Page 91 of Alec’s Dream

“I should go—”

“Shut it.”

My body jerked to a halt and I tried to tug my hand free but Alec held tight.

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” I seethed.

Alec didn’t respond, he simply locked his bedroom door and stalked to his bathroom pulling me behind him.

Once we were in front of the vanity he stopped, the t-shirt was gone, and the hard wall of his chest was pressed to my back.

“Wha—”

“What do you see?” he growled, his hands settled on my hips keeping me where he wanted me.

“What?”

Our eyes met in the reflection and he explained. “You said you’ve looked in a mirror and know what I see. I’m thinking you’re very wrong about that, so I want to know what it is you see.”

Oh no. No, no, no, we weren’t going there.

The shock of once again being naked had worn off and I struggled to get away.

“Let me go.”

“Not until you tell me what you see.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

I hated that I sounded weak.

Despised my voice cracked.

I was learning to be strong, to stand up for myself, for my kids, but this was too much. I was naked in front of a mirror with Alec behind me.

“Be brave, baby, and tell me.”

I shook my head, frozen as humiliation swept over me from the tips of my toes, spreading until it consumed me.

Alec watched as the first tear rolled down my cheek. The bastard still didn’t let me go. He just stared at me expectantly—waiting.

“I can’t.”

His eyes left mine and I knew he was looking at his own reflection when he asked, “Tell me what you see when you look at me.”

That was easy so I answered, hoping once I did he’d end this stupid standoff and I could dress and get the hell away from him.

“You’re perfect. You’re a great dad. You’re good-looking. You have a good job, a nice house, a nice SUV. You dress well, have good friends. You’re capable, you’re strong, you’re protective. When I look at you I know I can never measure up to your level of perfection. That’s what I see—an unobtainable man I wish I was worthy of but I never will be, so I was better off dreaming about how good you were rather than knowing just how good.”

“Right.”

He nodded like he was agreeing but his frown told me not only did he not agree, he completely disapproved of my assessment. Which I did not understand because he was all those things.

“Wanna know what I see?” he asked, though he didn’t wait for my answer. “I see a man who is a piece of shit.”

The vehemence in his tone shook me to my core and hurt my heart that he could think that about himself.

“I see a man who made a child with a woman he met in a bar, took her home, fucked her not even bothering to know her last name. Not only do I have to live with that, my daughter does, too. I cannot tell Jocelyn stories about her mother, who she was, what she liked, if she could sing or dance or paint because I do not know a damn thing about the woman. What I do know is I’m grateful she’s dead. I’m pissed as fuck I lost three months of my child’s life and I would’ve lost more had Jaime not died. She was never going to tell me. So what I’m left with is a motherfucking note from a woman I fucked telling me she didn’t think I’d want my kid and she hopes I can understand why she didn’t tell me, and guilt over the fact I’m happy she fucking died.