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Our little family has barely started, and my self-sabotaging mind is already going to a dark place where everything I hold dear is stolen away from me.
Fuck that.
I know what I am.
I’m a bad man who does even worse things, but like hell will I let any motherfucker steal my happiness away from me just by killing me.
Do I deserve my little family? Probably not.
I’m a killer without a shred of remorse, so to claim that I’m the best that Layla and Zoey could wish for in their lives is a fucking joke. I know they deserve better than me.
But will I fight tooth and nail to keep them? You’re fucking right I will.
After returning to Brooklyn to clean up and change, I rush home, needing to wrap my arms around my wife and forget this horrid day ever happened. However, the minute my key turns in the lock, I know something is wrong. All the lights are turned off, except for the amber glow coming from the dining room. I stagger as I make my way there, finding Layla at the head of the dining table with untouched food on the plate in front of her.
Shit.
She made me a candlelit dinner.
Fuck.
With her head still bowed, she fidgets in her seat, gripping the hem of her dress.
“Where were you?” she asks softly, so softly I could hear a pin drop.
It breaks my fucking heart.
I’m a bastard.
“Work. I told you that before I left this morning,” I whisper.
“It’s after one in the morning, Alaric. Who works sixteen hours straight and doesn’t have time to call or text his supposed wife that he won’t make it home for dinner?” she snaps, her anger bubbling to the surface.
A hit man, baby. That’s who.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” I respond evenly.
She raises her head and looks at me, her forlorn expression piercing a hole into my heart.
“I’m being silly, aren’t I? I know I am. We don’t know each other. Why should I expect anything from you? Especially something as stupid as a phone call,” she replies, laughing nervously while shaking her head.
She stands and grabs the two plates of food before passing me and heading toward the kitchen. I follow her in and watch silently as she tosses the cold broiled salmon and vegetables into a trash can, kicking at it in frustration.
“You know, before I met you, I never would have done that—thrown perfectly good food away like that. But I can’t bear to store it either. It only reminds me of how foolish I was to be excited to make dinner for you. Why should I care if you eat or not? Why should I care about anything related to you? I don’t know you. I know nothing about you!” Her heated voice cracks at the end as I lunge over to her and grab her throat, pinning her to our kitchen island.
“Layla, listen to me,” I growl, her penetrating gaze throwing daggers my way. “I’m not the type of man who apologizes for shit, so if I say I’m sorry, that’s because I mean it.”
Her fury starts to deflate, but only by a fraction. I take a long inhale, and her sweet scent gives me the courage I need to be honest with her.
“I want you. From the first time I laid eyes on you, I have wanted you. Now, to be able to call you my wife fills me with utter awe and pride. But you’re not the only one who is new to this whole marriage thing. I’ve been on my own for a long time. I haven’t had anyone worry over me or wonder where I am or if I’ve even eaten. I haven’t had anyone care in a long fucking time, Layla.”
“Well, now you do,” she murmurs, her green eyes watering with hurt.
“I’ll do better. I’ll be better. I promise,” I insist, releasing my grip from her throat. My heart aches at the thought of hurting her, at her waiting for me, at maybe losing her before I’ve even really had her.
Her shoulders slump as she worries her lip.
Even though it pains me to do so, I step away from her and give her some space. She fiddles with the hem of her dress once more, and this time I take stock of what she’s wearing—a simple yet elegant sleeveless knitted dress that ends just below the knee.
