Stitches

By the end, Moira didn’t like her either, but she still feels bad. “Poor Griff. I can only imagine what he must be feeling.”

“I think he’ll need you tonight,” I tell her.

“I figured.”

“Maybe you alone,” I specify. “Tonight might be a good night to spend in the guest room with him. In case he needs to talk to you and he doesn’t want to do it in front of me.”

“He could talk in front of you,” she says, a touch dismissively. “I’d rather sleep with both of you in our bed. That could be just as good for him.”

“He’s in a precarious place right now, so we’ll see what he wants. I think he’d rather have you alone. And if he does, I need you to know something.”

“All right,” she says, easily.

“I’m not sure what he’ll say to you. Obviously Ashley’s death is a shock to us all, but he seems to be having difficulty accepting it. Accepting how it happened.”

I watch confusion darken her pretty face. I’m only telling her partial truths and they don’t entirely make sense. Since she has a brain, she notices, but she trusts me enough to accept if I’m not telling her, I have a good reason. I don’t want to abuse that trust, I just want to protect her. Running the back of my hand along her jaw, I search for a concise way to explain without raising any alarms.

“Griff knows Ashley has been coming after us, trying to hurt you, trying to take what belongs to us. He knows she wanted to hurt our family, and he knows I’m not a man who stands by and lets someone get away with that. It seems like his inability to accept her suicide together with that… he’s concocted this idea that perhaps I was involved.”

Her eyes widen slightly, but she remains relaxed in my arms. She doesn’t move an inch, still holds my gaze, still accepts and enjoys my touch.

Warmth rushes over me. Griff may be wavering, but Moira doesn’t doubt me.

“He thinks you were involved in Ashley’s death?” she asks, apprehensively.

“I don’t know if he really thinks that, but the idea has crossed his mind. His head is a mess today, that’s all. But if that’s where his head is, he might say something to you, and I wanted you to be prepared.”

“I don’t think he would say something like that to me.”

“He might.” I stop caressing her jaw and cradle it in my hand instead, pulling her into my chest.

Still, Moira argues. “He may feel like lashing out because he’s in pain, but he isn’t going to try to hurt you, Sebastian. He loves you.”

“He loves you,” I state.

“And you,” she insists, frowning.

“I know, but… he’s having trouble remembering that right now. In any case, I need you to be prepared for the worst. It’s difficult enough with Griff waffling on me today; I can’t have him getting in your head, too.”

Scowling, Moira pulls out of my embrace just long enough to climb up on her knees. Now she leans in, now hers is the hand cradling my face. Her ordinarily soft blue eyes flare with passion. Her tone is firm and unyielding as she swears, “That will never happen. Never. There’s nothing anyone could ever say to take me away from you.”

I’ve always been confident in that, almost to the point of arrogance, but her words make me feel better, nonetheless.

Instead of telling her that, I smile tenderly. “I know.”

“You better,” she says playfully, running her hand down my chest. “I’m yours forever, Mr. St. Clair. There’s no getting rid of me.”

I draw her face close and brush my lips across hers. “Good. What’s the point of life if I don’t have you?”

Nuzzling her face into my neck, she assures me, “You will never have to find out.”

30

Griff

Given the accusations I leveled at Seb today, the last thing I expect is for Moira to scamper into the guest room after I go to bed alone.

I didn’t want to sleep in that bed with him tonight. I wasn’t sure how much sleep I would get, anyhow. My guilt over Ashley’s death still hangs heavily on my mind, but when Moira creeps in and approaches my bedside in a skimpy, see-through scrap of fabric, I welcome the distraction.