Page 120 of One Secret

'No,' he snorts. 'Secrets are a habit of a lifetime and letting you in makes me itch…'

Then why would you—?

'...but I want to,' he finishes.

'You sure about that?'

'Yeah.' The word is a vow. Calm and confident. 'What we want in life doesn't always come easy. And I want you so… you're stuck with me. And my itchy secrets.'

Stuck with him…? As in… permanently?

Cyrus clears his throat, awkwardly.

'You should sleep,' he says before I can probe further. He glances over the top of my head at the clock on the bedside table. 'It's already three. And we have this damn party to get through tomorrow.'

Ever since Cyrus wrapped me in his arms, my muscles have given up the ghost. Like they recognise him as a thick layer of protection and no longer need to be on high alert. And after my screaming, the zany terror and emotional highs have cooled to an exhausted hollowness. Just the mention of sleep has me yawning.

'All right,' I agree. Better to settle everything else between us when I can see straight. 'But I warn you now, I'm not in the mood for little cocktail sausages and the electric slide.'

Cyrus sniggers and then exhales long and deep. Almost in a sigh of affirmation. The look in his eye says that he's just confirmed something. Like cocktail wieners and corny dance routines have helped him reach a decision so profound that it's reworked the planes of his face into joyous acceptance.

It's on the tip of my tongue to ask him what—

'Sleep, baby,' he tells me, stroking my hair back from my forehead. 'I'll be here when you wake up…'

It might be the hysteria talking. Or my post-trauma optimism playing tricks on my ears. But I swear that, as I fall asleep, I hear Cyrus adding to that promise:

'...always.'

15

I don't sleep.

After Darcy falls into well-deserved unconsciousness, I slide my arms free, settle her beneath the sheets, and park myself in the chair across the room. The distance is a necessity.

Ever since finding her alive in our old room, I've had the barbaric urge to strip Darcy naked and lick and kiss every inch of her skin. Just to reassure myself that she's okay. Tending to her injuries had been as close as I could get but it hadn't dulled the rising urge to possess. In fact, laying beside her, talking to her, opening myself up to Darcy in ways I haven't done with... well, anyone... had only fed the desire into a resounding need for intimacy. For closeness.

God, I love her.

What kind of woman responds to confessions of murder and abandonment, with miniature sausages and the electric slide? And yet, somehow makes you feel heard every step of the way?

I snort to myself and then feel an odd, ticklish sensation at the back of my throat. For one terrifying moment, I think I might cry. With thanks. With relief.

I feel raw.

Confessing to that boy's death has done something to me. Not healed me, exactly. I don't think anyone should ever heal from something like that. But the wound it created in my heart feels… clean. Exposed, yes. Painfully so. But flushed clear. The festering ache is gone, replaced with a sharp stinging that might one day start to ease…

Something deep inside tells me that the more I hold Darcy, the more I love her, care for her, make love to her… the faster that pain might evaporate.

Being across the room gives me breathing space from the urge to come apart in Darcy's arms. Space I need to get my head on straight.

Enemy territory, Alesi, I remind myself. Worry about your love life when your woman's not still sporting bruises from your enemies.

After checking that Darcy's completely out cold, I hit the second speed dial on my burner phone.

Jaime is groggy when he picks up.

'Do you have any idea what time it—?'

---