Page 48 of Bloodstained Wings
Whatever he had with Lilian, I know it exists without knowing exactly what it was or what happened between them. I’m not stupid.
But to be accused of lying and hiding things with another man by a man who’s doing the same to me—it’s funny to see. It’s not humorous to laugh at, but it’s funny in a way that hurts my chest. It’s a joke that hits home, one that incites pain, but the only way to get through it is to grin and play like it’s nothing. Like the sting of it doesn’t exist.
Like he isn’t projecting his worries onto me because that’s exactly what he’s doing.
He’s hiding something that I can’t know about, and he’s very purposeful in his attempt to keep whatever happened between him and Lilian in the shadows. Well, I’m in those shadows now, and I need to find out what happened, but not like this.
Not with the accusations multiplying between us.
I love Carter, and he saved my life in many different forms when we first met, and I will never be able to give him that back. But I can give him peace of mind, at least for a little while. When his family trouble stops boiling over, maybe this will change, but I’ll tie myself to the bedpost in the morning and not move until he gets home at night if that’s what he wants from me.
I’ll tell him he’s the best listener in the world, that I can tell him anything without fear of backfire because of how understanding and subjective he can be, even if it’s a lie.
And it is a lie.
I think our conversation has proven that, but he won’t listen to reason now.
Instead, I move across the office, push him to sit up, and lay back into his lap and his cradling arms. We kiss briefly out of formality and fall back into place as usual. He’s the one who needs support right now, and even if I’m dying for a little bit of support, I’ll let it go if it means he gets what he needs.
I owe him that much… right?
Chapter Eighteen
Carter
It’s a week of nothing.
No word from the witch Lilian, not a peep out of Donahue, who received a pretty harsh tongue lashing from me over the phone a few days ago, and certainly nothing ill-intended from Isabella, who has been rather reserved since our argument.
It was unlike anything I’d ever had with her before, and it hurt tremendously.
While I usually like the aftereffects of such a high-energy, intense moment where we both scream our feelings out and then have amazing sex to redo the bond between us, it never happened.
And it hasn’t happened since.
My body is rigid with the thought of what I’ve done. I can’t reverse what I said or accused her of doing, and at that moment, it felt like I was fighting the good fight. I was fighting for her, for us, but the longer I waste away at my desk, in my head until sunset, I realize it wasn’t about her at all.
It was about me.
I don’t want to lose the woman I love to anything, especially not my own mistakes. I think I’ve made the mistake of being too harsh about the Rich Donahue situation known now. She shouldn’t have sat down and talked to him long enough for a handful of photos to be taken, and she gets that, but to accuse her of doing more than that was a bit of a stretch.
She wouldn’t leave me, and she wouldn’t fuck another man. I think it was stupidly immature of me to think otherwise. I should have controlled myself better.
I need to do better in the future, or I’ll drive her away more than I already have.
Gathering my things, a little buzz pops up on my phone from an unknown number. Isabella’s phone was ruined in the rainy altercation, and I know Anita loaned her one of the family burner phones until she could take Isabella to get a new one. Unfortunately, I forgot to get the number from Anita. Seeing this text does have me excited, though. It has to be Isabella.
Meet me at the Blackthorne Club. I’ll be wearing my best outfit for you.
My blood runs hot as I hurry downstairs and find Ernesto outside the SUV, ready to usher me into the backseat as soon as the shuttering noise of the cameras begins. The paparazzi hasn’t let up since the article about Isabella and Rich came out, and I can’t wait for this to blow over, but it’s going to take time.
“Where to, boss?”
“The club,” I say, my leg bouncing in excited anticipation.
He gives me a weary look through the rearview mirror. “Going out for a drink or something?”
“No, I’m meeting Isabella. I think she’s finally ready for us to get back to normal. I fucking hope she is. We’ve been so silent and cold to one another since our fight. I’m trying to make things right, but she hasn’t been too receptive. Maybe this is her attempt at making it right for us.”