Page 58 of Man of Honor
“You—” Gage started, but he had to stop and clear his throat before he could continue. “How do you always know what I need?”
I smiled, brushing the damp hair off his forehead. “I pay attention,” I said softly, “Taking care of you, watching you fall apart in my arms, knowing I’m the one who gets to put you back together—that’s everything to me. You’re mine. You always will be.”
His breath hitched, and he felt like a statue in my arms. “You can’t mean that.”
“The hell I can’t,” I said, clasping his face in my hands and forcing him to look me in the eyes. “I’ve loved you for so long, Gage. Not always like this, but it was always love. Always strong. The boy you once were…that boy broke my heart. But the man you’ve become—the way you fight and how hard you love—that’s the man I fell in love with.”
He pressed his forehead to my throat. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve waited to hear that,” he whispered. “But I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done a thing to earn that kind of love.”
“Jesus, Gage.” I brushed my thumb over his neck. “I’ve already told you. Love isn’t earned. It’s given, and I’m fucking giving mine to you.”
He met my gaze unflinchingly, letting me see his fear and vulnerability, like a storm filling those gray eyes. “Then I guess you should know this,” he said, sucking in a bracing breath. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. Since the first moment you made me feel like I mattered. Even when I didn’t know what it meant. It was always you.”
I’d already known that, but hearing it was something else, and I broke out in a crazy grin.
He let out a shaking laugh. “You’re not letting me go now, are you?”
“Not a chance.” I kissed him and tucked his head into my shoulder. “Sleep now, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
As his body melted into sleep, his fingers squeezed my arm. I wanted to believe it meant he trusted me, that he felt safe and loved, but deep down, I knew better. It was the desperate clutch of a man terrified of losing what little he had.
I pulled the quilt over us and switched off the lamp, plunging us into darkness. His steady breathing filled the quiet room, and for a moment, my world felt whole.
“I’ll always be there for you,” I whispered into his hair. “I swear it.”
He didn’t hear me, but that was okay. I’d said it for myself. Because the truth was, I needed the reassurance too.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
WYATT
Sleep wasn’t comingany time soon, not when my mind kept circling back to Mason’s words at dinner.
Being a cop in Devil’s Garden was a losing game. For every person I helped, two more slipped through the cracks, and I carried that guilt like a permanent weight. Failing to protect Gage when his father had been released from prison had left scars I would never talk about, and arresting Ben for something I’d have done myself permanently reshaped how I approached my job. No matter how deep I dug, I’d never turned up evidence that Vanderhoff was dirty, and part of me hoped I never did. It would force me to question every arrest and every order I’d ever followed.
The thought chilled me.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling until my lower back began to cramp. Gage’s lumpy mattress was doing a number on my spine. No matter how religiously I hit the gym, I wasn’t as young as I used to be. Gage could sleep on a pile of rocks, but me? Not so much. My joints cracked as I slipped out from beneath him.
I moved to the window and stared down at the overgrown garden. The place where Atticus had fallen to sin. I wondered why no one had ever bothered to clean it up. The tangled plants weren’t dead yet. With care, they could be beautiful.
Something was moving in the darkness. A figure glided across the ground like mist, separating from one of the broken statues and cutting toward the back of the house like a ghost. But I didn’t believe in ghosts.
My hand twitched toward my hip, instinctively reaching for my service weapon—only to remember I wasn’t carrying.
“Wyatt?” Gage croaked sleepily. “What’re you looking at?”
I glanced over my shoulder. He was sitting up in bed, his drowsy eyes heavy with curiosity. When I turned back to the window, the figure in the garden was gone.
“Who’s watching the house for Dominic?” I asked, scanning the shadows.
Gage stretched lazily, all rippling muscle, and said, “Marcel Landry. The bruiser waiting out in the hall earlier.”
I frowned. The figure I’d seen was smaller and faster—and real. Definitely real. I ran a hand through my hair, giving the garden one last look before heading to the door.
“Go back to sleep,” I grunted. “I’m doing a quick check around the house.”
Gage chuckled and rolled out of his bed, grabbing some pants and sliding them on with effortless ease. No cracking joints there.