Page 148 of Falling for the Enemy

He could still feel the surrender in her body when she let him touch her, when she lowered the walls and trusted him to see that softer side she hid from everyone else. No razor-sharp barbs. No hiding behind sarcasm. It was real, and he felt it.

Tugging his hair, he growled and rushed to his feet, once more pacing like a caged animal with nowhere to go.

It was real. That’s why she was so mad at him. She let him see her fragile side and he fucking hurt her.

“Goddamn it!” he snapped, earning a nervous look from King. “Sorry, boy.”

She hadn’t faked her feelings. What they shared was the realest thing he’d ever known. And she was lying if she said otherwise.

He knew her better than anyone. Not just because he had the exact curve of her collarbone memorized, or because he counted every scattered freckle on her body. He knew the quiet parts she hid inside. Knew how her breath deepened when parts of his soul touched hers.

The more he thought about her, the more a sense of urgency vibrated within him. He needed to talk to her. He could go there⁠—

Logan’s words again echoed in his head. He made Soren out to be some kind of narcissistic prick who couldn’t put others’ feelings first.

That wasn’t true. Their father had been a malignant narcissist, and they all vowed to never be like him.

Glancing down at his golf clothes, the breath left his lungs. Is that who he’d become? His father? First, stepping in as CEO, then justifying letting down the people he cared about most to put business first.

The truth made him weak. A feather could have knocked him down. He was supposed to be better than this. Better than Magnus, better than her parents who abandoned her.

The world didn’t need more selfish men, men who could build empires but couldn’t keep a family. He planned to marry her. He wanted children with her. Not to meet some sort of status quo, but because the thought of having little babies with her wild sense of adventure and his well-engineered drive for success sounded challenging and wonderful in the most chaotically exceptional way.

He wanted to watch her belly grow and coach her through everything when she was in labor, nervous and scared. He wanted to rescue her again and again, no matter how much she pretended to never need a hero.

Motherhood scared her. That was the only reason she wasn’t sure about having kids. But he believed she’d be an amazing mom, fun and silly like his own.

She’d panic at times, he was sure, but in the end he had no doubt she’d approach the job like a Viking queen. She’d love their children fiercely and protect them at all costs.

His wild woman would teach them to read the classics, the most obscure ones. She’d build forts and teepees, let them run in the mud and play in rain puddles. He wanted to build her the biggest library and find the best dry cleaner.

At night, after she and the kids were exhausted from play, he’d carry them up to bed past their toys and paintbrushes that were never fully washed out. He’d step over old Halloween costumes that stayed out all year and tuck them into beds that never got fully made.

They’d be too wiped for bedtime stories, so he’d kiss their little heads and turn out the lights. They’d be asleep before he even left the room. Then, he’d return downstairs to collect his Viking queen—carrying her up to bed much the same—but there would be no sleeping for her.

Swallowing tightly, he pictured just how perfect all that chaos would feel. The maids would come every day, and the kids would undo the tidiness faster than a tornado.

Jocelyn wouldn’t bat an eye while he stressed over crooked frames and fingerprints on the walls. He’d be no match for them, outnumbered by their wild nature and charmed completely.

A sob cut through him, out of nowhere, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, hearing his father’s cruel voice.

Hawthorne men don’t cry.

The sound was so catastrophic, so horribly raw, he tried to swallow it back.

A spiderweb of agony spread through his chest like glass under pressure as the pain burst inside of him.

King whimpered, getting up from the floor in a tangle of legs and coming to rest his head on his knee. The silent comfort nearly shattered Soren.

“You love me, don’t you, boy?” He dropped his head on the dog’s, and hugged him tight.

The pressure in his chest expanded, pushing against the walls of his lungs, stretching his throat, burning his eyes, and crushing his heart as it pounded rapidly in his chest.

He rubbed his chest, afraid he was having some kind of attack. He should get his phone. But as King nestled harder into his side, a high-pitched wheeze seeped from Soren’s chest, and another sob belted out of him, broken like the chop of an inlet.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, he drew back at the damp trace of tears. Breathing hard, he shivered as a cool sweat broke out under his clothes.

Hawthorne men don’t cry…