My heart couldn’t handle that. I would chase her.
I would follow her anywhere. She’s my entire existence. She’s the reason I laugh, smile, want to go home every night. She changed everything. She gave me a life. She gave me softness, excitement, and happiness.
Just by being mine.
All that teeters on the edge now, and I know if it crashes and falls . . . so will I.
“It’s okay. I won’t ever hurt you, you know that, love. Just come with me, okay? Let’s get you warm and find you something to drink and we can both work through what you just saw. I’ll answer anything you want. Just let me take you home,” I implore, cooing at her as I step closer. She doesn’t move or look at me as I gently touch her arms. No. She just stares at the dead body lying on the ground, shivering as if her bones are just as cold as his. Her gaze never wavers from the mangled corpse I fully intend to leave behind.
Fuck, she’s almost catatonic.
I need to get her home and away from here, and quickly. Plus, anyone could have heard her scream, and I don’t have time to deal with cops when my girl needs me. Wrapping my arm around her, I lead her away from the alley, hating how small and fragile she suddenly feels. She’s so silent, like her soul no longer dwells in her body—as if I have already lost her.
Even more, I hate that I’ve left bloody handprints across her skin and clothes.
Fuck!
I know better. She should never have been touched by this side of my life. By the horrors I commit. By what I really am. I think there was always a part of me that knew she would eventually find out about this side of me, but I assumed I had more time. I’m not ready. I’m not ready to let her go. To lose her. Not like this.
I’ve faced many demons in my life, conquered many enemies and won every battle, yet the hardest fight of my life is still ahead of me—trying to keep my Layla.
I ignore the parked car across the street that I leased for her to use and guide her to my car around the block, carefully sitting her inside. She’s so out of it that I even have to buckle her seatbelt to ensure she’s safe. Once I’m certain she won’t bolt, I shut the car door before rushing to the driver’s seat and climbing in. Grabbing the wipes from my glove box, I quickly clean the blood off my hands, face, and arms before doing the same to her. All the while, she doesn’t move or speak. It worries me, so I blast the heat and turn on the engine, wanting to get us home, to her safe space, as quickly as humanly possible.
Unfortunately, the drive feels like it takes forever. I clench the wheel so hard my knuckles turn white, making my hands ache, but it’s still not enough. My anger at myself is starting to take over, even as I shoot her worried looks all the way home. She still hasn’t spoken since we left Hell’s Kitchen. Not a single word except that one burning question—who are you?
It rings in my head like an accusation. Who am I? Am I just a hired hit man? A killer? The monster people fear that hides in the shadows? Or am I the man she loves, her husband? Could I possibly be both? And if not, which one is an act?
I don’t even know anymore.
What I do know is that I want to be the man I used to see in her eyes, the one she smiles at, laughs with, and trusts. I want to be the one who makes her happy, not this . . . monstrosity.
But maybe it’s too late for all that now.
Or is it?
Layla is the most important thing in my life. More important than my job, my life, my business. She’s everything. But have I realized it too late?
When we get home, I notice Zoey left a note saying she’s sleeping over at her friend’s house again, leaving just us. I rush my love upstairs and help her into a warm bath to clean off any traces of blood, knowing she probably feels dirty. After, I dress her. She remains silent all the while. Tucking her into bed, I kiss her head softly before grabbing some snacks and a cup of herbal tea for her.
She doesn’t touch those either. Instead she turns onto her side, ignoring me.
“Baby—” I stroke her back, and when she doesn’t move away from my gentle touch, I almost slump in relief. I quickly hurry to shower and then climb into bed with her. Pulling her close, I wrap her in my arms, needing to feel her. “I’m here. Whenever you are ready to talk, I’m here. You are safe; you are loved,” I promise, kissing her cheek, but the shiver the gesture would usually elicit and her soft smile are gone.
Instead, we both just lie here until the hours pass. We watch the sunset through the window, and the silence hanging in the air between us is so loud, I almost choke on it. I wait for her to speak. I wait for anything.
But it never comes.
As I hold her throughout the night, I feel her slipping away. When I peek at her face, I see her eyes are clouded, distant, as she continues to stare at the city lights through our bedroom window with silent tears sliding down her face. She’s stiff and unresponsive in my arms.
She might physically be right next to me, but her heart is already a million miles away.
I’m losing her.
* * *
Her silence terrifies me. Layla has never been one to hold back or fear anything. Even the day I met her, she was staring down death with a quiet strength that made me realize then and there this girl was special and worth saving.
Now? I stand hesitatingly before the bar in the kitchen where she sits, quietly nursing a mug of coffee. When I woke up this morning, she hadn’t been in my arms. I got dressed in a panic before finding her here. I wonder how long she has been sitting here thinking.