Page 73 of Wyatt
“I know we had something—and I know what I said, but…you don’t really know me or the guy I’ve been—am—and…”
“Stop.”
He drew in a long breath.
“I don’t know your past, but I do know enough about the guy you are to tell you that you’re wrong about what you’re going to say.”
“Which is—”
“That I should just let you go. That you have a promise to keep to yourself, which means doing some things that…well, that you don’t want to talk about.”
“I killed someone yesterday.”
Oh, York.
“She was an assassin, after Kat, but…and then today…the fact is, I didn’t really take a good look at my life until you walked into it, and it’s not…it’s not one that is conducive to a happy ending, Ruby. I’m not a…good person.”
“York. You’re not a bad person. A bad person wouldn’t be running his hand around the tight muscle behind his neck, wishing he hadn’t had to hurt anyone.”
His breaths came out tremulously.
“York, listen to me. I don’t know what the future holds. And yeah, I do…I care for you. But the only promise you have to make to me is to not let go of the guy who saved my life. Who risked his to get me out of the country. Who is on the side of right.”
His voice dropped. “I wish I’d met you…well, years ago. I wish I was on your postcard ranch right now, in the closet with you. I’d have you in my arms, and…well…that’s probably all I need to imagine right now.”
She could probably imagine more, but yeah, he was right. “And I wish I hadn’t thought I was some sort of superspy saving the world.”
“Except then General Stanislov would be dead, and the world would be in upheaval.”
“There’s that.”
“Yeah. There’s that.”
She imagined him grinning.
“You know, I haven’t been stateside for nearly a decade.”
“I think it’s time.”
He made a noise, she hoped of assent. “Please stay alive, Syd.”
“You too, James.”
She waited for anI’ll find you, but the line clicked off. She held the phone to her heart.
And said it for him.
8
Wyatt just needed a game plan. Something to wrap his mind, his emotions around, something to center him.
Something to keep him sane. Because every cell in his body wanted to let out a scream.
Hit something, again and again.
Or maybe just field a thousand shots on goal, one after another, letting them hit his pads, slapping them away with vengeance.
Anything but stand with his back to the wall in the crowded living room, listening to the blonde American doc tell him that his son was going to die.