Chapter 62

I wouldn't allow Marcus to drive me home, despite his urging. Instead, we end up in his private apartment, where he's now pouring me a very large brandy and darting concerned glances over his shoulder at me.

I'm trying to keep it together, but it's almost impossible. I loved Charis like a mother for most of my childhood; she was the person I was most distraught to lose when I went to prison and was cut off from the family.

Her death is not only a devastating blow to me on a personal level, it's also eating me alive with guilt. I knew this. I knew that Charles was thinking of murdering his mother, and I knew that he's started to spiral out of control.

I didn't act fast enough. I was so busy protecting myself, and Emmett, and the gang, and Marcus, that I forgot to protect Charis.

I assumed we had more time. I assumed that, becuase Charles was preoccupied with the attempted murder of the Alpha, with deseating Marcus, with trying to seize control over the gang, that any talk of murdering Charis was just that - talk.

Or, at least, talk for another day. Something he was thinking of doing eventually, but not a top priority.

My god, how wrong I was. I will never forgive myself for this. Never.

But how to explain this to Marcus? I fell apart when he told me the news - sobbing uncontrollably, head between my legs. I haven't fallen apart like that in a long, long time. Maybe not ever.

And I need to think of an explanation, fast, because my reaction was a personal one. Marcus isn't stupid - he's going to put two and two together soon, if I'm not careful. And I'm not ready for that conversation yet.

Marcus brings the brandy over to where I’m lying back on his couch, a pillow propped up under my head. I take it gratefully, with shaking hands, and swallow a soothing sip. It burns down my throat, clearing my head a little.

“Thank you,” I whisper. Marcus nods once, then pulls up a chair and reaches for my hand.

“Darling,” he says in a low voice, and I shiver at the term of endearment. “What on earth happened? Why has this news hit you so hard? I know it’s shocking and terrible, but your reaction seemed…more than that.”

“It was,” I say, making up my mind in an instant. “It was personal. You see, I knew about this, and I didn’t do anything. This is all my fault, that this innocent woman is dead. I’ve been so busy trying to juggle everything else…I thought I had more time to think of a way to warn her…”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Marcus says, rubbing a soothing circle on my shoulder. “What do you mean, you knew about this? How could you have known? Start at the beginning, and tell me everything.”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then, I tell Marcus what I learned from Roger, and how it had fallen to the back of my mind with everything else that was going on.

“I really didn’t think he’d do it, at least not yet,” I said when I had finished explaining. “It seemed that there was so much else for him to worry about, more pressing things. I just didn’t think that…”

“This is absolutely not your fault,” Marcus says firmly. “I understand why you would have such a visceral reaction, darling – I probably would, too – but this simply isn’t your fault. The only person to blame for Charles’s actions is Charles himself.”

“But—” I begin, but Marcus cuts me off.

“No buts,” he says. “Evelyn, you have to cut yourself a break at some point. You’ve been trying to protect my father and yourself, almost single-handedly, for so long. You’ve also been trying to protect me, even when I didn’t know about it.

“You couldn’t possibly be expected to handle all of this by yourself, or to keep ahead of Charles in every single nefarious plot that he devises. It’s too much – it’s too much even for a whole group of us. It’s too much for the police, for goodness’s sake.”

“I could have at least better warned Jack Darlington,” I say weakly.

“There’s nothing to be done about that now. Besides, there’s very little Jack could have done, anyway. Unless he was able to convince Charis Robinson to flee her family home and her son, which I doubt.

“Even then, there’s still a good chance that Charles would have gotten to her. This isn’t your fault, carina.”

I shiver again, noticing that Marcus has used the same pet name for me that his father uses for his mother. It almost feels like a good sign, a sign that things won’t always be this messy and terrible.

It feels like a ray of sunshine in this gloom. A warm little glow.

It feels like hope.

“You’re right,” I murmur at last, reaching out to squeeze Marcus’s hand again. “I know you’re right.”

Marcus leans over and presses a warm kiss to my forehead.

**

It takes a long time to convince Marcus that I’m entirely safe to drive home that evening. He insists on having dinner with me in his apartments first, and I gratefully accept. After a long evening of soothing conversation, I feel a lot better.

Returning home at last, I run myself a bath of the hottest water that I can stand and drop a lavender-scented bath oil bomb into it. I sink beneath the surface and hold my breath for a long moment, listening to my heartbeat under the water.

After I feel sufficiently calmed by the scent of lavender and the warmth of the water, I step out and towel off. I’m almost asleep on my feet when I slip my softest pajamas over my head and stagger to my bed.

I’m asleep within moments of sliding under the covers.

**

“Nicole. Doc. Doc!”

I jolt upright in bed, feeling disoriented and bleary. A glance at the clock on my nightstand tells me it’s just after two o’clock in the morning.

“Doc! We need you, goddamn it! Nicole! Help!”

Years of surgeon training kick in as I fling off the covers and scramble for the door. I rub my eyes with the back of one hand until I reach the kitchen, where lights are streaming from under the door.

“Oh, my god,” I breathe as I survey the scene in front of me. It looks like a total bloodbath in here. Every bright, pretty surface of my cheerful kitchen is awash in smears and splashes of red. It smells like a copper factory, tangy and tart in my nose.

“What the hell happened?” I snap on my way to the sink to scrub up, switching into surgeon mode immediately.

Kent is pale and shaken, supporting Brady, who is slumped over in a kitchen chair and unmoving.

“It’s happened again,” he says, tears in his voice. “Nick, I think it’s real bad this time.”

“Torsten?” I ask. Torsten has already assembled my emergency kit and is setting out the sedatives he knows I’ll need.

“Fifty-fifty, Doc,” he answers grimly. “I think this one might be too big a job for a kitchen table surgery, though. But Brady was still conscious when we left; he insisted we see you first.” Torsten shrugs helplessly. “He got so hysterical, I thought it best to go along.”

I nod sharply. “I understand. Let’s see what we’ve got, here.”

Kent and Torsten help lift Brady into the kitchen table, where I cut open his shirt and probe the bullet wound with gloved fingers. I draw in my breath hard, almost a hiss, when I see what’s happened.

“Tor,” I say, looking up at him. He gazes solidly back at me, his face as serious as I feel.

“Internal bleeding,” I say. “We can’t do this here. We can’t even wait for an ambulance. We need to get Brady to the hospital. Now.”