Page 21 of Vengeful Vows

Ten seconds after ripping my fingers through my hair, I find my ride. The ultra-dark tint gives away that it is one in my fleet of many, not to mention the government plates.

My job description isn’t a secret. It is just rare to find me in a housing project without news outlets documenting my every move.

When I slip into the back seat seconds after ending our call, Darius’s dark eyes find mine in the rearview mirror. When we’re without fellow constituents, I usually ride up front. I chose differently this time because I need a second to wrap my head around why I didn’t immediately leave Mara’s apartment when she fell asleep with her daughter.

Instead of slipping out quietly, I acted like the creep I’m sure her building supervisor is, her belongings untouched but thoroughly inspected.

I thought I could make up for my stalking ways by stocking the bare cupboards I took in while snooping through her possessions, seeking answers to the secrets her eyes hold.

A trip to the market didn’t seem like enough. In twenty minutes, I went from purchasing the products needed to improve her daughter’s health to cooking them.

I can’t recall the last time I cared enough to want to help, but the chance to deliberate further is lost when Rafael asks, “Was that you?”

A cuss ripples through the cool afternoon air. He didn’t scare me. I sensed his presence for half a second before spotting him in the back driver’s side seat from the corner of my eye.

His head nudge is the cause of my profanity.

A fire truck is rolling down the narrow street with its sirens blazing and lights flashing.

Lying isn’t my forte—anymore—so I'll be honest. “I tried to make chicken soup.”

Raf arches a brow but keeps the rest of his expression neutral, never willing to give anything away too freely. “Tried?”

“And failed.” My huff fills the car’s cab with humidity. “Clearly.”

He smiles as if he is loving seeing a side of me I’ve not displayed in an extremely long time, but since my political career is always at the forefront of his mind, he signals for Darius to go around the firetruck, which has come to a stop at the front of Mara’s building.

We make it half a block before Rafael’s inquisitiveness gets the better of him. “Is she sick?”

I almost nod until the teasing flare in his eyes announces his question isn’t regarding Tillie.

It is referencing Mara.

When I shake my head, his brows furrow. “Then why were you making soup?” As he rubs his hands together, he corrects, “Then why were youtryingto make soup?”

“Because I was hungry.”

He doesn’t believe my lie.

He never does. It is one of the reasons I don’t bother.

My heart hammers my ribs when I give honesty a whirl for the second time tonight. “Mara isn’t sick. Her child is.”

We cross an intersection and travel another half a block before Rafael’s shock clears enough for him to speak. “She has a kid?”

I tilt my chin to hide my smile before bobbing it. “Yeah.”

Tillie has a lot of similarities to her mother—the main one is her ability to instantly disarm me. I want to protect her as much as I want to protect her mother. The easiest way for me to do that is to keep as much distance between us as possible. There’s just something about Mara that makes that seem impossible. When it’s just us, it is like no one else exists.

The way I pinned her to her refrigerator with my crotch announces this without prejudice.

Needing to see the expression Rafael will fight to conceal, I twist my torso to face him before saying, “From the birthday cards on the fridge, she turned ten last week.”

“She?” He undertakes the fight of his life to conceal his worry. His act is as woeful as my heart’s assurance that my interests in Mara don’t stem from a hero complex.

Fixing the mistakes of others was the entire basis of my childhood. Even if I wasn’t responsible for breaking it, I was expected to fix it. My endeavors to mend the unfixable only stopped when my gallantry arrived ten minutes too late.

No amount of glue can fix death.

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