Page 97 of Say You Will

Henry releases me, then makes room for me once more, so I sit with my back to his front.

I lift the sponge from beside the tub and make bubbles with the body wash. He huffs in laughter when I plop two white globs of suds on his upraised knees, then he gives a full-body shiver and rinses them off.

No more bubbles on Henry. Got it. “You know, I can’t help but wonder how, if you investigated all of us, you could let a jerk like Louis hang around Bronwyn.”

“Obviously, it’s an imperfect system. We’re making some adjustments.”

I hold the sponge high and squeeze, letting bubbles trail down my arm before they slide onto my thighs. “The life I had before I returned to New York is over,” I say in satisfaction. No matter what. My mother is my past. She has no part in my future.

“My sister and mother lead mostly normal lives. You can, too, when the current threat is under control.” His voice is cold and flat, but his hand flexes on my hip. “After that, whether you’rewith me or not, the primary difference will be that now you know you’re being watched.”

I turn my head to take in his expression.

He’s still worried I’ll leave him. He thinks his revelations haven’t sunk in for me yet. That I’ll think about it later and want to run away.

Anyone else would think Henry looked and sounded like an arrogant dick right now, but I know better than to take that heavy-lidded expression and drawling coldness at face value. Henry is the last thing from bored or arrogant. His knuckles are white where he grips the edge of the tub, and a pulse thrums like hummingbird wings in his throat.

He’s coped with this stress since childhood, and he’ll continue to live with at least some version of it for the rest of his life. He invited me in because he knows I can handle it, and because he respects my right to know more than he fears losing me. But he does fear losing me. Desperately.

“I’m happy that my life has changed, and I always want the truth. Will you tell me what happened the night you were shot?”

His expression remains flat; his tone bored. “I was twelve. Gabriel was ten. Our father was the hero who’d cleaned up New York City. Mobsters were afraid to even dip their toes in the Hudson as far as Gabriel and I could see.”

Oh no.

“Our parents’ rules were stupid and unfair. What twelve-year-old isn’t allowed to surf the internet? We didn’t need bodyguards. We could take care of ourselves. That’s what we thought. My training started at five years old. Gabriel was three. It was . . . relentless. Martial arts. Weapons. I was stabbing watermelons at six and fully articulated human dummies by seven. We studied languages like our lives would depend on them. Anatomy and physiology. Criminal psychology. It was agame to me. I know you saw some of the training. We let you practice with Bronwyn.”

“Firearm training was the only one I did with her,” I say.

He tips his head back to look at the ceiling. “We were convinced we were invincible. Gabriel started sneaking out past the guards to meet a friend. I caught him doing it, but instead of raising the alarm, I followed him. All the way into an ambush in an underground fight club owned by a Russian syndicate.”

He runs damp fingers up my arm. Down. “There were three men torturing my brother. They didn’t know I’d followed him. To get him out, I killed them all. Before that night, I thought I’d never be able to do it. The sight of blood made me gag. But all the training and repetition kicked in.”

I straddle him, so we’re face-to-face, and he pulls me against his chest.

“You were shot in the fight?” I ask.

He shakes his head and gives a huff of sardonic laughter. “Part of our training was distinguishing threats from innocent bystanders. You can’t lose your cool and hurt random people in the crossfire. In our practice sessions, I had a near 100 percent success rate. When a woman came into the room, my guard went down. She acted sympathetic. Asked if we were okay and if she could call our parents for help. I thought we were going to be okay. I lowered my weapon.”

His lips twist. “And she shot me through the pocket of her cardigan sweater.”

I clutch him tighter, as if his wound is fresh, and I’m losing him to it now.

He sighs without sound and runs his fingers up my spine. “Then Gabriel shot her. I had to threaten to shoothimto leave me and get help. I thought I was going to die and didn’t want someone to catch him while he tried to carry a corpse out of the building.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You saved me.” The flatness has left his voice.

He guides me to sit up, and I look at him in confusion.

Henry smooths my hair behind my ear. “I met you two months after that night. I was shutting down. The doctors couldn’t help. The therapist wasn’t making a dent because I didn’t want him to. I wanted to punish myself. Everything that happened was my fault because I didn’t stop my brother when I should have. I followed him to see what he was doing. I wasjealousof his adventures.”

“You were a child.”

He swallows hard and shakes his head. “I know. But I was using a child’s logic. When I closed my eyes, all I could see was blood. All I heard was gunfire and screams. And then there you were. You didn’t look at me like I was a monster or a victim. You thought I had all the answers. You showed me that the person I used to be was still alive inside me.”

He holds my head between both hands. “You reminded me that there was strength in gentleness and resilience. I felt like myself again when I was with you. For you, I was just your friend’s brother. For me? You were my salvation.”

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