Page 50 of Craving Sin

It’s been years since I’ve taken care of someone, but it’s something I’ve always loved doing. My life’s been so erratic, so wild and volatile, that moments like this were hard to plan for, but when I was able, when my life gave me time to spoil and caretake for someone, I’d always loved doing it.

Like so many other things, it’s not something I ever thought would be a part of my life again, and when I leave this house, it won’t be. But for now, I want to do this for Abbott. Maybe I even need to.

“We’re not washing our hands, huh?” he jokes, and I chuckle.

“No. I’m not. You’re welcome to if you want.”

He doesn’t get up, watching as I struggle to pull the pan out of the oven with one hand, but thankfully, not offering to help. It’s like he knows I need this, which shouldn’t be the case. It shouldn’t feel like we know each other so well, but it does for me, and I can’t help but believe it does for him too.

The chicken and potatoes are done, so I plate both, then set one in front of Abbott at the table and one beside him for myself.

I get drinks, silverware, butter, and condiments, placing those on the table as well.

“You forgot our vegetable,” he says when I sit down.

“Fuck off.” I give him the finger, and Abbott laughs.

“They’re good for you.”

“I’ll remember that for next time.” I work on trying to cut into my potato, which is proving to be difficult.

“Can I?” he asks, and even though, just a moment before, I’d been glad he hadn’t asked, I don’t mind this time. I’d wanted to do that part for him, but it’s different than allowing him to do something for me.

“Go for it. If not, I’ll probably end up throwing my plate across the room. This is more productive.”

Abbott rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I hate feeling helpless.”

He looks up at me, the intensity of his stare not giving me room to look away. “So do I.” So does he, yet that’s exactly what I’ve done with him—made him helpless out here.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” I say as he cuts into my potato, then starts on the chicken breast.

“Doesn’t change that it did.”

No. He’s right. It doesn’t.

“Why were you following me?”

I don’t want to answer. Honestly, I don’t even know how to, not an answer that would make any sense, but I owe him honesty after everything, so I say, “I saw you before…we walked past each other in the hallway, and I got…” I shake my head and look away. “This is so fucked. I got this feeling. I don’t know how to explain it. The back of my neck tingled.”

When our gazes meet again, Abbott is frowning. “I don’t get it. What does that mean?”

I lean back in the chair, not allowing myself to look away from him when I answer. “Before that moment, it had only happened to me one other time—or for one other person, I should say…Moira.”

Abbott’s mouth goes slack. His hands stop moving, but he doesn’t let go of the fork or the knife, just holds them there, poked into the chicken while he watches me.

“I don’t know why that happened, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I had to see you again to see if it happened a second time.”

“And did it?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer honestly. “So I followed you, waited for you, had to see what it meant, but you had to be observant and brave and confront me. You know what happened from there…assassination attempt, kidnapping, and here we are.”

“Rian—”

“I don’t know what it means,” I cut him off. “Or what I think it means, and honestly, that doesn’t change our situation. You’re a liability to my family, to my son. I’ve been a terrible father to Cillian for nine years. Some would argue I was even before that. I’ll do whatever I have to do to protect him now, to make sure he knows he’s loved, and I have to be here—both alive and not in prison to do that.”

“You shot him in self-defense,” he says.