He mattered, damn it.
“Stop acting like you’re not upset by this by making jokes. Your brother just tried to have you killed.” I knelt next to him on the couch and cupped his face, swallowing back the furious words trying to escape. He didn’t look at me. “I know that has to hurt. I know you’re upset. And that’s okay.”
He growled under his breath. “And what will being upset accomplish? How will that keep us alive?”
“It won’t.” I climbed onto his lap, straddling him. He didn’t move, but the jaw in his muscle flexed. “And that’s okay, too.”
He let out a harsh laugh. “Everything is okay, according to you.”
“That’s because it is.” I ran my thumb over his lower lip. “That’s because it can be.”
He finally looked at me, and what I saw in his eyes . . . I would never forget it. Not in a million years. The cold, hard reality of what had happened, and what he would soon have to do, was all there for me to see. “Heidi.”
“Shh. I know.”
Leaning in, I pressed my lips to his, keeping the kiss gentle. It wasn’t meant to initiate sex. It was an act of comfort—the only act I knew that would show him without words that I cared. He needed to know that I didn’t regret last night, or us, at all. I didn’t know why he’d jumped to that conclusion earlier, but he had. And it had obviously upset him.
If he ever doubted anything, it shouldn’t be my feelings for him. I loved him, and nothing he did or said would change that. I loved how selflessly he took care of those he considered under his protection. I loved the undying hope he had that his brother was a good man, even though I feared it might get him killed. I didn’t love him despite his flaws—I loved him with them. Who he was. Who I was. We just worked.
And he needed to know that much, at least.
Pulling back, I framed his face with my hands again and smiled down at him even though it hurt to smile at him when he looked so lost. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
“No. It’s not.” Something inside of him seemed to break. I saw it. Felt it. “It’s really fucking not.”
But it could be. I was starting to come around to his line of thinking. Except he’d wanted me to run, to be safe. I wanted him to run. To stick to the original plan. I wouldn’t go with him, because there was only one passport, and he needed to get the heck out of this country. If he stopped worrying about me, he could run. He could live. “I want you to—”
The door opened. “Okay, where’s the—?” Chris paused midstep, a brow raised. He took in our positions, me on top of Lucas, holding his face, and didn’t look too happy. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No,” Lucas said, the emotion I’d seen earlier gone in an instant. “Heidi here was just being a doll and taking care of me.”
“I see that,” Chris said dryly. “Don’t expect me to straddle you like that. You’re not my type.”
“The hell I’m not,” Lucas said, smirking.
I rolled my eyes and climbed off him. “I’ll get you some whiskey.”
“Thanks, doll,” Chris said.
“It’s not for you,” I snapped. “It’s for him.”
He held a hand to his chest. “Ouch. That almost hurt.”
“And don’t call me doll.”
“I’m winning you over,” Chris said, grinning. “I can feel it.”
I ignored him.
Lucas laughed. “Shit, man. She doesn’t like you.”
“She’ll come around,” Chris answered distractedly. His gaze was on Lucas’s arm instead. “This is barely a bullet wound at all. You called me over here for this shit?”
“I’m high maintenance like that,” Lucas said, grinning.
“No shit,” Chris said, walking past him and into the bathroom.
I came out of the kitchen, a full tumbler in my hand. “Drink this.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Lucas lifted it to his lips and downed it all. I cringed because he had the cheap stuff that tasted awful. Prison food must have destroyed his palate. When the glass was empty, he handed it back to me. “You might want to leave the room.”
Shaking my head, I dumped the glass onto the coffee table, sitting beside him to hold his hand. “I’m staying right here.”
“Heidi, you nearly puked just thinking about the stitches. Now you’re gonna watch? I don’t think so, sweetheart.” He locked stares with me. “Go into the bedroom and listen to your music or something. The stuff you were dancing to earlier.”
Taylor Swift. I couldn’t rock out to that when he was getting stitches and bleeding all over the couch. I just couldn’t. “But—”
“Look at it.” He turned to me fully, and I forced my eyes on it. Just seeing the blood and flesh torn apart—oh my God. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. You look seconds from puking, and that won’t help Chris focus on the stitches. Go in my room.”
He was right. Swallowing back the bile, I nodded once. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.” He rested his head against the couch. “Go.”