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∞∞∞
“What's happening here?” The woman who must be Camilla Ellison strides into the office, her mouth falling open as she surveys her husband's bloodied face.
“Let me help with that.” Effortlessly, I lift the box from her startled grasp and place it on the table, taking care not to smear it with blood.
It’s filled with scrapbooks just as Beth said it would be.
Bile rises in my throat when I think of everything that’s in there.
I just want to get home to her.
Clutching the box, I level a final look at the judge. “You might want to have a discussion with your wife. I’m sure you don’t want her finding out about her husband’s habits when she reads about it on the front-page tomorrow morning.”
He points a trembling finger right in my face. I want to snap it in two. “You said—”
“Nothing. I said nothing.”
That reporter was never going to kill the story without having something in exchange.
With a look of utter defeat, he sinks back into his chair.
“Mrs. Ellison,” I address her with a curt nod, tucking the box under my arm and striding towards the door.
I'm leaving a ticking time bomb in my wake, and I hope it annihilates every last one of them.
Forty-Five
Beth
When I spot Logan at the threshold, clutching a box that contains my most dreaded secrets, relief so strong washes over me, I sway on my feet.
But what’s in the box isn’t his focus. I am.
He discards it on the table and strides towards me. “Jesus, come here,” he commands, pulling me into the safety of his embrace. “You look fucking petrified.” His arms around me become a shield, his strength my fortress.
I was petrified, but it had very little to do with some photos. I spent the day pacing the floors, eyes pinned to the road, waiting to hear the familiar roar of his truck.
I wantedhimback.
I didn’t care what they printed.
I needed his warmth, his presence, his body against mine just to know he’s there.
Feathering my palm along his cheek, his stubble pricks the flesh. I close my eyes, breathing him in. “Don’t do that again.” A tear slips down my cheek, but he soothes it away.
“Hey—”
“No, don’t fucking do that to me. I was worried sick. You can’t just leave like that.”
Pressing my hand to his chest, I clutch at the material, unable to find purchase as my fingers glide over his shoulder.
And then something in the air shifts—an unspoken language lacing the space between us. His eyes are nothing but a blazing hunger, the need reflecting mine. We were both worried.
He cradles my face in his hands, his fingers massaging my scalp before a growl vibrates from his chest.
When he leans in, I don’t back away.
I couldn’t if I wanted to.
