he talking about?”
*
Cassian
I inhale. Exhale. It all feels like fire in my lungs, without a chance of escape. Doesn’t matter. I don’t even want one—though answering her has just turned into hell’s own battle because of it.
Challenge accepted. With pleasure.
A minute ago, the task wouldn’t have been so daunting. But those sixty seconds ago, all I functioned on was the adrenaline that got me over the back wall, riding an inner locomotive of pissed off and determined. It was stoked to life during the minutes I sat in Doyle’s truck, trying to get a step ahead of this mess by Googling myself on my phone. Sure enough, gossip blog posts flared up the feed, with the promise of assorted hashtags and memes to follow.
I’d pounded the dashboard, thinking of Ella’s reaction to the shit storm—Kate had beat me back here, meaning someone was already aware of it—and in frustration, hated myself for not being the one by her side instead. Despising those goddamn reporters for delaying me from getting here sooner. Making me sneak into my own home…
It had been just a taste.
A tiny bite of the outrage upon which my psyche has just gorged, walking in at the end of Chantal Dunne’s “news” report—a story TGN has clearly ordered their vulture editors to hold on to, waiting for the most succulent moment to stab into the meat. And the fact that the meat is still alive? Writhes and twists with every one of their slices, her generous face crunching, her sweet body tensing, her pain like a panicked creature in the very air, struggling beneath their ruthless blade?
That’s not their concern. It never is.
Which has turned them into my concern.
Blazing my course brutally clear.
Unsnap my sheath. And show them the size of my knife.
I power the resolution to my gaze then my grip, clutching Ella back against me—hating myself once more for a move as asshole as TGN’s. But there’s a difference to my action. My knife is pointed out, not in. And I’m sure as hell ready to start using it.
“Dammit, Ella.” I rasp it against her forehead. “I’m so sorry…about all of this.”
Her body sags enough that I know she won’t resist again—thank fuck—though she tugs her head back enough to pierce me with all the crystalline facets of her brilliant gaze. “Because you were the one responsible for any of it?”
“Because I was the one responsible for all of it.” Despite the press of our bodies, I hold her tighter. Pain races up my arm but the agony’s worth it. The completion I feel with her near… God help me. Even with our clothes on, the mesh of our forms feels like a union…a oneness I’ve never had with anyone. No, not even Lily. The constant poison in Lily’s body killed off that possibility.
“All right.” Ella draws out both words while arching a dubious brow. “So you were the one who held those photographers at gunpoint, forcing them to follow us all over town?”
I twist my lips. “I’m the big game their news director wanted to bag, making him pull out the gun.”
“Damned expensive gun.”
Kate’s comment earns her Doyle’s defined nod. “The pictures in Times Square were a freebie—but paying off the restaurant staff and the boat dock crews…” He snorts and shakes his head. “Hell, even having tip-off assets inside the damn hospital…”
“Fuck.”
It spews before I can stop it, though nothing would’ve changed it with any forethought. I’m torn between grabbing Ella closer and fully pushing her away. Goddamn. Will I protect her best by giving her up?
Not. An. Option.
“Cassian Cameron Jonathan. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lady in your arms.”
“And an army of media after my balls, Mother.” At once, my body tautens as if the statement isn’t just allegory. My tension spears into Ella, turning her into a stiff plank too. To Doyle I command, “Call the office of Presbyterian’s CEO, and set up a meeting. That ER will be investigated, and I will have the snitch fired.” I leave out the part about hoping it’s that asshole Yago. “After that, pull Daniel Boulud’s number from my database too. I think he’s traveling right now, but he’ll take my call. I didn’t just pay for a great Beaujolais and roasted duck last week. The discretion of his staff—”
“Hasn’t been an issue before.” Doyle steps around the couch, calmly assuming what I like to call his “bodyguard battle stance.” He’s never used it on me before, though. It’s…weird. “Nor should we assume