Page 111 of Lesson In Forgiveness

He didn’t miss the subtle flinch as he lifted his hand to her cheek. Carefully, he traced the pale lines on her skin where her tears dried in streaks. “I don’t mind if you cry, little tiger, as long as the cause isn’t something I’ve done by accident. There’ll be times when I make you cry because you need to purge, and times when I wring tears from you just because I fucking want them. Want them any which way I can get them,” he told her solemnly, “because they’re rare and special, and when you cry, they belong to me. Just like you.”

Those emotional defenses she erected and maintained so thoroughly had obviously been seriously compromised, he realized, when the pale blue of her irises—usually as cold and foreboding as her brother’s—swam with a fresh haze of the precious, beautiful tears he prized. “What happens when you don’t want me anymore? If I give you everything, where’s the challenge?”

Dominic and his cronies had taken it all from her, Grit thought bitterly. Stripped her, gnawed on her bones like locusts until she’d become the woman she was today. What little childhood she’d had was stained and marred, the child she’d been lost far too early.

Inhaling so deeply it sounded like a growl, he locked eyes with her, searing them together with all the love and dominance inside him. “I don’t love the challenge, Tabitha. I don’t see you as a prize for being able to see past a lifetime of torture and pain to the woman beneath. I love you, Tabby. I love the woman you see in the mirror every morning, even if you don’t. I love the woman who fights like a fucking ninja and can take down a dozen men in the dark with one arm tied behind her back. I love the woman who broke away from years of training to follow her own agenda and protect children around the world from the same pain she suffered. I love,” he continued darkly, “the woman who trusts me enough to lay under me, to let me put my hands on her, to do things to her that she’s only ever associated with pain so horrible, she’s lived a life without physical contact to avoid going through it again. Who do I fucking love that much, Tabitha?”

Her bottom lip quivered. “Me?”

“You. There is never going to be a day I don’t want you, when I crave you being within touching distance just so I can take your hand and feel your skin against mine in a room full of people.” He let his thumb swipe away a sly tear as it slipped from the corner of her eye. “Give me everything, and I’ll take it, Tabitha. I’ll hold it close, protect it, cherish it. In return, you’ll get all of me, all that I am and have to offer in this lifetime.”

She made the softest, sweetest sound of acquiescence.

Grit knew not to expect the words back, but the kiss she gifted him was as welcome as any declaration of love.

Chapter Thirteen

Tabitha

The next few days, she felt like a new woman.

A different one.

There were still moments when Grit reached for her, touched her, and her heart stalled mid-beat. She’d suffered silently through several occasions where his weight on her triggered her panic button, sending her blood running cold through her veins and seizing her muscles until the fear passed.

He remained considerate, which was a surprise. She thought once he’d taken her nicely, his carnal instincts would kick in and sex would yet again become a burden to bear. Instead, she found herself being ravished frequently, within her growing limits, and she… well, she was learning to enjoy it.

Alone in the hotel room for the first time in forever, strangely lost without Grit’s presence, Tabitha paced in front of the windows overlooking the city without seeing sky or buildings or anything beyond the glass. She felt confined, trapped by his command to stay put and behave, as though she was a puppy left unsupervised.

Her lover was acting suspicious—outside the sheets. For two days, he’d been on his phone constantly, either taking calls or making them, dealing with texts and emails he refused to talk about when she subtly inquired.

She’d been sorely tempted to hack into his phone to obtain whatever information he was hiding—a week ago, she wouldn’t have thought twice about doing just that—but what they had then and what they had now… risking it through duplicity wasn’t on the cards.

Instead, chained by her word to this godforsaken room, she’d made a few phone calls of her own and done some digging, although she was ninety-nine percent sure she knew exactly what Grit’s cloak and dagger routine was all about; the one thing he didn’t want her to pursue.

The Irish moron who’d put a lowball hit out on her.

When her cell rang, she let it peal three times before answering. “Aisling.”

A low, husky voice responded in a rich Irish accent. “Well, lass, you know how to drop yourself in shit, don’t ya?”

“I wallow in it,” Tabby said flatly.

“Aye, well, you’ve waded in too far this time. The man you’re after has his sights locked on ya good an’ proper. You’ll know the name Brendan O’Shea?”

Elias’s father, Tabby thought with a lip curl. The current boss of the Irish mafia who’d lost all three of his legitimate sons over the past two years during the ongoing street war between the mafia and a growing rebel faction. “It’s familiar.”

“The fucker’s an asshole, but he knows how to keep order. Trouble is, he’s an old man now and the last of his bloodline was shot down in the gutter. Turns out he’s got an existing son from before he married his whore wife; a son he now wants to bring back to the fold. I found a retrieval order for one Elias Mitchell.”

“I know about it.”

“I’d think you’d lost your touch if you didn’t. O’Shea reshuffled his upper pecking order after the death of his third son, executing two long-serving soldiers who’d been utterly loyal to him for decades after he was told they’d set up his heirs to die.” Aisling snorted. “Daft bastard’s losing his marbles in his old age. Trusting the wrong men, listening to whispers instead of his gut. Promoting bad elements to the higher ranks.”

“He’s been infiltrated.”

“Aye, looks that way. A guy named Donaghue seems to have O’Shea’s ear right now. Phalen Donaghue. Stepped up as his right-hand guy about two months ago and is slowly inching the reins out of the boss’s hands.” Fingernails tapped rapidly on a keyboard. “Donaghue is trouble. Big, fucking trouble. He joined with O’Shea forty-odd years ago when he was just a lad, but got himself stuck well up shit creek without a fecking paddle when he was sixteen.”

“How far up shit creek?” Tabitha asked.

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