The Enigma (Unlawful Men)

He swallows, nods, and rises to his full height, dropping his mouth into my hair. “I need to get out of these wet clothes.”

I get down off the stool, suddenly deplete of energy, knowing he’ll be going nowhere without me. He collects me and guides me up the stairs, and I yawn, not once, but three times on our way.

“Take a nap,” he orders, pulling back the sheets and physically placing me in the bed.

“And what are you going to do?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me in the way he does that tells me more than my tired brain can cope with. He pulls the covers over me, collects an iPad off the nightstand, and goes to the bathroom, yanking at his wet tie.

I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to close my eyes. I don’t want to shut off from a world I need to remain alert in.

But my eyes are heavy.

And James is watching over me.

I come around to the sound of whispers. I feel around for my phone and look at the time. What? I sit up, looking out of the window, seeing the frosted glass glowing. The sun is out. A new day.

And still, whispers.

I look at the door. It’s no longer clear, and the low talking from beyond is sounding angry. I get up and creep over, coming to a stop and listening.

“That’s the plan,” James hisses. “The end.”

“It’s a fucking stupid plan,” Otto mutters.

And then, silence. No comeback from James. Why is it a stupid plan?

“I can hear you breathing, Beau,” James says clearly, and my nose wrinkles, my hand taking the door and pulling it open. They both step back.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” I say, my eyes dropping down James’s semi-naked torso to the gun in his hand. “Did something happen?”

“Yes, someone thought of a stupid plan,” Otto mutters, stalking off, shaking his head in despair, which leaves me wondering what the hell this plan is.

James passes me, going to the dressing room, and I go after him, not liking the sense of foreboding I’m feeling. Otto doesn’t like the plan, and if Goldie was here, I bet she’d hate it too, which means I’m going to despise it.

“What’s the plan?” I ask, standing in the doorway while he pulls his jeans up his thighs, the gun still in his hand.

“The plan . . .” he says, buttoning his fly before snatching a T-shirt off the back of a chair and his boots off the floor. He drops a kiss on my cheek as he passes me back into the bedroom, “. . . is that Beau doesn’t know the plan.”

“What?” Is he out of his mind? “James,” I say, going after him, following him into the bathroom. He’s dumped his boots and T-shirt on the counter and is brushing his teeth. Still with the gun in his hand. “You can’t do this to me.”

“What?” he mumbles. “Protect you?”

“Yes. I mean, no,” I growl and push my fist into my temple as he spits into the sink. “Don’t do this. Don’t treat me like glass because I’m pregnant.”

“Whether you’re pregnant or not is a moot point.” He rinses his brush. “But you are pregnant.”

“I knew it. This isn’t only your war, James. I’m not—”

He’s across the room like a rocket, his palm over my mouth. “Yesterday, you asked me to walk away. You accepted I can’t.” His head tilts expectantly. I know where he’s going with this, and he can forget it.

“You don’t get to do this.” I remove his hand from my face, incensed. I will not be that woman. I refuse to be kept. Wrapped in cotton wool. “I don’t need protecting. I don’t need looking after.”

“Beau, come on. Be reasonable.”

“You wanted the real me. Now you have me, and you’re suppressing me.”

“You’re fucking pregnant!”

“And I wish I wasn’t,” I retort, walking away.

“Hey!” He grabs my arm to stop me, and on complete reflex, I send my elbow sailing back.

Into his nose.

“Motherfucker,” he chokes, staggering back, blinking, his free hand holding his face. “Control that fucking elbow of yours.”

I wince. Shrink. Shit. I didn’t mean to do that, but I’m not glass, and he’s not making me glass so he can put me in his glass house with his glass things. I roll my shoulders back, standing my ground, refusing to apologize. Not out loud, anyway. Mentally, I’m throwing him apologies left and right.

Grabbing a towel, he wipes the blood from his face. “You . . .” he says on an exhale, his eyes raging, his bare chest vibrating. Fuck, he looks savage. But I will not back down. He slowly lifts the gun and aims it at me. What the fuck is he doing? Proving a point?

“The safety is on,” I point out, and he releases it, jaw rolling. I step forward, my eyes narrowing, daring him. This is fucking ridiculous. “Do it,” I push.