Page 142 of Filthy Lies

I stand frozen. Hating him. Wanting him. Hating myself for wanting him.

“Here,” I say at last, reaching for her. “I’ll take her.”

But she just clings that much harder to her father.

The rejection stings. Jealousy coils in my stomach, sharp and petty and deeply unfair. For three days, I’ve been her entire world. Now, Vince is back, and I’m secondary again.

“She missed me,” Vince says by way of explanation. He’s not gloating, just stating a fact that cuts me open anyway.

“Of course she did,” I say. “You’re her father.”

We both work to settle her, moving in the familiar choreography of parents soothing a frightened child. I get her water while Vince rocks her. He holds her while I check for fever. We’re a team again, just for these few minutes, united in purpose if nothing else.

When Sofiya finally quiets, her eyes growing heavy, Vince lowers her back into the crib. We stand side by side, watching her drift into sleep, close enough that I can feel the heat pouring from his body.

“I thought about you every second,” he says suddenly, voice so low it’s barely audible. He doesn’t look at me. “When you were gone. It was like someone had cut off my oxygen.”

I don’t look at him, either. Can’t. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” His fingers brush mine in the darkness, a touch so light it could be accidental. But nothing between us is ever accidental. “Making it harder?”

The double meaning isn’t lost on me. Neither is the charge that rushes through my body at his touch—a violent reminder that, despite whatever is broken between us, the physical connection remains brutally intact.

“You know what would make this easier?” I turn to face him, anger flaring hot again. “If you’d ever once put me first. If you’d ever trusted me with the truth instead of making unilateral decisions about our lives.”

“You want the truth?” His eyes are bright in the shadows. “The truth is I’m fucking terrified, Rowan. I’m terrified of prison. I’m terrified of dying with a fed’s wire wrapped around my throat like a noose. I’m terrified of losing you and Sofiya.” His hand comes up to my face, not quite touching, just hovering a millimeter away. “But what terrifies me most is that even after everything, even after you took my daughter and ran, I still want you so badly I can taste it.”

His speech sizzles between us in the darkened nursery. My body betrays me, leaning infinitesimally closer to his, craving the contact my mind rejects.

“Wanting isn’t enough,” I whisper, even as heat pools low in my belly. “It never has been.”

“Then tell me what is.” His eyes bore into mine, desperate and demanding. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you. Whatever it is. Whatever it costs.”

“I need a husband who sees me as a partner, not a possession. I need a father for my daughter who solves problems with his mind, not his trigger finger.” I step away from him, the distance necessary for survival. “Mostly, I need to know that, if I stay, I’m not just enabling the man who will eventually destroy us all.”

His face hardens. “And how will you know that, Rowan? What fucking proof would be enough?”

Behind us, Sofiya stirs in her sleep. We both freeze, waiting until her breathing evens out again.

“I don’t know,” I admit as the fight drains out of me. “I just know I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep loving you and fearing you in equal measure.”

Vince catches the contradictions there, of course. “You still love me.”

“That’s the tragedy, isn’t it?” I float backward toward the door, needing escape before I do something stupid, like forgive him. Like reach for him. Like fall back into the beautiful destruction that is loving Vincent Akopov. “Love was never our problem.”

I’m almost to the threshold when his voice stops me.

“If I survive tomorrow—if we survive the FBI—will you give me another chance?”

I don’t turn around. If I see his face, I might crumble. “I don’t know, Vince. I don’t know if I have any chances left to give.”

52

VINCE

I don’t know if I have any chances left to give.

I’ve been sitting here for hours, replaying that moment in the nursery. Again. Again.

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