Page 223 of The Perfect Wrong

“You can’t,” I say.

“Come again?”

“She’s an addict, Bruce. I don’t care what her tests said when she was living with you. She had that coke she tried to plant on Delia, and I’ve got zero doubt she dipped into it. If you give her money without any help in the state she’s in—even six figures—she’ll be dead in a matter of weeks.”

I sigh, hating that I even have to bother with this shit.

Nothing’s changed how I feel about Evangeline Triton.

If anything, after all this, I fucking hate her more than ever. I intend to keep her cancer out of my life unless there’s ever proof she’s changed her colors.

Still, I can’t let his payoff send her to an early grave.

She doesn’t deserve that. And neither does Bruce after the other damage she’s done, tainting him with more dreary fucking guilt he’ll carry for life.

“Right.” He nods slowly as it sinks in. “I’ll consult with my attorney and see what I can do.”

“If you need a statement backing you up to get her into treatment, you know where to find me.”

With another smile, he’s gone, leaving me counting down the seconds until I’m truly home.

* * *

“Chris? Chris! Oh my God!”

Delia runs toward me the second she sees me standing, damn near bowling me over when we collide.

I hold her against my chest, fingers tangled in her hair, nose against her forehead just breathing her in.

Filling my lungs with her sweetness, her scent, that magic I thought I’d lost forever.

When she finally moves back, she gets a good look at me. The tears well up fast and furious in her eyes.

“Holy crap. I heard they hurt you, but seeing it...”

I snort. “Yeah, yeah. I know I’m a sight for sore-ass eyes—and I’m the reason they’re sore. Why don’t you rub it in, princess?”

She blushes adorably. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Don’t worry. Another month taking it easy with a few square meals every day, and they tell me I should make a full recovery. Sorry you’re stuck with this grizzled, ugly asshead with an eggplant face for the next month.”

She bursts out laughing.

Or is it crying?

Hell, it’sbothas she throws herself at me like a little cannonball, tumbling back onto my bed and apologizing when she realizes how bruised I am.

My legs still hurt like hell from moving this much after what they did, so I sit down next to her.

I really am a mess. Deficient in God knows how many vitamins, still lacking fluids, and exhausted as hell.

Damn if any of that stops me from pulling her onto my lap once we’re both on the bed.

My hands wrap around her greedily. I pull her into me with a raw hunger I’ve had building ever since I was saved from hell.

She’s still sobbing, shaking as my tongue finds hers, pumping in and out of her mouth.

I’ve missed this so goddamn bad.

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