Page 5 of His Bride

“To pull this off, everyone here needs to be in on it.”

She looks at me. “In on what?”

“The lie that Alexius is fine. That our mother passed, and that’s why he’s been out of the public eye, taking time to grieve. So, if anyone asks, that’s the story we need to stick to.”

“Of course.”

“I mean it, New York. Don’t fuck this up.”

“I would never?—”

“What? Get someone shot?”

The moment those words leave my mouth, I regret them. I don’t blame her. I blame me. I’m the reason Alexius is in the hospital, stuck between life and death. Me. No one else. And I’m scrambling to hold it together, keep the wolves at bay, and kill the fires of rumor Aurelio is lighting all over town—orwasbefore Mom died.

Even that fuckwit knows he can’t do anything until the grieving is over. There’s one tick in the Catholic mafia column. Grieving a matriarch shuts down all the shit and buys time.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “I didn’t mean that.” I straighten and glance her way, cursing, when I catch sight of tears shimmering in her eyes. “Jesus, Giana. Don’t cry.”

“I’m not, you asshole. I get it. None of this would have happened if I weren’t here. I should have run to the other end of the world instead of New York. Tuvalu, maybe.”

“I don’t know what that is. A disease?”

She stalks away and then turns to me. “It’s a small group of islands in the South Pacific.”

“It sounds like a disease.”

“You are one,” she hisses. “Ignoring me and then dragging me here to let me understand that I’m to blame.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” I snap, then close my eyes and crank my neck. “Again, not what I meant, I…fuck. Things are shit right now, Giana. There’s a lot of change headed our way, but one thing that won’t change is the fact that I still need to protect you.”

“You don’t have to do shit.”

“Yes, I do. I might lose my brother because of all this, and I’ll be damned if he dies only to have me fail at doing what I said I would.”

“I am not some brotherly oath you need to keep, Caelian.” Blue eyes rimmed with cobalt circles flash and burn. “Maybe you should just let me leave. That way I won’t be a constant reminder of why Alexius isn’t here. You’d be free of my burden.”

“As tempting as that sounds, I’ll pass. I’m rather fond of pretty burdens with dirty mouths and tight cunts.”

“Fuck you.”

“There she is.” I smile like the maniac I am.

There’s a bench a few feet away, and I go to sit on it, pulling the silver flask filled with bourbon from my inner coat pocket, and unscrew the cap. I hold it out to her. “Have some and sit.”

“Is that an order?”

“Do you want it to be?”

There it is again, one of those palpable silences where we eye-fuck each other with stubbornness and a side of lust. It’s both annoying and addictive.

She brushes a strand of dark hair from her face, edges over and, as far from me as possible, takes the bottle.

Our fingers touch, and sensation flares in me. It reminds me how much I ache for her, and how stupid I am for thinking I can be a better man by not acting on my selfish impulses.

I breathe out, crush the cigarette between my shoe and the ground, then light another, leaving the crumpled pack between us.

“You need a cigarette case,” she remarks.

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