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That's exactly what I intend to do. I'm going to find him. I'm going to make him hurt for what he's done. I'm going to make him beg for death.
BIANCA
Idon't know what's wrong with me today. Everything is back to normal. The baby is okay, and Ishouldbe happier than ever, except I can't seem to stop my eyes from leaking.
If I didn't know better, I would think I have PMS. I'm that emotional and uneasy, hanging on the edge of tears while I sit around the house and try to keep myself occupied. Callum's understandably busy, working like crazy with Romero to track down Jack and Dominic. I'm not about to get in the way of that. I want those bastards dead.
Whoops, there go my eyes again, filling with tears and blurring the article I'm reading on my tablet about the ways stress can affect pregnancy. I need to believe there won't be any adverse effects on the baby after what I experienced. No matter how many times I remind myself of all the women in the world who deal with stressful jobs every single day, busy family lives, or any number of other stresses while pregnant, it's not enough. I'm still anxious, and worried.
I wish I had killed Dominic when I had the chance. I should've stabbed him to death. One wound for every time he made my skin crawl while touching me in that filthy room. One for every nasty remark, every time he pushed his crotch into my face.
It still wouldn't be enough.
And it's knowing they're still out there somewhere that frustrates me to the point of tears. My best friend is locked in her bedroom, unable to bring herself to talk to anybody but me—even then, it's like pulling teeth to get anything more than a few words at a time out of her. She's retreating into her shell again and is sinking deeper whenever anyone tries to pull her out. It's the most scariest, helpless feeling and, ultimately, those monsters are walking around free somewhere while we carry the emotional and physical scars of their actions.
My hand trembles as I reach for the herbal tea on the nightstand. It isn't fear sending tremors through me, or frustration. It's anger. I'm angry, and I'm even angrier that I have a reason to be angry. I hate them for what they've done to all of us. For how they've changed me. I don't recognize myself. Who is this woman so bloodthirsty for revenge?
I'm still mulling that over and sipping on my tea when the bedroom door opens slowly, like the person doing the opening is being extra careful not to be noisy. My heart swells and for the first time in hours, I smile.
“I'm still awake,” I call out.
A moment later, Callum appears in the doorway. “It's late,” he murmurs. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was scolding me. Not that he wouldn't, but he should know better than to waste his time by now. I'm a big girl.
“It is.” Setting the cup and tablet aside, I glare at the clock before raising an eyebrow. “And here you are, finally leaving your office a little after midnight.”
“Pregnancy is making you even more of a handful than you were before.” He grins, taking a seat next to me, before slowly bending down to place a kiss against my belly.
The caress of his lips is soft, almost reverent, and I melt into the mattress. Nobody would guess he's the sort of man who can be both gentle and kind. A man who makes me feel absolutely worshiped.
I can't resist running my fingers through his soft, dark hair. “Are you as tired as you look?”
“I'm alright.” His soft sight tells me otherwise. “This isn't the first time I've burned the candle at both ends. I'm used to the lack of sleep.”
“Are you getting any closer to finding him?” Lifting his head, he peers up at me. A flash of guilt flickers in his eyes, and suddenly I wish I hadn't asked. “Actually, I'm sorry, that was stupid. I shouldn't have asked. If there's one room of the house where you should be allowed to close the door on all our problems, this is one.”
“If you want to talk about it, I'm happy too.” Sitting up, he takes off his tie and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
“It's late. Let's talk about it tomorrow.” I sit up, then push myself onto my knees behind him. I can't explain this sudden, all-consuming desire to touch him. To be closer. I've finally figured out what was missing all day, why I've been so edgy and emotional.
Him.I was missing him, his touch, and his familiar spicy scent. Something about it makes my toes curl, and this heady need builds low in my belly. Possessed with need, I bury my face into the crook of his neck and breathe him in. I place my hands on his shoulders, and I swear something loosens inside me. It's like a knot unraveling.
It's been too long since we've had sex, and I crave his closeness. There's something so sweet and simple about pulling his shirt off once it's unbuttoned, revealing the intricate ink and muscles that move beneath my fingertips as I trace the dark lines of his dragon tattoo.
“How was your day?” He turns his head, and I lean in for a kiss before pressing my lips to his bare shoulder. The groan of pleasure he releases zings straight through me. “You have no idea how good it feels to have your lips on me. I've missed you so much. Missed your touch and your scent. It was unbearable torture without you.”
“I know.” I continue to pepper kisses along his shoulder and the back of his neck, then massage the tight muscles with my thumbs. “Today was long, but I kept myself occupied. Sheryl was nice company. I asked her if she'd teach me some of her recipes. I love cooking and want to be able to make some of the things she makes for you, that you enjoy.”
He reaches back and covers my hands with his. “This is what I want. This is what I've had in my head from the beginning. Having you here, waiting for me at the end of each day. Something sweet to look forward to after all the ugly, filthy shit I wade through.”
“You mean you want me to hang around the house all day and be available to you whenever you snap your fingers?”
“What's so wrong with that?” When I dig my nails into his flesh, he lets out a husky laugh. “What? I'd like to keep you barefoot and pregnant and chained to the stove. So long as the chain is long enough to reach the bedroom.”
“You're a chauvinist pig,” I protest over his laughter.
“Okay, okay, fine.” He smirks at me over his shoulder, and the soft light from the nightstand dances over his chiseled features, turning him from the dark, dangerous villain to the kind, compassionate man I've come to know. “That's a line I heard from my old man when I was a kid. All I want is you here. All the time. Where I can see you and touch you and remind myself you're real. That I didn't dream you up.”
“You didn't dream me up.” The scruff on his cheeks rubs against my palms when I take his face into my hands. “I'm real, and I'm here. I might give you shit, but my biggest joy is being right beside you.”
