I had looked past the man the devil was supposed to be and had fallen in love with him. I had looked past his cruelties to his kindness and love and had thought I’d shown him he could have more than this life. I’d looked his darkness head-on and embraced it.
The darkness of the man before me was all new. Something he’d wrestled with but I hadn’t been prepared for. Something I hadn’t been forgiving and fighting against all these months. And despite how much I wanted to believe that the Lucas I had fallen in love with was really the man before me, I didn’t know how to. I wasn’t sure I could.
I couldn’t differentiate between the lies to find the truth.
“I need . . . I’m sorry, but I just need time,” I whispered, then staggered to standing.
Without seeing him or the kitchen that just an hour before had held our passion and our fabricated bliss, I walked blindly up the stairs and to my room, and had barely made it into the shower—clothes and all—before my sobs broke free.
Chapter 37
Day 119 with Briar
Lucas
Briar hadn’t come back downstairs that night, or the next, or the next . . . And despite my panic and my restlessness and my overwhelming need to beg her to understand, I hadn’t gone searching for her.
I’d told her I wouldn’t chase her.
I’d been so sure she would be gone as soon as she knew the truth, and even though she’d walked away from me, she was still inside the house and had only said she’d needed time.
I wanted to give her my life . . . time seemed like nothing in comparison.
But as that time had stretched on longer and longer without any word from her, or a song floating from the top floor of the house, my panic had turned into regret and frustration.
I refused to leave the house and hadn’t slept for more than an hour or two each of the last three nights. I tried telling myself I was stressed about William, and having told Briar about who I really was—but I didn’t believe my own lies.
I was terrified that if I left, or allowed myself to sleep, that would be when I lost her.
I glanced up from the kitchen table when my driver entered the house from the garage and eyed the bag hanging from his hand for a second before a miserable-sounding laugh forced from my chest.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holt, but with you not wanting to leave the house, I thought it would be best if I chose and shipped the package this month.”
I stood and accepted the coffee from his other hand, and wordlessly walked into my office to grab a blank card and a pre-addressed bubble mailer. When I walked back into the kitchen, my driver was standing with terror in his eyes, as if he’d made a colossal mistake by choosing for me.
Knowing the look my blackbird would have given me if she were there, I held back an eye roll and forced myself not to growl when I said, “Thank you for doing this.”
Like he had just days before, my driver looked like my thanks had floored him as much as if I’d moved a mountain. It didn’t matter that the man worked for me or that I trusted him with Briar’s life.
I didn’t become Lucas Holt by thanking men, and I wouldn’t be able to hold on to the image I needed to if I continued to.
“O-of course, Mr. Holt.” His gaze darted nervously around the room before he asked, “Do you want me to pick up breakfast?”
I held up the coffee he’d brought, let my eyes dart over to him then back to the table. “No.” I took a long sip of the black coffee, and pretended that I could taste it, feel the heat as it slid down my throat.
But there was nothing other than the last shred of my sanity I was clinging to.
I glanced at the bottle of nail polish my driver had picked up, then to the blank card I was trying to write on.
Two words. Just two words I’d written over and over again, every month, for years. And now I didn’t know how to, because all I wanted to say was I’d found her—that girl she’d said I would find—but I’d destroyed everything by trying to keep her . . . because of who I was. But I knew I couldn’t risk that, not right now.
I’m fine.
I stared at my written words, dropped the pen, and grabbed for my coffee again. I had the cup halfway to my mouth when she entered the kitchen, and everything inside of me faltered.
“Briar.” Her name was as soft as a breath and sounded like a prayer coming from me.
A sad smile pulled at her lips for a fraction of a second before falling, and then confusion took over that beautiful face when she looked at the table.
“I’ll take care of this, Mr. Holt,” the driver murmured and hurried to collect everything off the table before disappearing.
I didn’t watch him go. I couldn’t stop staring at the girl in front of me as she watched me.
I wanted to pull her into my arms. I wanted to beg her to tell me what she’d thought about and decided over the weekend. I wanted to tell her I understood and didn’t blame her, because I’d been preparing for this day from the first moment I’d watched her sing. But I didn’t move. I didn’t speak.
After a minute of heavy silence, her gaze dipped back to the table that was bare except for my coffee. “What was that?”
I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms over my chest, trying to hide my shaking as I forced myself to stay there—forced myself not to say that after two and a half days of silence, this wasn’t what I wanted to talk about with her. “Nail polish and a note.” As if she hadn’t already seen it.
“Right. What for?”
“For her.” I waited for her to understand—waited until those eyes flashed to me again and hated the hurt and uncertainty that filled them. “I send both every month so she has a way of knowing I’m still okay. She knew a lot of people wanted me dead, and prison can’t stop them from making it happen—which is why I was supposed to go into witness protection. Once a year I send her a journal because she always wrote in one. That’s why I put one in your room.” One corner of my mouth quirked up. “Obviously wasn’t one of my better decisions.”
Another hint of a smile, this one at least held some amusement behind it. She took the few remaining steps toward the small, square table and pulled out the chair on my left. Once she was sitting in it, she rested her elbow on the table and her head in her hand, letting her eyes slowly take in every part of me she could see.
I thanked God for another chance to have this girl so close to me. I knew I would never forget her—would never forget this moment or her pure, composed fa?ade.
I hadn’t wanted to fall in love again after what had happened all those years ago, hadn’t wanted to feel that pain. Watching Briar, I knew if she walked out of my life, it wouldn’t be a matter of wanting to avoid the pain again . . .
There wasn’t a possibility of loving anyone else after having loved the girl who tried to consume my darkness with her light.
Once she finished her inspection and those eyes were locked with mine, she asked, “What do I call you?”
“Lucas. Devil. Whatever you want.”
She hesitated for only a second before altering the question. “What do you want me to call you?”
A name tore through my mind, screaming and thrashing, trying to claw its way out. I shoved it down with every other memory I kept buried. “I need you to call me Lucas.”