Chapter 4
When I reached the bed, I took her hand between both of mine.
Her fingers were cold.
She tried to speak.
I leaned close.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Her eyes filled.
Not with fear.
Not at first.
With apology.
That nearly broke me.
She was lying there shattered, and still somehow she thought she owed me sorrow.
I pressed my forehead to her hand.
“I’m here,” I said. “I’m here now.”
Her fingers tightened weakly.
The machine beside her beeped in uneven rhythm.
After a long moment, she forced out one word.
“Baby?”
My throat closed.
There are wounds that come from battle, and there are wounds that make battle seem merciful.
I had carried soldiers from smoke and fire. I had watched brave men say their last words into dirt. I had learned to fold grief into a place inside me and keep moving.
But nothing had prepared me for answering her.
“Tessa,” I said, voice breaking despite every part of me fighting it.
Her eyes searched mine.
She already knew.
A sound came out of her, small and torn, not loud enough to be a cry and too broken to be a breath.
I held her hand tighter.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Tears slipped into her hair.
She turned her face away, and I saw her shoulders tremble beneath the hospital blanket.
I wanted to burn the world down.
Instead, I stood still.
Because she needed a husband more than she needed a weapon.
Minutes passed.
Maybe more.
When she finally looked back at me, the apology was gone. Something else had taken its place.
Fear.
“They’ll come back,” she whispered.
“No.”
“You don’t know them.”
“I know enough.”
She shook her head faintly. Even that seemed to hurt her.
“No. You don’t. My father doesn’t lose. He just waits.”
I brushed her hair back from her face with trembling care.
“He’s not waiting in the hallway anymore.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
“They’re here?”
“They were.”
“What did you do?”
“I made calls.”
A faint, painful breath left her. Almost a laugh, but not quite.
“You always make it sound simple.”
“It wasn’t.”
Her gaze drifted toward the door.
“My brothers?”
“Arrested.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
For a second, her eyes closed.
Relief moved over her face, but it did not stay. It was pushed out by something darker.
“He has people,” she whispered. “Judges. Sheriffs. Bankers. Everyone owes him something.”
“I know.”
May you like
“No, Harlan. You don’t.” Her fingers clawed weakly against mine. “He kept records. On everyone. Favors. Photos. Payments. Threats. He called it insurance.”
My whole body went still.
