And I Love You the Most (This Love Hurts 3)

Unless I count the moments that flicker in my mind. Every single time I could have made a different choice. Every moment I questioned myself.

Every kiss from Delilah and even before that. Her accidental, delicate touches that sent blazes of heat through me when I first I met her. The stolen glances and tension I ignored for too long. Regret balances in front of me, dancing from the children’s playthings as if it knew all along I’d end up here: alone and hating my silence.

If I could go back … The thought lingers but doesn’t complete itself. I’m not sure where I’d go back to. Which moment I regret the most. Back to the very beginning I suppose, to the moment my brother and I were separated. Maybe to the night my parents left our home for the last time before the accident.

With a shaky breath, my lungs fill with a bitter chill that freezes every inch of me. The moment my eyes close, the faint click of incoming footsteps has every nerve ending on high alert. Someone’s coming, judging by the feminine thud of heels against the lightly dusted sidewalk. The snow won’t stick, but the moments will. Memories never leave us. They’re what make us who we are.

With my head back, I take a deeper breath, waiting for whoever it is to walk on by and keep going. To ignore me and leave me to this misery I’ve created for myself.

But the heels stop directly in front of me as the hammer of a gun is cocked. The sound echoes loudly in my mind.

“You’re Marcus,” a woman’s voice says, although it sounds like she isn’t confident in that accusation. Slowly, my eyes open to see a pale blue trench coat hanging from a brunette’s slim frame. Her eyes reflect the colors of the forest, a stunning hazel, but more than that, terror.

My leather coat rustles as I lean forward, ignoring the pistol pointed at my head only two feet from me.

I could easily throw her to the ground before that trigger would be pulled. I could disarm her. I could do anything at all but sit here in silence, waiting to see what she’ll do.

When she clears her throat, the uncertainty comes in thicker. Her voice wavers as she repeats, “You’re Marcus.”

I simply stare back at her in silence. No one knows who Marcus is. Not a soul. I found the note Christopher left for me. I’ve exchanged a few messages with his contact Riggins. But as far as anyone knows, Marcus died and was buried with Herman, plus Delilah’s father.

“I know you are,” she adds, refuting my unspoken thoughts. “You’re Marcus and I need your help.” Swallowing thickly, her fear permeates the air around her and her hand holding the gun trembles.

“You need my help?” I question her, feeling a heat ignite in my blood, the chill I’ve felt in the days past slipping away.

“Yes. Please,” she begs and then she shudders. “My name is Evalina Talvery.” Her confession sends a prick down my neck. The wife to one of the most violent crime families that’s ever lived. I know all about the Talverys and their dealings. I know her husband and I’ve even heard of her daughter and the rumors about her. “I need help. You can help me,” she whispers the last words and they’re barely heard before being carried off in the chill of the night.

“Please. I know you’re Marcus, I saw you,” she says, accusing me yet again.

I could so easily help her in the way I’ve been trained by the FBI, taking her in and providing protection. But it only takes one look at this woman, hardened by what she’s seen, and I’m certain she’d never have gone to Cody Walsh. No, no.

“Please. I have a daughter, Aria.” Her bottom lip wavers, but the glare in her eyes betrays the sadness she wishes to portray. “You have to help me. Please, help me. I can give you information.”

Christopher said if I needed anything, he’d come back and help. He promised he would in that note he left. He can show me how it’s done.

Leaning back, I stare at the end of the pistol and speak words maybe I knew one day I’d admit, “Yes, I am Marcus.”