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

I confess what I shouldn’t. “We don’t have time.” The incessant ticking of the clock has tortured me every moment she’s been gone. What am I supposed to do? Sleep, knowing she’s being tortured? Eat, not knowing if she’s starving to death?

“There is no reason to rush …” Charlie’s words are slow, his expression suspicious. He’s a fool. He’s a damned fool. There’s never been a moment in our collaboration where he’s questioned me. He’s been eager to have his rightful place delving into the darkness and aiding however he can. I was prepared at any point to kill him. He was going to die before I stepped in. Marcus saved his life, even if he’s never realized I’m Marcus.

“Sir … I think you may be overreacting. Are you …” His swallow is audible. I can practically see the wheels turning. “I think you may be …”

“May be what? Distracted? Emotionally invested?” As if I didn’t already know.

“There are two addresses. If you go to the first, and you’re wrong, they could know we were there. They could prepare for us, and then what?”

“My contact and I will split the locations.”

“We don’t have men here. It will only be you.”

His uncertainty and hesitation are infuriating. “Send me the addresses.”

“You’re not telling me something,” he says, coming closer to the truth. “Does Marcus know?”

A sarcastic laugh leaves me in mourning. I risk confiding in him the longer this goes on.

“If she was yours,” I nearly whisper, “if she was yours, would you wait any longer?”

Charlie’s expression adjusts as the realization hits him. “This isn’t about Brass and the cases.” A sad smile picks up one side of my lips.

“No. It’s not.”

“Does Marcus know?” he questions again and I nod like a fool as if he can see me.

“Marcus is aware.”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was …” he trails off and clears his throat. “Never mind.”

“Tell me what you thought.”

“You’ve slipped recently … you haven’t been focused, and I thought Marcus would notice and maybe he has … maybe …”

Tension rolls down my shoulders as heat burns its way through me, threatening and igniting a less forgiving side of me. “What do you intend to do about me slipping?”

With a click on the keyboard, Delilah’s brought back in front of me.

“You should have told me, so I could step in.” His voice is apologetic and I have to bite back my retort. He couldn’t do an ounce of what I do. He’s a hacker; he’s a thief when needed, but he’s not a murderer. He’s not manipulative and decisive. There isn’t a single other person who could take my place … other than perhaps Walsh. Or so I once thought. He’s the only man I considered being in a partnership with. Charlie and the Army of men I’ve gathered, men who owe me and owe it to themselves to join this fight are only pieces of the puzzle. They don’t see the big picture. Not like Walsh and I did.

I stare at the paused image, her lovely face contorted with agony. Her caramel skin dirtied from both dry and fresh blood, and those deep hazel eyes reflecting nothing but betrayal and sorrow.

The heavy thudding of my heart accompanies the film as it rewinds in front of me.

“I’ll watch again while you send the addresses to both me and my contact, Walsh.”

“Yes, sir,” he answers dutifully.

It doesn’t go unnoticed that, for a moment, I lost his unwavering support. For a moment there was a question and a hesitation. And more importantly, that one of my men knew I’d been distracted. If he noticed, there’s not a doubt someone else has the same suspicions. That uncertainty adds to the fear that threatens to bury me alive.

Delilah

Senior year of high school

I hear my mother before I see her. My gaze slips from my makeshift ponytail in my hand, to her reflection in my vanity mirror. With a laundry basket balanced on her hip, she shakes her head at the sight of me. “You’re not going to the semifinals with that hair.”

“It needs to be simple,” I say in protest and look over my shoulder. My mom’s happy today. Lighter than she’s been recently. I think driving Cadence back to Aunt’s so she’s closer to the winter gymnastics camp she goes to every year after holiday break upset my mom. It’s like her mind’s been occupied recently, and a dark cloud has been hanging over her head.

“It needs to be polished,” she responds, taking the hairbrush from my hand and I have to bite my tongue. She’s not wrong, and I’ve never been good at doing my hair like Cadence is.

“If your sister was here—” I can already hear her telling me how she’d have done my hair up like she has for these student government competitions the last two years.