Page 40 of Filthy Lies

“What did he do?” I whisper, understanding suddenly crystallizing. “What did he do this time?”

Vince sets down his untouched whiskey with deliberate care. “He tried to access your medical records at the hospital. Sent one of his men to get them.”

“Why would he?—”

“Information is power,” Vince says flatly. “The more he knows about your recovery, about Sofiya, the more leverage he has.”

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the room’s warmth. “And you… handled it?”

Vince’s eyes meet mine, unflinching. “Yes.”

One syllable, nothing more, dripping with implications I’m not sure I want unpacked.

“Did you kill someone?”

For a while, he says nothing. Then, barely audible: “Yes.”

The world doesn’t tilt. The ground doesn’t open up beneath my feet. Life just keeps on ticking, and I just stand there, absorbing this truth like it’s any other mundane confession. Like he’s told me he forgot to pick up milk or pay a bill.

“Who?” I ask.

“Yuri Belyaev. My father’s captain. The one who tried to access your records.” Vince watches me carefully, waiting for horror, for revulsion. “I made an example of him in front of the council. To show them what happens when someone threatens my family.”

“And your father?”

“Has been placed under what amounts to house arrest.” The set of Vince’s jaw solidifies. “It had to be done, Rowan. He left me no choice.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, softer now.

Vince looks away. “I didn’t want you to see that side of me again. That man is a monster.”

“That man is myhusband.” I take his face between my hands. “And I didn’t marry half of you, Vince. I married all of you. The parts that read me romance novels in bedandthe parts that would cut a thousand throats down to keep us safe.”

His breath catches, like my acceptance is the last thing he expected. Maybe it’s the last thing I expected, too.

“I’ve tried so hard to be better,” he whispers. “To be the man you deserve.”

“You already are.” I rest my forehead against his. “And when that means protecting us, I don’t get to judge the methods.”

His arms wrap around me, pulling me against him with desperate strength. I feel his body trembling—the release of tension he’s been holding since he walked through the door.

“I was sure you’d hate me,” he mumbles into my hair.

“I could never hate you.” I pull back enough to look into his eyes. “But I need the truth, Vince. Always. Even when it’s ugly. Even when it’s covered in blood. Maybe even especially then.”

He kisses me then, hard and hungry, like a drowning man finding air. I kiss him back just as hard. God, how I want to erase the distance between us, to prove with my body what my words might not fully convey.

That I understand him.

That I accept him.

That the line between monster and protector blurred into meaninglessness for me long ago.

His hands are rough as they slide beneath my shirt. He grips my waist with bruising intensity. My still-healing body protests. And we can’t—not yet. It’s too soon.

So for now, as we part reluctantly, I don’t go far. I melt against him, my face pressed in the hollow of his throat, and I quietly inhale all the scents that mark him as mine.

I shake my head without lifting it from his skin. “Do you remember what you said to me that night in my apartment? After the car crash?”

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