Of course he wanted to know. Nash wasn’t an asshole—he didn’t want to see an innocent man executed by Micky or Toby or Hammond. He might have done a lot of fucked up shit in his life, but he wasn’t a heartless bastard by any means. Eliza was… important to him. Nash didn’t want to see her suffer.

 

But if he said yes now, he was just opening the door a little wider, beckoning Eliza into his world. Soon she’d be immersed in it, shrouded in its thick cloud of danger and drugs and darkness. Suffocating. She’d suffocate in his world, and he just couldn’t have it. She was too good for this—too pure a woman, their sex life aside, to become wrapped up in the underbelly of Blackwoods.

 

Looking at her face though, the desperation in her eyes, Nash found his response dying on the tip of his tongue. With another firm clearing of his throat, he turned and stalked off to the kitchen, needing the space to find his courage again. Soft footfalls followed him, swiftly and at his heels, and they stopped when he did at the fridge.

 

“You want a beer?” he asked, knowing she wouldn’t, then fished out a bottle as she huffed.

 

“Nash!”

 

He could practically feel her stewing behind him, a little white-hot ball of rage as he blatantly ignored her. Focused on the task at hand, he went for his cupboard and pulled out a glass, then found the bottle opener. A few seconds later he was filling the glass with beer. Normally, he’d drink it straight from the bottle like any sane fucker, but he just needed something to busy himself. Once he was done drinking it, he’d head for the shower, maybe ask if she wanted to join him. His workout might have been interrupted by her arrival, but he’d still worked up quite a sweat.

 

“I have him at a gala on one of the nights there was a… a hit,” she stated, following Nash out of the kitchen so close that she stumbled into him when he stopped abruptly. “I have his journals, his records. He was doing something all the nights when people were killed.”

 

He groaned. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

 

“It’s an alibi!”

 

“No one’s saying he pulled the trigger, Eliza,” Nash snapped, looking to her with a glare. All around her he could see the darkness consuming her, piquing her curiosity and dragging her deeper down this hole. He had to put a stop to it before he lost her forever. “You don’t need to be at the scene of the crime to be responsible for it happening. I have good leads that show him moving funds around to pay for something big. Something like a hit.”

 

“But… But…” Eliza went for her bag and pulled out a file folder full of what appeared to be black-and-white photos. “No. I have… I have proof that he was busy. He’s been busy for years now. There were no mysterious appointments in his diary, no secret meetings—”

 

“And who would record secret meetings?” He gave a cold laugh without meaning to, and he hated himself for it when he saw her face fall. This must be killing her. After taking a quick sip of his beer, he set the glass aside and moved in close to her. This time she didn’t run. She didn’t even flinch away when he set his hands on her slim shoulders, missing the feel of them—the feel of her. “Eliza, I’m so sorry. I know this is hard. I mean, who just blindly accepts that their dad is a bad guy, but—”

 

“He’s not,” she hissed, tears brimming over her eyes and trailing down her cheeks as she shrugged him off, “a bad guy.”

 

“Eliza…” He trailed off, unable to come up with any other valid argument besides the most obvious. “I just want to keep you safe from him. All my evidence against your dad is damning.”

 

Eliza stared at him for a long moment after that, and it was only then that he realized she was shaking. Trembling. Her legs, her hands, her lips. Maybe it was from the cold, but Nash wasn’t that naïve. All he wanted was to wrap her in his arms and hold her close. Whisper in her ear that he’d protect her, that this fight wouldn’t spill over into her life, and that he wouldn’t let any of the guys he knew use her to get to her dad. She had to be worried about that kind of shit, right?

 

“Safe f-from my father?” she asked when he moved toward her, raising a hand to stop him. She’d painted her nails recently—baby blue, like the sweater she’d been knitting the last time he was at her dorm apartment. He nodded, hands itching to run over her arms and drag her close, but he knew to keep his space. Still shaking, Eliza swallowed hard, her eyes still watering, and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “He would never hurt me.”

 

“I’m sorry, Eliza, but he may not be the guy you think he is, and—”

 

“Stop!”

 

“And I don’t want him to hurt you because—”

 

“Shut up, Nash!” They both fell silent at her outburst, Nash’s temper set off somewhat—though it wasn’t her fault she was emotional like this. None of this could be easy. She was allowed to be as distraught as she needed to be to process it. But suddenly she was taking off his sweater and shoving it back into his hands—and he didn’t want her to go, but she was. Stomping toward the door, Eliza grabbed her discarded wet shirt and tugged it back on, hiding her beautiful body from him after just a brief glimpse.

 

“We can still talk this through, Eliza,” he insisted, and this time it was Nash following her too closely. The only difference was that he could physically stop her if he wanted, though the small voice of reason told him that it would be a dick move. “Don’t go.”

 

“I have to,” she snarled, yanking her coat on a little more forcefully than necessary. Her hair was starting to dry, the soft blonde strands springing up to form angelic waves around her face. Nash wanted to run his hands over them, bury his nose in them and inhale deeply.

 

“You don’t—”

 

“My father is a good man,” Eliza snapped, glaring at him with one hand on the doorknob, her bag thrown across her shoulder. “Flawed, like everyone else, but deep down he’s good. I’ve found evidence to prove his innocence, but it’s clear to me you just aren’t interested.”

 

“No, it’s just that—”

 

“And I don’t know what else to say at this point,” she carried on, her voice rising to a volume he’d never heard before, a clearness that rang so true it hurt him. “It seems like you’re just trying to put a wedge between us, or something, and I don’t… I can’t do this anymore.”

 

“Eliza…” His voice cracked, breaking at the implication, as his throat seemed to tighten with emotion. The tears were still rolling down her cheeks.

 

“I can’t do this anymore with you,” she whispered, lifting her eyes to meet his, looking more collected than he might have expected in this particular moment. “I’m done.”

 

Before he could force her name out again, so desperate to call out to her, she was out the door and gone. Nash stared at it for a long while, his gaze fixed on the dark wood and the round metal knob, until he finally blinked and pressed his back to the wall. As he slid to the floor, he suddenly realized his eyes were watering too, and with Eliza gone, he saw no reason to wipe away the lone tear he let fall.

 

Everything was fucked.

 

Everything.