“Said no man ever while handing over a lethal weapon to his wife,” I reply lightly, trying to soften his mood.
He huffs lightly, kisses my forehead, and wanders back to his office, and I watch him go, seeing the weight he’s carrying on his shoulders. “The kid said he’s asked for jet ski lessons so he can beat you before he turns fifteen,” I call.
He chuckles lightly, but it takes some effort. “I’m unbeatable.”
God, I wish that to be true in every way.
7
JAMES
* * *
I stand on the threshold of the kitchen watching Beau. She’s in a complete daydream, unaware of my presence, and that bothers me more than it should. I know she has a lot on her mind. Trying to get a balance between fulfilling my mission, our mission, and doing what’s right for Beau—being her rock—is still a fucking nightmare. We may have eradicated one enemy, but we’re no closer to extinguishing the ultimate threat. I can only hope that resurrecting The Brit works, because I can’t do what I need to do while watching Beau twenty-four/seven.
I eventually make my presence known with a light cough, reconciling myself to the unbearable fact that her senses are dulled at the moment. She doesn’t feel my presence like she did. Doesn’t know I’m close without actually knowing I’m close. It’s not reassuring, especially after what I’ve reluctantly just agreed to. I need her on form. I need her to dig deep for the instinct inbuilt in her. The instinct she inherited from her mother.
She looks up, and the smile she gives me is half-hearted. It’s an insult too. I know this woman inside out. She can’t fool me, and she knows that. “Try again, Beau,” I order lightly, going to her.
“Try what again?” she asks as I remove her from the stool and take her place, pulling her between my thighs.
“Try convincing me you’re okay.” I reach up and stroke the bridge of her nose, tapping the end lightly. It’s breaking my fucking heart seeing her like this. She’s always been broken. I knew it the moment I set eyes on her. But somehow, I’ve managed to break her even more, all while trying to fix her. It’s a complete mindfuck. Defeating. But I mustn’t allow the pain it spikes to rule me. I feel murderous already. Considering she could be forever ruined might burn my bloodstream until I turn to ashes.
“Is there any word on Dexter?” she asks. I knew it was coming. Danny clued me in on her quiet word with him at our first dinner in St. Lucia. Beau doesn’t want him dead. She warned Danny of that too. I have to give it to him, he did well to keep his cool and not inadvertently hand Beau my balls on a shiny silver platter. I wish I could take that part of this whole fucking mess back. Only that part. I’d do things very differently knowing how Beau feels. I don’t understand her compassion where her uncle’s husband is concerned. He killed our unborn child. He nearly took Beau from me too. He killed her mother and covered it up. His death was ugly. It’s the only murder I’ve committed and not had my head on straight, because when Danny Black delivered Dexter to me alive, I lost my shit completely. And in the process, I’ve risked losing Beau to something other than her darkness. So yeah, she can never know that I bludgeoned her uncle’s husband. A despicable human that Beau thought was good to the core. An animal so deceitful he could watch Beau rot in despair, knowing he was the root of her agony. Reprehensible. He had all the answers to heal her but never gave her that cure. He watched her suffer. Watched her cry. Watched her hurt herself. Bastard.
I lied. I wouldn’t have done things differently. Even now, weeks later, my head screwed back on, I would butcher the corrupt, immoral cunt.
Breathe, James.
“No word,” I whisper, taking her nape and pushing her face into my shoulder, avoiding her sad eyes. I have no idea how I’m going to fix this. She’ll always ask, and I’ll never be able to answer truthfully. She’ll never have closure. Therefore, I’ll never have my Beau.
Fuck.
I slip my hands under her baggy shirt and feel her naked back. “Do you want to go out with Rose?”
“What?” She pulls out, looking at me in question. “Where?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Back to St. Lucia.”
“Within reason,” I say tiredly. “The beach? The hardware store?”
“I have nothing to decorate.”
That might be my temporary answer for distraction. Give her a project. It’s been her relaxant since her mother died. Can it work now? I’m not sure, so much more has happened. “If I find you something to decorate, will you?”