"He still managed to trek back to his car,” he says, contempt tightly coiled around each word. “I will call Cassidy after Fawn is in bed.”
Is Clay still angry with Max?
He took a bullet for me.
Her hand slides from his cheek. "Clay…Iwill call Cassidy and check in. You need to rest. You're no good to anyone if you don't… And I worry."
“What a waste of your time,” he says to her, his tone cold, closed off. "And that is simply not possible. The men need to be debriefed. A cleaning crew needs to remove evidence and stage an accident."
"I am more than capable of contacting our cleaner and having him troll the campsite. He knows what to do. I need just approve it," she insists.
I add, "Let Aurora do it, Sir.Please. Stay with me.”
He hums, his gaze falls to my face briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Very well," he accepts tightly, and his detached, guarded timbre stirs me.
He strides away, and Aurora heads down the steps to meet the convoy of cars that are now arriving. Distant conversations relay events. And I watch from over Clay's shoulder as Aurora stands in her element, and the men, they nod respectfully for her.
Clay carries me through the house and although I can walk, I'm exhausted enough to appreciate it.
I blink up at Clay. "Are you angry with Max, Sir?" I ask him as we approach our bedroom. “It was my idea.”
"Not now, sweet girl.”
"Max took a bullet for me—"
"That changes nothing!” he spits out before schooling himself again. “I would take a bullet for his fucking dog, but I would never undermine his decisions relating to Cassidy. I would never take her.”
“You undermined hisconcernswhen it came to Xander… though, Sir.”Fuck.I actually said that. I swallow over the lump forming around those words, wishing them back down as the powerful muscles holding me bunch.
I don't push him further.
Not right now.
In the bathroom, Clay runs the shower. The seclusion of this space, the soft splashing sound, and the strange stillness after such intensity make pin pricks hit the back of my eyes.
Alone now.
Weak. Suddenly so weak I barely want to stand, weighed down by the sorrow of all those lives, the horror, the heat, and how quickly I picked Clay and his family over my own blood. It all splinters me. Creates thin cracks in my soul.
And I pickedClayeven as Dustin's eyes blinked in a kindred way to mine, shifted the same…
I roll the events in my mind, list and sort them. The night I met my dad, he was murdered. That happened. And I stood by. But it wasn’t a murder… A murder is vile, uncalled for. This was revenge. This was an execution.
Thinking about my dad's eyes, I barely notice when Clay removes our clothes. Stepping from my knickers absently, I wonder whether Dustin had the same ears as me too. Or the same mannerisms.
In the shower, the warm spray falls around my shoulders while Clay stands outside of its warmth. Allowing me all its attention.
He lifts me and sets me on the ledge; our eyes are level. And he starts to wash the ash and dirt from my shoulders and across my chest.
I think I lose focus, staring through the stacks of muscles at his chest and the coils down his forearms, staring at the tattoos he refused to explain the last time I asked him. At the large scar that etches from his shoulder to the dip of his neck. The one he hides with a vine.How many more does he have after tonight? How many do they all have?
Suddenly, he lifts my hand and places it over the scar, having obviously noticed my distant gaze. My eyes jump up to meet the intense blue glowing in his. "You asked me once what this was. Would you like to know, sweet girl? Would you like to know the kind of man I really am?”
I know what kind of man you are, Sir.
A dangerous man.
I simply nod, my lips thin, my heart shuddering to scream I don’t care. I accept you. "Yes."