Page 101 of Forbidden Eyes

“Would be if someone would get me a goddamn drink.”

“No drink!” Emily’s stern voice snaps through the air.

I laugh again and nod. “You don’t get to drink until the doc gets here. Then we’ll both drink. A lot.”

“Is it clean outside?”

“Not yet. I’ll go help.”

I turn and walk away from him, ready to get on with clean up now I know he’s alright.

"I'll come, too," Logan says.

Good. More hands. Less time.

I’ll deal with Fia later. First, this shit needs locking down and loading away in case some young cop decides he’s above Cane law and tries coming out to investigate all the noise.

“Carter?” I look back at the sound of Fia’s voice, taking in her messy appearance and this time not happy about the outlook. She doesn't look at me, just carries on fussing with Quinn. “Thank you. For protecting me.”

I nod and leave because those words were colder than I’ve ever heard from her. They were polite and nothing more, empty of the passion I know she owns. That’s not a part of her I want to talk with. Not a part of her I fought for either.

* * *

An hour after sending the team on their way, dead bodies wrapped and ready to dump, I’m rolling through the phone numbers of their wives and partners from Quinn’s office. Some of them hadn’t been on the payroll long; others had been with us for years. A long breath blows out of me as I work the names into accounting systems, apportioning pensions to faceless names. It’s what we’ve always done if shit goes south—look after the spouses and kids. Never had to do this many, though. One or two here and there over the years, but it’s been quiet for so long, and the only one who's been doing any necessary deeds through that time has been me. Still am doing.

I toss the phone and stand to peer out into the dimly lit gardens, unclear about the future now she’s here. This world isn’t filled with the pleasantries she’d like it to be. Neither am I, as proved by the dead bodies currently being hauled over to the Canadian border for burial. All because of her and her father. Thank fuck Quinn’s alright. Not sure what I would have done if he’d been killed. Pretty sure it wouldn’t have involved Vico leaving this place alive, though.

Whether she witnessed it or not.

My hands tighten the track pants around my hips, and I head quietly into the kitchen to find some food. No one’s down here with me, and I guess I could have gone back to my own place, but I’m still wound up, expecting trouble. Edgy as fuck. I don’t know. I’m not tired, though, so I thought I’d stay here and protect the house, in case he comes back, or do some work. If you can call manipulating accounting systems to pay the wives of dead guys work. It's not like it's something we can show on our tax returns. Needs hiding. Organising. It’s something I can do to help and get this situation back on track while everyone sleeps.

For fuck’s sake. Who am I kidding? I’m here for her.

Here because I want to be closer to her.

I hover at the kitchen counter, eyes scanning the hall back out to the stairs. It wouldn’t take much. I could just go up there, get inside her and make all this shit between us go away. It’s not that easy, though. Not with those last, cold words of hers and this feeling of love inside me. That means more than just fucking, and more than I know how to deal with.

The thought has me fiddling with some bread, annoyed at my own shortcomings but unable to shed any light on them. I’ll go sit for a while instead, listen to the silence and think about what I will say when the timing’s right. I guessI love youmight be a good opening line. I chuckle at my own thoughts and get on with making some food. They’re new to me, unknown territory. As is she, really. It’s not like we even know each other well other than spending a few days together. A few nights, too.

I throw some salami, bread and cheese together, glug down a glass of water and head back to the lounge instead of the office. It’s peaceful, exactly what my mind needs. I munch on the sandwich as I scan over the photos dotted around. Wedding pictures. Logan as a baby. Quinn shaking the governor’s hand. Me and Emily one day, laughing about something. Can't remember what. I was young then, just a kid with no worries after Quinn came for me.

I smile at it and carry on eating, looking over the others. No more of me. I backed out of those photos and trips over the years because … I don't know now I'm thinking about it. I guess I thought they weren’t my family back then. They were the closest thing I might have had to one, but I wasn’t blood. Why Quinn would compare me to a son now when I’m not is a fucking mystery. Kinda nice to hear, though. Especially after all this and what I've done over the years. But ... Fuck knows. I'm too tired to think on it now.

Or too busy thinking of other things.

The photo of a young Fia with her mother and father comes into view and I pick it up, gazing at the three of them in a tux and ball gowns. No one would know what kind of psycho he is, what he’s done through the years. But then I don’t run New York, don’t have the battles he’s had either. Guess that takes a special breed of nasty. I’m not even sure I blame him for the way he's treated her now I'm thinking about it, especially not now I know what love feels like. Fuck knows how I would treat my own kid if that time ever came.

“Hey.”

I turn with a mouthful of sandwich and find her standing in the doorway. She pulls the robe tighter around her and pauses there, as if waiting for me to ask her in.

The air stills between us as I wait to be able to speak. “You okay?” I ask, putting the photo down on the piano.

“Yes. No.” She shrugs and looks where my hand’s just been, a small smile on her face.

“That was the mayor's inaugural ball. I was twelve and so excited to be going to such a fancy event.”

She crosses the room towards it and picks it up, her small frame seeming to fill the fucking room around me. “Wouldn’t know what goes on beneath the surface looking at that, would you? Wouldn’t see the cruel man he actually is. Asshole."