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I barely rememberwhat happens next. I don’t know how we get to his apartment. All I remember is Lyam crossing the room to me, Montague forgotten. Mumbled words from Thayer about “cleaning up” and Lyam saying he’s taking me home.
I remember Lyam bending and lifting me, cradling me against him as if marching away from a bloody battle.
It’s time to go home.
Home.
We make it to Le Marquise. He carries me upstairs; it seems he can’t bear the little bit of distance we’d have between us if he were to let me walk.
He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I nuzzle my head against his neck and loop my arms around him.
“Lyam,” I say in a whisper. “I’m so sorry. I should have told you sooner. I wanted to. So many times, I—”
“And I should have given you the benefit of the doubt,” he interrupts in a low, husky tone. “No more, Cosette.No. More.”
“No more what?” I ask, as he carries me past his staff who scurry like ants with one sharp look from him. Anyone that even glances our way gets the message loud and clear: Stay. Away.
“No more regrets. No more ‘should haves.’ No more apologies. We leave the past behind us right here, right now. All we have is this, right here, right now.Us.” And I know deep in my heart that he doesn’t mean just me and him, but our unborn child too.
Our family.
Lyam nearly kicks the damn door down.
We’re a mess. My hair’s all tangled and straggly, my clothes are torn and bloodied, and he looks like he’s just come back from hand-to-hand combat.
He stalks into the bathroom with me and slides my ass onto the vanity next to the sink. I know how rough he can be, so when he silently, gently removes my clothes, I get a little choked up.
“Pregnancy hormones,” I say, swiping at my cheeks.
“Then what’s my excuse?” he asks, his own eyes shining.
I brush my thumb across his cheek. “Perfection.”
When I’m naked and quivering, my breathing ragged and my need to be with him making my hands tremble, he stands still in front of me and lets me undresshim.
“You’re hurt,” I whisper, reaching to kiss the bruises on his neck. I lift his shirt and stifle a moan at the utterly masculine breadth of his shoulders and chest, his inked pecs and biceps, the raised veins along his muscular arms, his washboard abs. I’ve never understood how simply beautiful he was until now. I’ve thought of him as hot, sexy, and masculine, but seeing him in his naked glory, he looks like a survivor. And God if that’s not sexy as fuck.
My man.
I moan and kiss, lick and stroke until he gathers my hair in his fists.
I still.
“Shower, baby. I want to wash off the memories of everything that happened and I want to make sure you’re okay before we make love.”
Make love.
He lifts me off the vanity and slides me to the floor. Reaches toward the shower and turns it on. When hot steam fills the bathroom, I step in first and he joins me.
I moan at the feel of the cleansing water on my back and lift my head to welcome a deluge of hot water. He lifts a pearly white bottle of shampoo and pours some into the palm of his hand. Without a word, he massages it into my hair and scalp, his strong fingers lathering my hair then finger-combing it, rinsing out the soap.
He kisses my temple. I take his hand and kiss his palm.
We take our time, kissing and embracing in between lather and bubbles, washing our battle-worn bodies and reconnecting.
I stand with my head on his chest as steam rises from our battered bodies. I cleanse the dirt and sweat off him, stifling a choking sound as I wash away the blood from his wounds, all thankfully shallow.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, wincing as I cup warm water in my hands and pour it over an angry-looking cut on his wrist.
