“Sure, I’m happy to kick your ass. Just like old times.”
“The way I remember it, you can’t even kick your own ass.”
“I’ll remind you how it is when you’re screaming like a little bitch, and I have to ball gag you.”
“The conversation has suddenly taken an uncomfortable turn,” Lydia mumbled.
“See you in the morning.” Trace chuckled.
It was the first smile she’d seen on his face. Didn’t make him look any less rigid.
Shortly after Danni and Trace went to bed, Cole grabbed their bags and led her down the long corridor of bedrooms.
“I’ll show you around the property tomorrow.” He stopped at a doorway midway down the hall. “This is where you’ll be spending most of the week.”
He flipped on a light, illuminating the dance room. He’d told her about it in Dublin, saying he’d designed it for Danni but now had no practical use for it.
“We need a sparring room.” He shut off the lights and tugged her onward. “After we destroy Vincent Barrington, I’m going to repurpose it.”
“Makes sense.”
He guided her into the last room and shut the door. Full-length windows covered two perpendicular walls. A massive king-sized bed took up one corner, and an ornately carved wood-burning hearth sat in the other. From the rich wood flooring to the opulent crown molding, he’d invested a lot of money in this place.
As they showered and got ready for bed, she realized how much she didn’t feel like herself, her limbs heavy with fatigue and sadness. But every shared look and interaction with Cole felt easy and comfortable. Seamlessly in sync. They’d earned that. After the trials of the past year, they deserved harmony with each other.
“I have something to give you.” He removed a small box from his bag and guided her into bed, following her in.
“What is it?”
“I’ve debated when to give this to you, thinking I should wait until after the mission. But here’s the thing. You’re so fucking strong you don’t need kid-glove treatment. You’re not fragile or broken. If you can’t handle something, I’ll know and tread with care. So I’m going to give this to you. Then I’m going to fuck you.” His voice grew husky. “Because that’s what you need. It’s what we both need.”
Her breaths shredded, and her nipples went taut beneath her thin t-shirt.
He noticed, his dark gaze zeroing in as he lifted his hand. Through the cotton, the blunt nail of his thumb dragged over the tight peak.
Heat fluttered her veins. “Let’s just skip to the last part.”
“No.” He took his touch away, grabbed whatever he’d set behind him, and placed it on her lap.
“What is this?” She lifted the small wrapped present.
“Mike was holding it when he died.”
The room grew cold, and her heart thudded in her throat. “I don’t want to open it.”
“Then don’t.”
“I have to. I have to confront this head-on, or it will take over my life. If the grief wins, Vincent wins.”
“You need to grieve, Lydia. It frees up the painful energy.”
“I am grieving.” She yanked at the red bow on the gift, her vision blurring. “I just don’t have to drown in it. I’m channeling it into my revenge. That’s how I’ll free the pain.”
She wouldn’t fail. She couldn’t.
“Mike was such a sentimental gift-giver.” She ripped off the glittery paper on the small box. “This is going to break my heart.”
“It’s not going to break you.”
With an aching chest, she opened the package and removed a lightweight ball of newspaper. Her hands trembled as she carefully tore away the wrapping and revealed the gift inside.
A hand-painted egg.
“Oh, Mike.” Heaviness invaded her limbs as she soaked in the gorgeous, familiar brush strokes. “He made this.”
“He painted it?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes burned. “He was so artistic. He designed a lot of my tattoos, including the swallow on my chest.”
She rolled the hollow, fragile egg in her palm, examining the detailed illustration of the same red swallow sitting on the limb of a cranberry tree.
Searing pain rose through her throat. Her gasping prompted him to inch closer and wrap his warm strength around her.
“The bird…” Her voice broke. “The bird represents my mother, and the cranberries… That’s Shannon. Or maybe it’s him and me, too. The three of us used to dance around the house, singing songs by The Cranberries. Our favorite was ‘Ode To My Family.’ Shannon loved the band, and though Mike would never admit it, he loved it, too. He always sang the loudest.”
A tear trickled down her cheek, and more followed.
Cole positioned her with her back against his chest, holding her and wiping the wetness from her face.
“I really hope he didn’t spend his last night on Earth emptying this damn egg and painting it.” Her heart hurt unbearably. “He was supposed to get laid.” She choked on a sob. “He wasn’t supposed to die.”