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It doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for, and the paper feels like burning acid in my hand. It’s creased from all the times she’s screwed it up, and there are grease marks on its surface from where she’s tossed it in the trash and then fished it back out again.
Lydia’s conflicted about what she wants because she fears the unknown. And I will not be the hold that keeps her from the life she deserves.
A good life without death and threat. There will be no more threat to her once the club has ended Raphael Verretti, but if she stays here with me, the club’s next enemy will be hers too… and then the one after that.
This is the only way she can truly live freely.
I take another look at her sleeping before I move out into the living room. Lydia Farrowman is without doubt the most beautiful creature I’ve ever encountered. She’s unspoiled despite all she’s been through. Despite what they did to her, and despite me.
I’m careful not to wake her as I slide a finger over her cheek. It’s still warm and flushed from having me inside her. Nothing will compare to that, not ever.
All the things she’s trusted me with have been a gift.
I wish I could take them back for her, but never for me. That's something I’ll keep with me forever and treasure until the day I leave this fucking world. Only then will the pain of losing her be gone.
I feel tears on my cheek. They’re different from the ones I let go in the bathroom. Those were angry tears. These are tears of devastation. And I know there will be plenty more of them when I’m sitting alone at night and thinking about her.
“I love you too,” I whisper to her because I know now that I do.
Any doubts I had of me not being able to love have vanished. Lydia’s impossible not to love, and me letting her go, condemning myself to a life of misery, is the proof that I, Caden Harrison, have a spirit in my soul and a heart in my fucking chest. And I knew how to love with it.
I tear myself away from her and head to the kitchen to grab a bottle of Jack. When I step out onto my deck, the cool evening air bites at my skin as I take a throatful of liquor. Sitting on the chair that looks out on the lake, I take my cell from my pocket and stare at the paper. My eyes burn with more tears, and I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth back down with another swig of Jack as I key in the number with shaky fingers.
The lump in my throat swells when I hit call.
In my head, I count to ten to distract myself from the ringing in my ears, and just as I’m about to hang off, a voice croaks on the other end of the line.
“Hello?”
It’s late, far too late for this conversation. But it has to happen.
“Mr. Farrowman?” I force out the words.
“Yes, who is this? Do you know what time it is?”
“I’ve found your girl.” I can only imagine the shock and relief my words give the man. He’s just got his world back with one sentence, and the sacrifice of that is me losing mine.
I didn’t hear him come to bed last night, but the smell of breakfast cooking stirs me from my sleep. I love it when Screwy makes me breakfast. It feels like such a normal couple thing to do. I’ve even got used to the way he watches me eat, focusing on every mouthful I take rather than focusing on what he’s putting in his own mouth.
I drag myself out of bed and head into the kitchen, stopping in the door frame to admire how he looks. His shoulders are so broad, and his back is ripped with muscles that taper to his waist. The gray sweatpants he’s wearing hang low on his hips, and all his colorful tattoos seem to blend into each other so well. I can’t imagine what his skin would look like without them.
Quietly, I sneak up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against his warm back. I feel him hold his breath, and when he turns around in my arms, he’s got that serious look on his face that usually leads to something bad.
God, I hope he doesn’t have to leave on another run.
“Morning.” I stretch up to kiss him on the lips. He tastes like coffee, and as much as I hate the stuff, I can completely tolerate it on him.
“I made breakfast. I want you to eat, and then we need to talk,” he tells me sternly, turning back round to plate up the eggs. I take a few steps back and sit at the table, noting how he’s only made up one plate as he places it in front of me. When he sits opposite me, the look he stares back at me with isn’t an angry one–it’s a guilty one.
“You not eating?” I laugh nervously. Something’s wrong, I can sense it, and I don’t like it.
“Not hungry.” Screwy shrugs, pushing the glass of orange juice that’s already on the table closer to me in case I haven’t noticed it.
“What do you wanna talk about?” I ask warily after I’ve forced down my first mouthful. The morning after we first slept together, Screwy asked me how I liked my eggs, and when I couldn’t remember, he made me every kind he could think of so I could find out. Scrambled is most definitely my favorite.
“Eat first.” He gives nothing away, and a brick of ice weighs heavy in my stomach. I chew through my food, trying to avoid his eyes, but they don’t move from me, not even for a second. I feel exposed and a little self-conscious, but the faster I eat, the sooner I get to know what the hell’s got him so tense.
It must have something to do with last night. The way he was when he came home was enough for me to know something bad had happened.
