Criminal

Chapter Ten

I was sat on the couch wrapped in a thick blanket Harry had pulled off of the bed, my eyes still puffy from crying and my nose still running. Every so often, as I waited for Harry to bring me the tea he said he was making for me, I'd have to sniffle, and his moves in the kitchen would falter. 

I was more exhausted now than when I got home from the hospital, but I was more clear headed after the cry that I'd had with Harry holding me. Somehow I was craving him beside me again, and it felt so odd, because I was in this position because of him. I felt like I needed him, now. 

Some movie was on the television in front of me, but I was just staring off into space and not really paying attention. Some time between the floor and the couch, the drugs had kicked in, and I felt less pain in my body. My throat still hurt and stung every time I swallowed, and that's why Harry was currently in the kitchen. 

I was pulled out of my own head when the couch dipped down beside me, and I found Harry siting beside me, tongue trapped between teeth as he set the two white mugs down side-by-side on the coffee table. He'd donned a shirt since I'd been in the living room, and I was almost disappointed. After I'd finished crying, I'd been close enough to his tattoos to study them in detail. I wished they hadn't been covered up. 

Harry relaxed back against the sofa as much as he could given the tension I could clearly see in his broad shoulders. We stayed silent and I pulled an arm out of the sherpa-vice to grab my mug, cradling my cold hands around the warmth. 

Harry sighed beside me, grabbing his own cup and taking a gulp that made me cringe because I knew it was still hot. He seemed unfazed though, but he stayed forward, his elbows braced on his knees; a position he seemed to adapt when he was having something serious to say. 

"I think that it's time you should know why you're living in my house, why you were just in the hospital, and why you're a shoe-in for the witness protection program," He said, and I would have laughed if I thought he was joking. He threw a green-eyed glance over his shoulder, then let his eyes drop again. 

"Claire, what I'm about to tell you probably won't sound as serious as I want it to. I just want you to remember that it's not really my job that's scary." I let him continue, and I felt my heart trying to speed up because this was nerve-wracking. Was he going to tell me he was a secret service agent or something? Black Ops and I was somehow under surveilence? Was he a Russian spy that had told me to much, and now he had to kill me?

"I can hear you thinking," He said, laughing dryly. I tried to return it, but all that came out was a strangled sound that made me start coughing, my eyes watering at the pain. He turned around to push my cup up to my lips, and the first sip of steaming tea soothed my throat better than anything I'd felt before. 

After I stopped dying, he continued, albeit more worried. "I'm an arms dealer." He said, and then he fell silent. 

I wasn't niave. As soon as he told me what he did, things started to click into place slowly. That's why people were after him. Why he had to go on trips. Why he was always so tense and uptight. Why he had so many people working for him so closely. It also explained why people were after me. 

It didn't explain why he'd do something like this if he knew that it would bring me into it. 

Before I called him on that, I wanted to ask questions. I was obviously taking too long for him, because without looking at me, he blew out a breath and said, "Please say something." 

It was less pleading, but I knew that was essentially what he was doing. He was worried. 

"I mean, I don't know what to say," I whispered, because I couldn't pull my voice above it. "You sell illegal weapons to people that the government thinks shouldn't have them. Okay." I said, because that's what I thought. What was I going to do about it?