Luke's Touch (Walker Security - Lucifer's Trilogy 2)

It’s our job together to figure out what those things might be.

I glance at Adam. “Tell Blake to look up Ana’s stepfather and dig into his final affairs, in every context possible. Kasey was working because Kasey had to work. Because Kurt left him with bills and not enough resources to cover those bills.”

“Kurt was dead when we ran that mission,” Parker points out.

“So is Trevor supposedly,” I reply, “but the worst kind of dead is the kind still walking around and taking shots at you from behind.”

“Are you saying Kurt’s alive?” Parker asks.

“At least in the sense that he has more to do with all of this than I realized at first.” I grab the bottle and meet Adam’s stare. “I need to go bring Ana up to speed. What’s our plan?”

“I hear you made a five-day deal,” he replies. “So, I think I should be the one asking you what’s the plan.”

“To kill these motherfuckers, which I’ll enjoy more with some sleep.”

“Eat, sleep, kill, eat,” Savage chimes in. “Sounds like a movie title I can get into.”

Adam gives a short nod. “Agreed.”

Parker is more of the same. “No complaints here.”

I snap up the bag of clothes and start walking, dreading the conversation I have to have with Ana now rather than later. She’s angry at me for walking away. She’s angry at me for killing Kasey. Now I have to go after her stepfather. It’s almost as if I want her to hate me because if she didn’t already, she might before this night is over.

Chapter Twelve

Luke

“That’s what married people do. They hold on tighter.”

I climb the stairs to the second level of the house, seeking out Ana and kicking myself for how I replied to those words. We aren’t married, Ana. Holy mother of God, what was I thinking? It came off like a rejection when I wanted her to be my wife, the only woman I would ever marry. The only woman I will ever love. Obviously, that wasn’t her point. We both know we’re not married. We both know we were engaged with every intention of being married, which requires the same commitment as marriage itself.

Meanwhile, I’ve been dragging her to me and kissing her, holding onto her in the physical, and then making ridiculous statements like that one. I must have her confused as hell.

And I fear I’m about to make it worse.

I don’t just have to take her back to the past that destroyed us, I have to question the morality of everyone she called family but me.

Reaching the top of the landing, I cut right to find a closed door I assume tells me where Ana is right now, the primary bedroom with an attached bath. I approach and I can hear her voice in my head. You left me, Luke, you, my ride or die, left me. That statement bleeds with remnants of her past. Everyone has left her; her mother, her father, her brother, they all died. Then me. I left, the one person who swore I’d never leave. I’d thought it was what she wanted, and that decision will now haunt me from this point forward.

I left her to grieve alone.

I left her to live alone.

For better or worse means for better or worse. I didn’t ask her to be my wife because I planned for everything in life between us to be roses. Of course, she tried to push me away. Of that, there is no question, but even if it was subconsciously, on some level she needed to know I’d stay anyway. I failed her. And I failed us.

And just like that, I’m standing outside the bedroom door, but I’m living that last night in Breckenridge, reliving my time with Ana there. I’m sitting in the chair in a bedroom, in the minutes right after we’d had sex, after we’d seemed to tear down walls, and start building them stronger.

The shower turns on, which feels like avoidance. No. Not happening. She will not hide from me. I stand up and I don’t bother with my clothes. Sure enough, I find her in the shower. I open the door and join her, pulling her to me.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” She folds her arms in front of her, almost shyly. Ana is not shy. “I just needed the hot water,” she adds.

“What’s going on?” I repeat, guiding her out of the flow of water and against the wall.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” I insist.

“Wasn’t there another way?” she blurts, her voice trembling with emotion. “Couldn’t you have shot his leg or his arm?”

My hands fall away from her. “He had a gun to the head of the princess I was escorting to another country. He’d killed three of our men. And I had no idea who was left that was on my side. No. It was him or me and the princess, and she was an innocent, Ana.”