Sinner's Revenge(89)
She doesn’t seem to be struggling with that as much as she is something else. I just haven’t figured out what it is. Maybe the responsibility is finally taking its toll on her. Maybe she is still feeling the impact of relief that her plan had been productive, even though it wasn’t smooth. Or maybe it was the sight of me stepping up and taking charge that has her feeling inadequate or doubtful. Whatever it is, she has to figure it out on her own. I can’t help her with that. All I can do is be here for her. Which is exactly what I plan to do from here on out.
Already tangled in my sheets, she flips the covers back, inviting me in. I crawl in beside her, and she curls her body around mine and I turn out the light, rubbing my hand up and down her back.
“Do you ever feel bad about some of the stuff you do?” she asks, her fingers rubbing circles across my stomach. “Like the killing,” she adds, her tone softer.
“I’ve don’t a lot of shit in my life. Eventually, you learn to block it out.” I frown in the darkness, realizing how much of a monster I really am.
“So it gets easier?”
How can I lay here and tell her that killing people will soon be second nature? She’s a lot of things, but she’s not a lost cause. She’s not me. “How did you feel when you killed Cyrus?”
“Euphoric,” she whispers guiltily. “But I don’t always feel that way. Sometimes I feel like I’m doing society a favor. Sometimes I assure myself that it was for the greater good. But, most of the time, I hate myself.”
My heart clenches at her admission. I can relate to what she’s feeling. “You remember that night at the cabin when I came to bed late and you asked if I was okay?”
“I remember,” she says, her hand coming to rest on my stomach in the same position she kept it that night.
“I killed two Death Mob Prospects that night.” My eyes close at the reminder, and that sickness returns to my gut. “They were innocent . . . just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I can’t tell you that it gets easier, because it doesn’t. But I can tell you that the only person who can make you pull that trigger is you. Don’t live your life haunted by ghosts, Diem. If it doesn’t feel right, don’t do it. Don’t try to force yourself to be a monster. It’s not worth it. Take it from someone who knows.”
I feel her hot tears on my chest. I don’t know if she’s crying for her, for me, or for the lives lost. But the effect of her sadness is still the same—it rips my fucking heart out. “I don’t think you’re a monster,” she whispers, tightening her hold on me.
No matter how much evil I share with her, she chooses to only see the good in me. She has more faith in my humanity than I do. Even when I can’t forgive myself, she finds the strength to defeat my demons. There are many different definitions of love—she is mine.
* * *
With our mission accomplished, there is nothing left for us to do here, so we head back to Hillsborough. The drive is long and silent. Back at my house, the only good-bye she offers me is a promising look that tells me she will see me again soon.
Rookie and I fly back to Jackpot, where Carrie meets us at the airport. They’ve been without each other for weeks, so I give Rookie and Carrie some time alone and tell them I’ll catch a cab back to the bar. I feel envy at the way Carrie looks at him with a passion in her eyes that transforms Rookie from a one-percenter to nothing but her man.
What I would give to have that same kind of relationship with Diem. But that’s not possible for people like us. At least not in this life.
* * *
Two days later, I’m on the porch at Dirk’s house when I receive a call from an unknown number. “Yeah?”
“It’s Dorian,” the gruff voice announces, and my heart kicks into overdrive as my mind immediately starts thinking the worst. The worst being, was something wrong with Diem? “From here on out, I don’t want Diem going anywhere without you.” The command is not negotiable. But I wasn’t planning to argue.
“Done,” I say, already walking inside to pack my bags.
“Keep her in your sights at all times. I don’t have to tell you your fate if you defy me.” His thick accent makes me think of a movie I saw once where the don told the man that he would be swimming with the fishes. I start to make a joke about it, but think better of it.
“I understand. Is there something I should be concerned about?” I shouldn’t have asked. If he’d wanted me to know, he’d have told me.
“There are always concerns in this business.” He hangs up, not offering me anything else.