I shrugged. “What did I tell you?”
“That’s what people do.” Her whisper didn’t sound convincing, and I couldn’t blame her.
So, instead of getting dressed, which I really needed to do, I crawled onto the bed and settled myself at the headboard. Hauling her into my side, I kissed the crown of her head, and muttered, “I already told you, shit’s been brewing for a while.”
“The blood is on my hands. You’d never have done anything if—”
“If what? You didn’t do shit. Your father is the one who put his hands on you, after I warned him. This is on your father’s head. Not yours. And let’s face it, his soul is already fucked—”
“If his is, that means yours is too,” she whispered, and for some reason, that had her turning her face into me, her nose burrowing into my ribcage.
I might have been offended about the whole ‘my soul being in hell already’ shit, but I wasn’t. Mostly because I didn’t believe in that stuff, and I hadn’t thought Inessa did either.
But I could feel the moisture leaking from her eyes, brushing up against my skin.
“Hey, what’s this?” I rasped, not liking her crying.
Her arm slipped over my waist, and she hugged me tight. “I don’t want you to go to hell.”
Because she couldn’t see me, my lips curved. “I might not. I take out a lot of bad people. Maybe that gives me some cosmic balance,” I reassured her.
“I don’t think God works that way,” she muttered.
I wasn’t sure how God worked, and I didn’t really give a damn. If fifteen years of Sunday school and a lifetime of being forced to go to church hadn’t explained shit to me, I wasn’t sure how she could.
“Will you go to confession after?”
I frowned. “I already go.”
“I know you. You won’t say anything about what you really do.”
That she’d figured that out told me she knew me pretty well for someone who’d only been my wife for just under four weeks.
“Maybe if you confess, you won’t go to hell.”
I had to smile. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll confess.”
“You’re just saying that to appease me,” she whispered sadly.
I had been, but her words had me reaching for her, tucking my fingers beneath her chin as I urged her to look at me. When she did, those luminous green eyes of hers stole my fucking heart.
“Why’d you care about whether my soul goes to hell or not?”
Her lips trembled. “N-Never mind.”
“Nuh-uh,” I countered, not letting her look away. “Why, Inessa?”
The heat that arced between us when our gazes collided once more scorched me, razed me down to the fucking ground until I wasn’t a Five Pointer, wasn’t a veteran of too many battles to count, wasn’t a Catholic, wasn’t a sniper, wasn’t anything other than one thing—a man.
My heart pounded.
Her man.
I stared at her, my brow puckering as the link seemed to brand itself into me.
“I don’t want to be in heaven without you,” she rasped, her voice lower than usual, a husky whisper that made every nerve ending in my body come to life.
I hadn’t expected her to say that—how could I?