Page 151 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

The words slice between us, cutting what little remained of Londyn's control. She collapses against me and starts sobbing. "I thought we'd have tonight at least. I need one more night. Please."

"I have to get to L.A. as soon as I can."

The plan is to meet Victor's contact and get the heroin. Then I drive to San Diego where Miller is filming. I plant the evidence that will bring a man down, though not for the right crimes. With luck, it all goes smoothly.

But I've never had the best luck, hence why I'm so on edge. My instincts don't feel good about this, but I have no choice.

I hold Londyn against me, one hand cradling the back of her head as she presses her face into my chest, fogging up her glasses. Her body trembles with tiny, controlled earthquakes running through her frame.

While she sobs, I glance at Declan and Sienna. Both look even more worried, with Sienna on the verge of tears and Declan scowling like he wants to puncture my tires so I can't leave.

Londyn hugs me tight. "Come back to me," she whispers against my shirt. "Promise."

I can't make that promise. Not with any certainty. So I kiss her instead, pouring everything I can't say into the contact. When we break apart, I rest my forehead against hers.

"I have to go."

"I love you," she says, gripping my shirt like she might physically prevent me from leaving.

"Saranghae. More than I thought possible."

Over Londyn's shoulder, I catch Sienna's eye. Her face is a mirror of Londyn's pain, but she understands without being told. She slips forward, gently placing an arm around Londyn's shoulders and taking the handle of her suitcase.

"Come on," she says softly. "Let's get you settled inside. You must be exhausted."

Londyn looks back at me one more time, a silent plea in her eyes, before letting Sienna guide her toward the house. The distance between us stretches until suddenly she's gone and all I want is to bring her back. But giving into that urge would only put herin danger and get Mike killed. His family doesn't know he's been taken prisoner, but they're expecting him home soon. Instead of telling them the situation so they have days of fear and stress, I decided it's better to get this done quickly so Mike can just get back to them.

Declan lingers near the car with his hands stuffed in his pockets. I can feel the weight of his questions—the who and why and how bad and can I help—pressing into the space between us. But he knows me too well to waste time with things I won't answer.

"I assume this is a don't ask questions situation," he says.

"Yup."

His jaw tightens. "Can I at least know how grave it is?"

The last rays of sunlight catch in his eyes, turning them a saturated blue as he waits for me to decide how much truth to give him. I glance toward the house where Londyn disappears into the massive entrance. Then I turn back to my friend.

It's better he doesn't know the details, only what to do in the aftermath.

"If I don't come back or contact you by one AM on Thursday, assume the worst and take Londyn off the grid. I want her out of the country. I know you'll have questions and want to avenge me, so tell your wife it involves Victor. She should know who that is and she'll talk you out of seeking justice."

Declan's face hardens. I guess Sienna must've mentioned Victor at some point, so the name means something to him. Fuck, I hate this. The same shadows that have haunted Sienna are creeping back into their lives because of me. I've brought danger to their doorstep.

If there was any other way to keep Londyn safe…

Declan only nods, accepting the burden. No probing questions. No demands for explanations. Just silent understanding that whatever I'm facing, it's bad enough that we're discussing contingency plans for my death.

He pulls me into a hug that's more strength than comfort, like he's trying to transfer some of his certainty into my bones. "I'll expect to hear from you Thursday," he says. Not 'hope to' or 'want to.' Expect. As if his will alone can guarantee my survival.

I move back, my hand already reaching for the car door, but I hesitate. There's one more thing.

"She's carrying my child."

His expression doesn't change, but his shoulders straighten as if to support this new responsibility. "I'll protect her with my life."

I believe him. It's the only reason I can force myself into the driver's seat and start the engine and watch the mansion grow smaller in my rearview mirror until it's just a glowing pin-drop of light in the gathering darkness.

I grip the steering wheel and head toward the highway. These hands that have taken lives will someday hold my son or daughter. They're about to commit a crime and plant fake evidence, though the asshole deserves it, and someday they'll tie tiny shoes.

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