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I pull Layla’s spent, sweaty body into mine and hold her against my chest as I catch my breath. Tucking himself back into his pants as he stands, Conor leans into her and places a soft kiss against her rosy cheek. “You’re bloody magnificent. Thank you, beautiful.”
“Magnificent doesn’t even begin to describe you,” I whisper to her quietly as Conor lets himself out of my office. “You’re fucking perfect. And you're mine.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
LAYLA
A couple of weeks later…
“I don’t think I could eat another bite if you paid me,” I huff, placing my fork on the plate in front of me.
“Me either,” Quinn groans as she rests back in her chair.
“Pass it this way.” Declan waves his hand, gesturing for at us both to pass him the remnants on our plates. We comply, and he immediately begins to devour the last of our dinners.
“Hungry?” Tristan lightly laughs as Declan shovels another forkful into his mouth.
Tristan brought the four of us to Valle Cucina to celebrate Quinn’s recovery. As much as Liam, Conor, and Finnigan wanted to come, the three of them stayed behind to watch over the club and the pub tonight.
She left the hospital a couple of weeks ago, but it took a good amount of convincing on Tristan’s part to get her to leave her apartment and come out with us. We have visited her a few times to check in on her and bring her things she needs. The two of us have quickly become close friends.
I think in some small way, bringing her to dinner is Tristan’s way of apologizing for putting her in that situation. He doesn’t really talk about it, but I know he loves her like a sister—they all do—and he’ll never forgive himself for what happened to her.
Looking at her, you’d never know what she endured that night. The bruises and cuts on her face have healed, excluding a small scar running along the cheekbone beneath her right eye. But on the inside, there is no denying she’s still slightly broken. As much as she has tried to relax with us, she is on high alert. Her eyes repeatedly dart around the restaurant, and she is considerably jumpy at every loud noise.
Not that I can even remotely blame her.
“I hate to duck out early,” Declan speaks around the food in his mouth, “but I promised the nanny I’d get home by nine. She has some summer orientation thing for grad school in the morning.”
“My offer stands, Declan.” I remind him, “I will happily look after my little strawberry shortcake for you. I mean, at least until you find someone to replace your nanny when she leaves in a couple months.”
I’ve watched Fiona a few times when Declan has been in a pinch, and she is an absolute doll. The fact that he has somehow raised a sweet, innocent child in his world of death and betrayal gives me a glimpse of what life could look like for Tristan and me in the future.
The far—very far—distant future.
“Thank you.” Declan leans over and places a soft kiss against my cheek before standing. He turns his attention to Quinn. “I…We all hope to see you back at the pub soon. It’s not the same around there without you.”
The three of us enjoy a round of after-dinner drinks, and I watch as Quinn fidgets nervously in her seat. Placing my hand over hers, I ask, “Are you okay?”
“I can’t come back to work at the pub.” She lightly shakes her head. “I just can’t.”
Squeezing her hand for comfort she word vomits an unnecessary apology. “I know how much you guys want me back… But after what happened and everything. I don’t feel safe there. Hell, I barely feel safe at home.”
Tristan’s attention is absent from our table as she spills her feelings because he is entirely focused on a high-top near the bar. Four obnoxiously loud men sit around it, all of them with shaved or buzzed heads and covered in tattoos from chin to fingertips.
His attention doesn’t leave them for more than a second or two as he signals to the waitress for our check and sends a few texts on his phone.
“It’s time for us to go.” Tristan’s voice is soft yet firm.
“Tris?” I gasp at his complete indifference to what Quinn just said.
“I’m not ignoring you.” He glances at Quinn. “I heard every word. There is always a place for you with us, Quinn. Take all the time you need. We’ll cover you. And when you’re ready, we’ll find something for you.”
“Thank you,” Quinn chokes back a tear.
“The boys are getting the cars downstairs,” he addresses us with his attention still on the other table, pushing his seat from ours. “I’m not risking the two of you; we need to leave.”
Something about that table of men makes Tristan uncomfortable, but he is eerily calm. His calmness only fuels my sudden burst of anxiety. I try, for Quinn’s sake, to hide the worry in my tone. “Tristan. You’re scaring me.”
