My hands were still locked on his shoulders. However hard I tried, I couldn’t get them to move.
“Fucking say something,” he grated.
I wanted to. But my mind was still spinning. I’d known it was something bad, but this…. I was trying and failing to square the tenderness I’d seen him show me with the violence he was describing.
I felt his body shift under my hands. He was about to get up. Disgusted at how I’d reacted, he was going to walk off and we’d never get this close again—
It was his eyes that decided me. The pain in them, the guilt. I didn’t know what evil looked like: evil would be someone who did it for fun, or someone who hurt and killed and just plain didn’t care. But I knew that wasn’t Carrick. He carried the weight of everything he’d done. He was a soldier forced to fight, not a psychopath.
I slid my palms up to the top of his oiled shoulders and pressed down. It was ridiculous, given how big he was. He could have easily just muscled his way past me.
But he didn’t. He just met my eyes in the mirror again: suspicious but with just a trace of hope.
“Who were they?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level. Then I shook my head. “No, wait…” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. “Did they….”
“Did they deserve it?” he finished for me.
I nodded.
He drew in a slow, shuddering breath. “All but one.”
And I knew that was it: the secret beyond the secret. One killing, one particular job for the club that had been tearing him apart ever since he did it. That was the story behind the cross, the one he’d never let himself forget.
All I wanted to do was make him feel better. Without thinking, my hands slid forward over his shoulders, down his chest—
In one quick movement, he grabbed my wrists and whirled around, standing as he did it. The chair fell over with a crash and then we were standing there, both of us panting from the suddenness of it. Less than a foot separated our bodies.
I realized he was holding my hands high above my head, and swallowed.
“You don’t want this,” he told me savagely. “You think there’s some light left in me: there isn’t. Not for a long time. I’m not a good man, just because I saved you.”
“Maybe—” I had to fight for breath and my heart was hammering in my chest. “Maybe that’s why you saved me. Because you want to be again.”
He shoved his face closer to mine. Close enough, almost, to kiss. “You don’t want this,” he told me again. “You’re fuckin’ perfect. You deserve a good fuckin’ life with a good fuckin’ man. A nice place. Kids. I’m a long way past saving and you’re not going to change me.”
I opened my mouth to protest but he cut me off, the Irish thick in his voice. “Don’t. Don’t. ‘Cos every time you open those lips I want to kiss you. Every time you speak, I want to carry you off somewhere. Every time I look at you, I’m seeing us together.” As the words washed over me, setting off scorching explosions deep inside, I saw how hard his body had gone, every muscle taut and straining with the effort of holding himself back. “I’ve destroyed so much, Annabelle. So fucking much.” He squeezed my wrists in time with his words. “I won’t. Destroy. You.”
And before I could argue, he was gone, releasing my wrists and stalking away. “Sleep on the couch,” he told me. And he strode into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.
I was left there panting, trying to process everything that had happened. I knew now why he thought he was unsaveable, why he was sure he could never go back to being that man I’d first met. What if he was right? And how did I feel about him, now I knew what he’d done?#p#分页标题#e#
The only thing I knew for sure was, tonight had changed things forever. Now I knew the truth, we couldn’t go on like this for even one more day: there was too much tension and not enough holding us back. Like those magnets I’d imagined back in the motel room, tomorrow we’d either snap together...or break apart for good.
22
Carrick
I barely slept. I told myself it was because I was used to passing out on the couch but I knew I was kidding myself. The real reason was, the bed felt empty. There was this big, cold gap where Annabelle should have been.
I’d gotten used to her, after just one night.
When it was finally morning, I showered and dressed. But when I checked the couch, she was still asleep. She’d stripped down to her bra and panties and found the blanket and pillow I use when I crash out. I knew from experience that, with them, the couch was a lot more comfortable than my worn-out bed.