I did, but as much as I wish otherwise, sometimes a trigger gets past me and I lose the Haven I have now to the Haven she was when I first found her in the warehouse.
In this case, it was a voice.
That’s all it took.
Aman’s voice.
There were only a handful of us at St. Catherine’s for the ceremony. If my wife was feeling up to it, we would attend the reception afterward, but no way were we missing the actual ceremony at the church; even Haven admitted she wanted to witness Sebastien Reynolds getting married with her own two eyes. There was me and Haven, sitting in the back with Loni. Adrian was there, too, of course. Dallas. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds. No Alexandre, but we expected Bas’s older brother to be a no-show. Annaliese’s teenaged sister was there, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Crawford.
We were all milling around the front of the church before heading in. Mr. Crawford said something. I don’t know what. I wasn’t listening. It doesn’t matter, either. It was just the timbre of his voice that caught Haven’s attention.
My wife clung to me. She couldn’t speak the rest of the day, though the fact that she trembled through the ceremony, pleading with me with her eyes to go home the moment it was done and Bas kissed the bride… I knew right away that something was wrong.
Eventually, I got one word from her before the panic became so overwhelming, she grabbed a sedative from our stash and actually jabbed herself with it.
Winter, she told me. Mr. Crawford had a voice that sounded like Johnny Winter.
It wasn’t him, obviously. Johnny Winter is dead. Adrian had confirmed that months ago after hearing through one of his contacts—a masked hitman named Hunter Reed—that the sameassassin responsible for introducing him to the Reed twins in the first place eventually tracked Winter down and killed him. As it turns out, we weren’t the only ones gunning for him, and though I had a moment of disappointment that I didn’t get to gut the man who traumatized my wife, I was just relieved to know he couldn’t hurt her again.
At the time, I believed that. The bastard was dead, and Haven survived.
She’s aware that Winter is gone. Logically, she doesn’t have to fear him any longer. But that’s logic.
Fear doesn’t give a shit about logic.
During her captivity, Haven only ever heard his voice. She never saw him. And that’s why, when Mr. Crawford spoke, sounding similar enough to the voice that tormented her with its cruel indifference to her ordeal… that was enough to send her spiraling.
Fear isn’t a rational thing. It’s aconsumingthing. Unfortunately for my wife, it’s been consuming her ever since the wedding.
She has her good days and her bad days. When the nightmares come, when she dreams that she’s back in the cell and that I never came for her, I never rescued her, I never married her… sometimes, when she wakes up, it’s like those early days all over again.
There are mornings when she’s relieved to find me in bed with her. There are others where I come to with a start, noticing that she’s missing from the room. I inevitably find her on the balcony, either contemplating the woods or halfway over the railing. I always pull her back, holding her close in my arms, but she doesn’t always go willingly.
No, she fights, and when she does, I know I’ve lost my sweetheart if only for the moment.
She comes back. Haven… I won’t let her leave me for long. Still, when the nightmares become indistinguishable from her days, I have to do what I can to help her. If that means moving her to the basement so that she’s not a danger to herself? I will. If I have to make the executive decision to sedate her? I’ll do that, too.
This past week has been… better. She’s slept through the night for five days now, and each morning when she wakes up, she’s relieved to find me there. Yesterday, she was so glad to discover she’s Haven Heyward, not Haven Smith, she woke me up with my dick in her mouth, scratching needily at the ‘H’ she carved into my groin.
It’s the first time since the wedding that she initiated sex with me. I was so desperate for her, I exploded within seconds of being conscious. She teased me, reminding me that I could’ve fucked her any of the times she was out due to the sedative.
I needed the reminder; the reminder and the renewed permission. As much as I crave my wife, it didn’t seem right, using her body when she’s not doing well. It made me feel like I was only with her for her pussy, nother, and I never want Haven to doubt that I love every fucking inch of her, inside and out.
Still, when her teasing smile fled, her grey eyes shadowed over, and she said, “Unless you’re not attracted to me anymore,” I made it a point to promise that, next time she goes under, I’ll have my wicked way with her.
Because that’s the kind of relationship we have. I have to swear to the woman that I locked in my basement, called her my wife, and slipped a wedding ring on her finger one morning to make it so that, the next time I sedate her, I’ll fuck her so that she doesn’t have to doubt that I still want her.
Haven was in such a good mood yesterday, I thought she was improving. And then… yeah. She had another nightmare last night, but one where she didn’t sleep at all. Then todaycame, and I don’t know what happened now, but about an hour ago, she walked into the kitchen where I was prepping dinner, shaking like a leaf. She refused to speak when I pulled her into my arms, asking what was wrong. Instead, she made a gesture with her hand—our secret symbol for the sedative—and clung to me until I agreed.
I’ve hidden them. It scared the shit out of me, watching Haven inject herself. If her mental health got bad enough, I was terrified she might get syringe happy, pumping herself so full of the stuff that sheneverwakes up again.
That’s why, tonight, she’s fast asleep in our bed because she wordlessly begged me to help put her there.
And me? I’m back in the kitchen, only I’m not cooking. I’m not alone, either.
Sitting across from me at the small table I keep in the kitchen is Sebastien. He’s nervously tapping the tabletop with his fingertips, causing the liquid in the sedative between us to jiggle slightly.
He looks like shit. Bas has always been a pretty boy. Up close, you can see the imperfections he worked hard to achieve: his nose is slightly crooked after being broken twice, and there’s a divot taken out of his cheek that happened during a fight. They don’t do shit to detract from his natural beauty, though the bags under his eyes and the hard set to his anxious jaw is doing the job right about now.
