isabella. Niall was very circumspect in his information. He just told me to get here as soon as I could, and since he’s not in the habit of asking me to do things like that frivolously, that’s what I did.”

“Well, you’re about to find out.” Isabella crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s not exactly the sort of thing you should hear over the phone. Of course, it shouldn’t have happened atall—”

My gut clenches at that, and Niall steps forward, putting his arm through his wife’s and guiding her out of the doorway. “Let him talk to Elena,” he says quietly, and I glance into the room, seeing Elena still sitting stock-still on the couch.

The moment I step through the door, she turns, and her entire face lights up when she sees me. Whatever is wrong, whatever it is that I’ve been brought here to find out, it’s as if it doesn’t exist for a moment. There’s an expression of such absolute happiness on her face for that brief moment that I feel a wave of guilt for having ever left her—and an equally strong following wave of it for having made her feel this way about me at all, knowing I couldn’t return it.

She gets up from the couch, making a beeline for me, and I see her face crumple as she reaches me, flinging her arms around my neck. Her cheek presses against my chest, and my arms go around her automatically, holding her to me as I feel a shudder go through her.

My first instinct is always to protect her, no matter what. That has never changed, and never will change.

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