41. Chapter 41

The drive back home is quiet.

Having been the victim of a kidnapping, I didn't have my car once Alexi, Siren, and I got outside the building where Ilya's men were hard at work disposing of the bodies of my father and Gaspari.

After a short trek through the woods, we finally reached Alexi's sports car.

We piled inside, and he took us back to Charleston, where my car still sat outside of Siren's family home.

Alexi, too, was suspiciously quiet during that time.

I mean, he was already a man of very few words but there was something … off about him now.

I have to wonder if it has anything to do with his promise to hand-deliver the diamond to his father.

I didn't need to do a lot of digging on him, though I had, to figure out that he and his father hated each other.

He'd never said much about his upbringing, but if even half the rumors about his father were true, growing up in his house must've been Alexi's personal Hell.

Now, in saving our lives, we'd doomed him right back there.

Despite my earlier misgivings about the Fed, there was no way I'd allow him to walk into the lion's den without backup.

Merrick and I would see the hunt for this music box through, and we'd do whatever we needed to get him back out of Russia.

Surprisingly, out of all the things I regretted tonight, losing the diamond was at the bottom of the list.

I meant what I said to Siren.

I love my mother, but Siren is my future, and if I have any hopes of keeping her, she needs to know that she takes precedence over everything else.

Pretty jewels and old promises included.

I'd like to think Mama would understand and be happy for me.

I finally have something more to live for than simple revenge.

Within the month, I'll be handing over the diamond to Alexi, and that'll be that.

Siren and I had a lot to talk about, not the least of which is me still being slightly pissed off at her for stepping between me and a potential bullet.

But that conversation isn't for now.

For now, I want to get the both of us home, where I know we'll be safest.

That is if she even still wants to stay with me.

The possibility that she won't nearly has my throat closing up.

Back in that warehouse, she said she loved me, but there's always a chance that it was simply a confession made to make me feel better because she knew she was probably going to her death.

So I wouldn't feel like all this had been for nothing.

I don't wanna believe that.

I want her to want me … no … need me, the way I need her.

I didn't know what kind of life we'd have; my life was mostly played out in the shadows.

In contrast, she literally lived in the spotlight.

Talk about opposites attracting.

I must admit that I knew something special was there from the moment we met, even if it took my head longer to catch up.

Something that set her apart from the countless others that came before her.

That feeling has only grown over these last few months.

I'm not entirely sure that, if she says she wants to return to her old life, I'll be able to let her go, and that scares me nearly as much as the idea of her leaving because I can't definitively say that there are limits to what I'd be willing to do to keep her.

When I think about it, I feel sick to my stomach.

Siren will be the second woman ever to take up space in my heart.

The first one left me, and I barely survived it.

My gut tells me I wouldn't be so lucky this time around. If we get home and she starts packing her shit, I'll be on my knees so fast it'll be embarrassing. Fuck pride. I'll beg if I have to.

Before I know it, we're coming up on the entrance to the long dirt driveway.

A low vibrating feeling starts beneath my skin as we turn in and follow it to the house.

The car slows as we pull up out front.

I put it in park, but simply sit there, both hands clutching the steering wheel like a lifeline.

I wait for Siren to tell me to turn the car off and unlock the doors, but she doesn't.

I find out why when I glance over toward the passenger's seat.

She's asleep again.

There goes the narcolepsy, though I'm starting to believe her body is simply making up for not having a good night's sleep in nine years.

Her head rests against the spot where the window meets the door, long black hair acting as a curtain over half of her face.

Gently, I reach out and tuck the offending strands behind her ear.

As I stare at her, I remember the last time we did this.

I brought her home the night of the auction, and she fell asleep in my car.

Very much like that night, her clothes are ripped and bloody.

She has smudges of dirt on her face, and something that looks like sawdust sprinkled throughout her hair.

She must've picked them up while she was wailing on Gaspari like a woman possessed.

I honestly don't think I've ever been more proud of her than I was at that moment.

If she was afraid, she sure as hell didn't show it.

Instead, she took her power back, raining down a world of hurt on the man who's made her life miserable for nearly 10 years.

As I look at her now, my chest aches at how beautiful she is—dirt, blood, and all.

I can't let her get away.

I just can't.

I release a long-suffering sigh, laying my forehead down on the steering wheel.

From my current position of dejection, I don't realize she's awake until she speaks.

"What are you doing?"

she asks, her voice still thick with sleep.

I sit up and open my mouth … but nothing comes out.

Fear has me in a chokehold and I don't even know where to begin.

So, instead, I just shake my head, turn off the engine, and open the door.

I can see her looking at me perplexed as I slam the door shut.

I hustle around the front hood to open her door, but she beats me to it.

Figures.

I should've known better than to think she needed me to help her get out.

As she climbs out of the car, I hold out my hand the same way I did when we visited Forsythe Park.

My heart resumes beating when she slips her hand into mine.

Together, we walk up the front steps and go into the house.

She walks ahead of me, and I pause as I close the door behind us.

We both desperately need a shower, a change of clothes, and maybe even a few ice packs.

But I can't wait that long.

The not knowing is killing me; if she intends to go, it'll be better just to rip the band-aid off.

It'll be the equivalent of ripping a band-aid off of an amputation, but it's better than the alternative of dying a torturous death via anxiety.

"Can we talk?" I ask.

She turns to look at me from the center of the living room.

Assessing my dire expression, she says, "Sure.

Do you wanna sit?"

I shake my head.

"No, I don't think I'd be able to stay still that long. "

Her expression changes from one of confusion to apprehension.

Still, she opts to stand as well.

"Are you gonna yell at me for getting between you and Ilya Kapranov? Because if you are, you should know that I'm not sorry.

I was desperate, and it was the only move I had left."

I wanna be angry at her.

I wanna rant and rave about how careless she was with her own life, but I don't.

The anger I felt in that moment has faded away, leaving only understanding.

I would've done the same thing for her, so how can I be mad? I open my mouth to say something, though I'm not sure exactly what.

What comes out, however, surprises even me.

"I don't think I can do this without you,"

I whisper.

Her brows pull together.

"Do what?"

"Life,"

I simply say.

"I don't think I can do life without you.

In fact, I know I can't.

You've become such an integral part of me that you've practically embedded yourself in my DNA.

There is no me without you anymore."

She stares at me with wide eyes, the chocolate brown warm and inviting, but I don't dare step closer.

As much as I want to touch her, I can't crowd her.

She has to have space to decide what she truly wants.

So, instead, I begin to pace back and forth across the living room.

All the while, she watches me, waiting for whatever comes next.

Stopping in front of the mantle, I look down at a picture of me and my mother.

Sitting next to it is the little porcelain figurine of a shooting star.

I pick it up, turning back to face Siren.

"This was hers, you know.

I never believed in wishes before I met you.

But from the moment you entered my life with the force of a wrecking ball, everything you did felt like a tiny little wish I'd unknowingly made came true."

Looking down, I rub my thumb over the small star.

"I think it's quite possible that I've been wishing for you my whole life.

It just took my head some time to catch up to my heart."

Sitting the figurine back down, I pick up one of the coins sitting next to it and walk over to take her hand, dragging her into the kitchen.

She doesn't offer any protests, which I'm thankful for because I need to get all this out before she tells me to kick rocks.

Before she reminds me that we're from two different social classes and girls like her don't end up with guys like me, a guy with a tragic past, a criminal present, and an unknown future.

I pull her with me as I walk to the kitchen sink, plugging the bottom and turning on the tap.

It's no fountain, but it'll have to do.

When I look at her, she's watching me warily, probably thinking I've lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

Still, when the sink has filled about halfway, I stare into her eyes as I hold the quarter in my palm for her to see.

"Let me make one more wish?"

I ask, my gaze pleading.

Her chin begins to wobble, and I know I have to do this now because soon, I'm not going to be able to stop myself from touching her.

My breathing is shallow, and there's a slight ringing in my ears as I stand there, waiting.

I can't even allow myself the luxury of passing out because if I do, she might be gone when I wake up.

She reaches up and brushes away several tears from her cheeks before giving me a jerky nod.

I sag with relief.

Gently tossing the coin into the water, I watch it sink to the bottom before looking back at her beautiful face.

The tear stains have made tracks through the dirt on her face, yet I still want to lean down and kiss those tears away.

But I've still got my wish to make.

"Stay with me.

Build a life with me.

I need to wake up every day knowing that the woman I'm in love with is sleeping right beside me.

I need you to understand that I breathe for you now.

If you walk out that door, you'll leave me gasping for air, and there won't be enough oxygen in the world to save me.

I don't know how we'll make it work, but we will.

I'll do whatever it takes.

Just please … don't leave me."

She looks up at me, teary eyes flitting this way and that as she tries to get a read on my face.

I don't try to stop her because I know she needs to see the truth beneath the masks I've so strategically worn all my life.

That I'll be lost without her.

Like her namesake, she called to me and if she leaves me now, I'll drown.

Suddenly, to my surprise and horror, she bends at the waist and buries her face in her hands.

Great sobs wrack her body, and I reach out a hand to do … something.

I want to comfort her, but don't know how to help her if I don't know what's wrong.

When my hand is only an inch or two away from her shoulder, her head jerks up, and her eyes pin me to the spot.

"Do you know why I stepped in front of that gun?"

she asks with a sniffle before letting out the cutest little hiccup I've ever heard a woman make.

Her words, however, throw me for a loop.

I shake my head, not because I don't know but because I need to hear her say the words for it to be real.

"Because I was prepared to give up my life for yours.

To become a slave to a man just as evil as Dante, if not more so.

But you know what the funny part is?" she asks but doesn't give me time to answer before she continues.

"I didn't even have to think about it.

It was an involuntary reaction.

No hesitation, no second guessing.

I didn't think, I just felt," she says, tossing my words from the other night back at me.

Reaching up, she grips both sides of my face like she did that night and says, "Deacon, you've done so much for me.

You helped me find myself, even the parts I'd repressed.

Pieces of myself that I'd broken down to fit a mold that never came in my size.

You gave me the confidence to keep myself whole and believe that anyone who can't swallow that can choke.

You did that.

I never would've found me if it weren't for you." She pulls my face down until my forehead rests on hers, but our eyes are open.

As brown meets blue, she adds, "I kept sight of the stars, and I've found my way home.

You are my home.

I'm in love with you, you fucking idiot, and I'm not going anywhere."

Relief and elation fill me in equal measure, and my arms come up around her, squeezing her against me.

Burying my face in her hair, I breathe in the scent of coffee and chocolate, and even with a hint of sawdust, I know I want that combination to be the last thing I smell before I leave this earth.