Page 81 of Sadistic

"Your knuckles are bruised… what happened? Something with business?"

Observant.

I should have expected that from a future lawyer, I also know I can’t tell her the nitty gritty details she’s looking for.

"A business complication, little wolf. Nothing you need to worry about," I say carefully.

"Someone died?"

"Someone learned a lesson."

She processes this, cutting into her salmon with precise movements. "Will there always be blood?"

"Yes." No point in lying. "But never yours. Never our children's. Never anyone you love."

"Our children," she repeats. "You've thought that far ahead?"

"Haven't you?"

She takes a sip of wine instead of answering. "I need to tell you something. About Njal."

My hand tightens on my fork, but I keep my voice even. "What about him?"

"I think he might be bipolar. Like his brother." She meets my eyes. "The behavior, the mood swings, the way he’s thinking—it all fits. If he's having a manic episode and he's not medicated..."

"He could be dangerous," I finish.

"Or just sick." There's compassion in her voice that makes me both love and hate her a little. "I'm not making excuses for him. But if he does something stupid, it might not be entirely his fault."

I think about the journal pages, the wall of photos. "Would it change how you feel? If something happened to him?"

"I don't know," she admits. "I cared about him. Past tense, but still. Two years is a long time to just... switch off feelings."

"I know."

She looks at me sharply. "Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you decided I was yours five years ago and never wavered."

"I wavered." The admission surprises us both. "The night of your high school graduation. You wore this white dress, had flowers in your hair. You looked... free. Happy. I sat in my car outside the venue and thought about letting you go. Letting you have a normal life."

"What changed your mind?"

"You did. Some boy tried to grab you on the dance floor at an after party. You broke his wrist." I smile at the memory. "That's when I knew normal was never going to be enough for you."

"So you decided to be my abnormal?"

"Something like that."

She laughs, shaking her head. "You're completely insane."

"Probably."

"I kind of like it," she admits quietly.

The rest of dinner passes in a blur of conversation and wine.

She tells me about law school, her professors, her dreams of working in criminal law—"ironic, I know." I tell her about the legitimate side of my business, the real estate developments that launder the darker money.

"We're going to be quite the power couple," she observes. "The lawyer and the criminal."

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