Page 215 of Never Die for a Sinner
He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head like I’m a stubborn child. “I meant about you being in love with her.”
I go completely still.
Fuck.
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. It’s written all over my face, carved into every raw, panicked decision I’ve made in the last seventy-two hours.
“She’s better off without me,” I mutter finally, bitterness thick in my throat. “I almost got her killed. That’s not love, Christian. That’s carelessness.”
He leans back in his chair as he watches me with quiet, relentless judgment.
“You did what you thought was right.”
I shake my head. “It’s too late for that.”
Christian lets out a soft snort. “It’s never too late,” he says. “Not unless you don’t say it at all.”
I shake my head, but I don’t disagree. I’m not sure I can.
Because as much as I want her to stay—as much as I want to believe there’s a future for us after all this—I know what I am. I know what I’ve done.
And as I sit here, staring at her fragile, bruised body in that hospital bed, it hits me like a fucking freight train: I have no idea what I’m doing. I have no clue what the next step even is. Everything I thought I was—everything I built my life around—feels hollow now.
I thought the DEA was my purpose. But maybe it was just a distraction.
Because now, all I want is her.
And I’m not sure if I have the right to ask for that.
I feel like she’s stolen from me. Ripped something out of my chest and made off in the night. I want to punish her and worship her at the same time.
“Why did you give up the FBI?”
Christian thinks for a moment, quiet.
“You’re wondering if you want to go back to being an agent.” It’s not a question.
I don’t have an answer for him. Not one that doesn’t sound like a weak excuse or a coward’s confession.
“When I stepped back,” he begins, his voice low and coarse like gravel underfoot, “it was because I found something that meant more to me than whatever criminals are in the world. I found I didn’t give a fuck what they were doing, so long as she was safe . . .” He looks at me then, really looks, and for a second, I see our mother in his eyes—dark and blazing, carved from a grief we both carry in different ways. “If you’re asking these questions, I think you know your answer.”
I look back at Ava, curled up beneath the tangle of pale sheets. She’s sleeping softly, her lashes creating a heavy shadow on her cheeks. She looks so small. Fragile. Like if I blink too long, she might vanish. And maybe that’s the point—maybe she will.
He’s right. I do know my answer. I’ve always known it, buried beneath pride and fear and the blood I’ve spilled for less worthy things.
“What . . .” I hesitate, jaw tight, shame crawling up my spine. “What do I do when she leaves?”
It’s a coward’s question, and we both know it. Because she will leave. Because I’ve given her every reason not to stay.
He doesn’t respond right away. Just studies me with that same unreadable stillness that used to scare the shit out of me as a kid. When he finally speaks, it’s not soft. It’s not cruel, either. It’s honest—even if I fucking hate it.
“Give her the time she needs,” he says, voice thick with something unspoken. “And when she’s ready for you, make sure you’re ready to be the man you want to be.”
I swallow hard. The weight of it settles in my chest like stone. I don’t ask what happens if I’m not ready. I already know the answer.
AVA
I’m in a hospital. I can tell because of the smell. That sterile, chemical stench that clings to everything. It smells like Pleasant Oaks, and I hate it.
