Dead Man Walking (The Fallen Men #6) - Giana Darling Page 0,11
sob and shook her head vigorously. “No, no. My man, my babies, and my sister. I couldn’t stand to lose any of you.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that today,” I promised as I raised my aching right hand, two fingers splinted against an obvious break, to touch her smooth cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her face collapsed into a scowl. “No thanks to Priest.”
“Hey!” The word exploded from my mouth like a dart. “Don’t you dare blame him for this.”
“Bea, don’t be ridiculous. He was literally the person who did this to you.”
“And Wrath,” Zeus added idly, some shadow in his eyes as he stared at us that I couldn’t decipher the meaning of. “He was the one to execute it.”
“Priest set it up. He did the legwork!” Loulou snapped.
Zeus cocked his head to the side and leveled a stern look at his slightly hysterical woman. “You don’t know all the details, Lou, and it’s not like you to make dangerous assumptions. Cool the fuck down, and you’ll see sense.”
My eyes darted to the empty doorway, wondering where Priest went. I ached to talk to him, to crawl into the embrace of his strong arms and feel safe once more.
I knew with certainty that the moments I’d spent held tenderly against his chest were the only moments of intimacy I’d ever share with him, and I wished, irrationally perhaps, that I’d been more lucid for the experience.
Zeus unfolded his massive frame from the plastic chair and approached, his mouth pressed tight, his eyes hooded. He was usually a fairly expressive man, but there was a tension to him I couldn’t understand.
Lou made room for him to bend down at my side, and he leaned so close, those dark-ringed silver eyes were all I could see. One of his massive hands gently pushed back my hair from my forehead, and when he spoke, it was in that low, intimate voice rough as gravel that he usually reserved for Loulou or his kids.
“This didn’t happen to you ’cause’a Priest. This happened ’cause’a my club and me. I’m the prez, so it’s me you gotta hold responsible for this fuckin’ tragedy, not Priest or Wrath, you hear me?”
I almost laughed at his martyrdom because it was so like him to take the blame on his monumental shoulders. It was easy to see where his son, King, who faked his own death to get Z out of jail, got it from. Sacrifice ran in the Garro blood.
“I’m not mad at anyone, Z,” I promised him. “I’m not half as dramatic as my sister, you should remember that.”
“Hey,” Lou protested, but there was a smile in her watering eyes that spoke to her happiness that I was well enough to tease.
“It’s kind of insulting, really,” I continued. “That you two want to place the blame anywhere but with me. I’m the one who decided to go out with Brett. Stupidly, I thought he was a good guy just because I always saw him wearing pressed trousers.” I grimaced. “Apparently, he just had bad fashion sense.”
“We’ll just have to get Lion to vet anyone who asks you out in the future,” Lou resolved, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “I won’t have you hurt like this again for any reason.”
“What’s the damage?” I asked, almost afraid to know because despite the drugs hooked up to my IV, my head pounded, and my body felt like a piece of overripe, badly bruised fruit.
“A severe concussion, four broken ribs, one of which punctured your lung, but it wasn’t bad enough to require surgery, two broken fingers, and a dislocated shoulder.”
“Yikes,” I breathed.
“Now you can understand why I’m so fucking upset.” Loulou scowled at me even as her thumb swept circles across the inside of my wrist just so she could feel the reassurance of my pulse.
“I can understand, but you can’t protect me from everything, Loulou.”
“Watch me,” she dared, baring her little white teeth.
I sank farther into the bed, feeling suddenly exhausted. “The truth is, when I thought Brett was a goody two shoes, he was dull. The second he showed his darker side, I was intrigued. I don’t know if you can save me from everything, especially my own mind. I think I like bad boys.”
“You do not.”
“Yes, I do.” I thought of Priest, and the way he’d slit Brett’s throat without remorse. The way he’d done it with quiet, loyal pride like a cat killing a bird for its master.