Page 21 of Unravelling The Hitman: A BWWM Romance

“Who?”

“My wife.”

My mind raced, struggling to piece the truth together. “Where was she?”

“At the hospital.” He sobbed, a horrible, broken sound that summoned my own tears.

I held them back and prodded. “Why was she there?”

“She suffered from… epilepsy.” He wiped his face with the heel of his hand. “It didn’t stop her from living her dream, travelling the world. She was so brave. But… when we got to Belize, she had an episode and hit her head.”

I winced.

“We rushed her to the hospital, but she wasn’t waking up. Three days. I just left for a few minutes to take a shower and eat. It was just for a few minutes…”

Suddenly, it hit me. “You were rushing to the hospital when I knocked you off your bike.”

“By the time I got there…” he swiped at his face again. The dirt mingled with his tears, forming mud trails down to his chin. He looked like a crazed animal when he lifted his head. “They’d already taken her away.”

“I’m so sorry.” I hugged him again, ignoring the hissing sound that Deacon made when I did.

I didn’t let his disapproval stop me.

Sorrow knew nothing but pain, nothing but agony. Torture. In this man’s mind, I deserved to be punished and, in a way, I couldn’t blame him. If anyone had kept me from spending the last few seconds with my dad, I’d want to kill them too.

“What can I do for you?” I murmured.

He pulled back and stared at the sand. “Why are you being kind to me?” He peered at Deacon. “Your boyfriend’s angry. And he has a right to be. I shouldn’t have acted like that.”

“That’s not the question I asked,” I insisted.

He flashed a look at me before his gaze stumbled back to the sand. “I shouldn’t.”

“Stand up.”

His head whipped toward me. “What?”

I climbed to my feet and brushed the sand off my knees. “Get up. On your feet.”

Deacon grabbed my elbow and tugged me beside him. “Angel, what are you doing?”

I ignored him and stared pointedly at the cyclist. Weary and bruised, he stumbled to his feet. His bangs brushed his forehead and he clasped dirty, trembling fingers together.

“Look at me,” I said, summoning some of Deacon’s boss-man energy from earlier.

He did.

“My name is Angel. This is Deacon and his son.”

Deacon frowned. Hard.

“Peter,” the cyclist said. He flicked a glance at Reid. “I’m glad he’s okay. Scary what could have happened if you hadn’t jumped in.”

The brooding man at my side held his son back as if Peter still posed a threat.

I slanted Deacon a scolding look and pointed to Reid. “He’s fine. So am I.”

“No thanks to me,” Peter mumbled. “I’m so ashamed.”

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