Page 31 of One Secret

I learned long ago that death, even killing, is no true crime. It's the motivation behind it. The reason for the death that makes it either a necessary tragedy or a true sin.

I've known a lot of men and women, who enlist—who volunteer—to be executors of those necessary tragedies. Every one of them heroes.

Without more information, how arrogant would I have to be to judge Cyrus as any different?

So, I simply say:

'All right.'

'All right?' Cyrus parrots back. 'That's it?'

'What do you want me to say?'

'I...' My lover, the man made of more stone than flesh, seems ready to crumble in startled confusion. 'I... I don't know, but I was expecting...'

Cyrus sighs. He rubs the back of his neck. He shrugs. Abruptly, the tension drains from his shoulders, as he has no choice but to simply admit:

'You are not like other women.'

Even through his shades, the look Cyrus is giving me heats me through to my toes. I try to ignore a reassuring tightness winding around my chest.

Not like everyone else? Entirely unique?

Well, isn't that just the finest of compliments one could ever be paid?

I clear my throat.

'Look, you wanted me to know and now I know. So'—I jab a thumb over my shoulder at the jet—'are we getting on this thing or what?'

5

Absolutely nothing. Not a batted eyelash, a gasp, or a flinch. No accusation of "murderer!" or "lunatic!" Just...

"All right."

All right?!

I admitted to taking human lives for a living and Darcy swallowed the news as she would a hearty meal: with deliberate care and a complete lack of drama.

As we cross towards the runway and mount the stairs into the plane, I can't help but stare after Darcy's gorgeous backside and wonder if I should be questioning her sanity. Or maybe just thanking the powers that be that the one woman I might call lover in this world hasn't been sent running.

Lover, huh?

For a moment, I wonder what happened to the mechanic analogy...

'You have your own plane?' Darcy asks, as she mounts the final step and turns right into the plane's interior.

Following her inside, I find a patch of wall that's not bearing safety regulation signs and prop up a shoulder, watching her. For the first time today, I can take her in from head to toe without distraction.

Black lace-ups that remind me of army boots, boyfriend jeans, and a white tank top. No jewelry, save a braided band around one wrist. No make-up. After returning my helmet, she'd pulled an elastic band from her back pocket and tied the longer layers of her hair into a little knot on the back of her head. Her undercut emphasizes the angle of her cheekbones and the stubborn little set of her chin.

On anyone else, the dower outfit might have been so casual it was unbecoming. On Darcy, the jeans seem designer and her slightly androgynous look becomes the height of chic.

Slick teenager meets sexy tomboy.

And, if that isn't tempting enough, she's still wearing my jacket.

It's archaic—Hell, it's practically Neanderthal—but it pleases something deep in my core to see her wearing that. To know she's bearing a sign, a mark, that she has a man in her life.

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