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“Shouldn’t you kill him, then?” Haley deadpans, jabbing her thumb in my direction.
My mouth drops. “Are you kidding me right now?”
Callum pushes off the wall. He drops his head, kissing her cheek. “He’s my best guard, love. He lives. His punishment is being strapped to the ticking time bomb that is my hot-headed sister.”
“I’m sorry, Cal,” Saoirse whispers.
“You should be, little sister. You and your rash decisions have cost me a lot.” He approaches the bed, bending to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he says, his voice softer now.
He turns to me. “Take her back to your place until her house is back together.”
I nod, his eyes telling me what his words didn’t. And when Saoirse is healed, when she’s better, I’m to report for my punishment. He beat me to a pulp once, when Haley had a stalker and the freak left flowers on her doorstep. It hadn’t even been my fault. He’d relieved me of my duty since he was with her.
This punishment, whatever he decides, will be worse. But it will be worth it.
The door closes as Haley and Callum leave the room, and I turn my gaze to my wife. The horrible little girl, going back on what we’ve already done. Trying to pretend that the way I took her, sliced her hand, and joined us didn’t carve her name right into my fucking heart.
I fold my arms over my chest. “What the fuck was that about, princess?”
“Don’t pretend like you want this, Jameson.”
I flinch, hating how easily she can resort to her hurtful tone. “Excuse me?”
“You left me to go to dinner with Darcy. This is your out, Jaime. Take it,” she says, her face pale.
Oh, fuck.I forgot about Darcy in all this bullshit that’s been going on. I pinch the bridge of my nose, suddenly hating how the guilt wracks up. I’ve been neglecting her, a new widow. She needs to feel a sense of not being alone.
“Why on Earth do you think that there’s anything going on between me and Darcy, baby? I’ve told you who she is. What she is to me.”
Her brows scrunch together. “No. I saw the way she looked at you. The way you looked at her.”
“And how is that, Saoirse? Is it anything like the way I look at you?”
She chews on her bottom lip nervously. “She looked at you like you saved her from an eternity of grief. And you … you … looked at her like you wanted to help her. And then you went to dinner with her, and you didn’t come back, Jaime. You stayed with her.For the night.”
My hand reaches for her, and I take her chin between my fingers, forcing her to look at me. Emerald irises stare at me, hurt and fear behind the mist of tears. “I take our oath very seriously.” I trace a finger along the slice on her open palm. “You are my wife. I am your husband. I’ll be insulted if you think otherwise.”
“What am I supposed to think when the two times we’ve been together have been out of anger?”
She pulls free from my grip, and I allow her, not wanting to cause any pain to her already injured body. “They were rushed.” She pauses, sucking in a breath to keep her tears at bay, no doubt. “That’s less than intimate.”
“You want me to fuck you naked with the lights off? Make love to you in the dark in bed?” I ask, dragging a hand through my hair. “I doubt that, baby. I’ve seen the shit you read.”
“I want to hold you and touch you. See you.” Her gaze falls to my chest. “You make me so confused, Jameson. One minute you’re giving me all these signals that maybe you like me too. And then the next shoving me out of your life while I cry over your bedside. One second you’re pinning me to the wall, hating me. The next I’m being dragged into your lap, begging you to let me come.”
She sucks in a sharp intake of air, her head shaking rapidly. “So forgive me for thinking you wanted someone else, despite what happened earlier that morning.”
She nods toward my chest. “We were fully clothed both times. I’ve never seen you, felt you. Never dragged my nails down your back, or pressed a kiss to your chest. I don’t even know what you look like naked.”
I yank at the white t-shirt I’m wearing and pull it over my head. She gasps when I reach for her hand and press it over the celtic markings of the tattoo on the left side of my chest. The flesh there is scarred, jagged. It’s a mix of green ink and pink scar tissue.
Saoirse’s cool fingers trace over the scar. Her tongue darts out nervously as she makes eye contact with me.
“This what you need?” I ask, my voice hoarse. I’m exhausted. Tired of arguing with her, of promising her that I’m not going anywhere.
She nods, finally letting her silent cries fall.
“I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere,” I say, pulling her into my arms.
