Heart of the Devil (The Forge Trilogy #3)(18)

A muscle in Jericho’s jaw ticks, and he winces as if he’s in pain.

“I’m right. You don’t have to spare me to make me feel better. I’ll never forgive myself for this.”

“Don’t,” he says, hauling me onto his lap and pressing his face into my tangled hair. “This is on me, Ace. Not you. Or hell, maybe on your father. We don’t know. When we find out who was behind it, we’ll assign blame. But, this. Is. Not. Your. Fault.” He presses a kiss to my face to punctuate each word. “It kills me to hear you say that.”

My hands fist his shirt, and I stare into those fathomless gray eyes as my tears fall faster and harder until I’m sobbing. “I’m just so fucking glad you’re okay. I . . . I was terrified. I thought . . . when I came off the elevator, and I saw those bodies . . . I thought I was going to find yours, and it was going to break me.”

Jericho catches my tears on his thumbs, trying to wipe them away, but they come too fast. “Don’t say that. Nothing could break you. You’re the strongest woman I know. No matter what ever happens to me, you will be fine. Do you hear me?”

But he’s wrong. He doesn’t understand. I’ve fallen completely and irrevocably in love with him, and if something had happened to him, I wouldn’t be fine. Jericho Forge has become as necessary in my life as breathing. He gives me something I’ve never had before—acceptance.

I want to tell him how I feel, right here and now, but I’m a sobbing mess. When I tell him I’m in love with him, I don’t want him to think I don’t know what I’m saying.

What if you never get the chance? an insidious voice inside me whispers. You never know which day will be your last. Or his last . . .

I tell that voice to shut the hell up as I settle into my seat and clip my belt when the captain announces that we’re taking off. The jet hurtles down the runway and up into the air moments later, but as soon as we level out, Jericho unhooks my seat belt and throws his arm around my shoulder to pull me against his side. He groans, and I jerk my chin up to look at the pain twisting his sharp features.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

I scan his face, looking for every flinch of discomfort. “Truth. Now.” When he tries to smile and cover it up, I add, “Please, Jericho. I can handle it.”

“My head feels like it’s been caved in, and my shoulders ache from being hung up by my wrists. I’ll be fine, though.”

“We need to get something for the pain.” I pop to my feet before he can argue, and find the flight attendant. A few moments later, I return with a pill bottle. “Take these.”

As I tap the tablets in his hand and then hold out a bottle of water, an image pops into my head of Jericho hanging from a hook, awaiting torture, and chills ripple over my body.

Thank God Koba helped him escape. I’ve never been so glad to be wrong about anyone as I was about him. If he hadn’t helped . . . I don’t even want to think about what could have happened.

But Jericho’s fine. He’s here. He’s alive. I keep repeating that to myself until the chills dissipate. But after they do, another vision arises, and this time it’s of the casualties from this tragedy.

“What about the—” I can’t bring myself to say bodies. “Donnigan and Bates . . . and Koba?”

“I asked your father for help. We’ll get them home.”

From the lines settling deeper in Jericho’s stubbled face, it’s obvious that leaving the fallen behind is shredding him inside. Part of me wishes we could stay and take care of it ourselves, but I know we can’t. Jericho wants to get me to safety first, and I want him safe, so I’m not going to argue.

Mindful of the injuries he told me about, when I sit back down beside him, I press my cheek gently against him. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I know they were your friends. Not just your employees.”

“Thank you,” he says, his voice rough with emotion.

I carefully rest against his chest, offering him whatever comfort I can. Eventually, I relax, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.





15





India





I never stop touching him, not for a single minute of the flight home. I can’t. I need to feel the heat of his skin and know that he’s real. Know that he’s safe. Know that he’s mine.

He lifts me back onto his lap, neither of us speaking as he cups my head and keeps my ear pressed against his chest. When we touch down, I keep my fingers threaded through his, gripping tight, like I might lose him at any moment.

During the short helicopter ride to Isla del Cielo, I sit pressed against his side, his arm curled around my shoulders, and it still isn’t enough. As we walk toward the house, I match my strides to his, and when we step over the threshold, I finally feel like I can breathe without a massive weight pressing down on my chest.

And still, I don’t want to let him go.

I follow him to the bathroom, not asking for permission before I unbutton his torn shirt and help slide it carefully from his shoulders. I start the shower, and then strip out of my ruined dress and step inside the glass enclosure with him.

Under the hot spray, I gently wash him, letting the horrors of the prior day slip down the drain with the blood-tinged water. When I’m finished, Jericho reaches for a fresh washcloth and wordlessly does the same for me. Every stroke makes me feel precious and cherished, and so goddamned grateful that I have him back.