Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
It didn’t hurt. And he had not intended for it to hurt. I knew what it was to be touched with the intention of pain, and Beau had been nowhere near that. In fact, I wanted to wear the bruise as a badge of honor. It was the first time my skin had been marked by someone who needed something pure from me. Comfort.
I wanted to vocalize all of that, but that would mean spilling a lot of personal information that Beau didn’t need to be privy to.
Beau’s expression was tortured as he stared at the bruise. He looked as if he were wracked with guilt. The last thing he needed on top of everything else.
I opened my mouth to tell him it wasn’t a big deal, that he didn’t have to look so wretched over it.
“Daddy?”
Beau and I sprang apart.
Clara was rubbing her eyes, clad in black cat PJs, squinting at the two of us.
“I had a bad dream,” she muttered.
Beau was across the kitchen, his daughter in his arms in a heartbeat. My arm tingled as Beau murmured to Clara, taking her to the breakfast bar.
Once Clara was in a better mood, he delicately explained Calliope’s situation. I made eggs. We went to the hospital. The chaos of the following few days ensured that Beau and I didn’t revisit that night. He was extra harsh with me. My pride, my heart, and my skin were all bruised. Only the latter healed.
fourteen
BEAU
TWO WEEKS LATER
I had begun to look forward to coming home.
And dreaded it in equal doses.
Because Hannah was there. Waiting up for me. She tried to act like she wasn’t. Like I’d just caught her going to bed whenever I got home.
She wasn’t scared of me, exactly. But she was wary, tentative. I’d done that. I’d made her that way, using harsh words she didn’t deserve, reprimanding her for things that didn’t matter, treating her with coldness that felt like I'd committed a sin.
But that was my only option. Either I was cold and cruel or… or I claimed her. Made her mine. Because there was no way I could be friendly with Hannah Morgan, feign some platonic relationship. If I stopped being cruel to her, it meant I’d broken all the promises I made to myself, and she was naked underneath me.
Obviously, that was a terrible fucking idea for a multitude of reasons, top of the list being that Hannah deserved someone a fuck of a lot better than me. And closer to her own age. Tied with that was Clara.
If I fucked it up with Hannah—which I most certainly would—then I’d run the risk of taking her away from my daughter.
No.
That wouldn’t do.
Even though it physically pained me to do it, I’d continued to be an asshole to Hannah. It was better that way, was what everyone expected of me.
Though after her accident, after feeling the bone-crunching fear that came with something happening to her, I’d been unable to stay too far away from her. Then seeing her on Halloween. In that dress. In that fucking dress.
I dreamed about it every fucking night. It haunted me. Her perfect body, her full lips painted red.
And not just that, I dreamed of the three of us walking into Nora and Rowan’s house in matching fucking costumes and how it felt… right.
Then there was the night of Calliope’s attack. I’d barely remembered driving home. Or opening the door. All I could see was Calliope’s lifeless body, the crack of her bones as I gave her CPR. I’d felt death clouding me, suffocating me, and that time, it wasn’t my daughter’s.
All my thoughts were dark, oily.
But then there was Hannah. A bright fucking light. Her small hands cupping my jaw, running through my hair. My head in her lap.
She gave me comfort without a second thought. Something I’d never sought from anyone. Never. Not even Naomi when I was married to her. She hadn’t liked seeing “weakness” in me. When I shed a single tear over my dead mother, she recoiled from me and became closed off.
Even my family didn’t know how to handle me during Clara’s diagnosis and treatment. Granted, I barked at them like a fucking bear if they tried to offer me any kind of comfort.
It wasn’t safe. Letting go, being upset. Drowning in my fucking sorrow. Not when I was a father.
But with Hannah, it hadn’t even been a choice. Melting into her lap to try to chase away the cold, the fucking darkness, had been my only option.
My first reaction to seeing her the morning after had been relief. Had been utter fucking joy. Then I’d glimpsed the mottling of purple on her creamy skin. I’d marked her. Because I’d held her so tight.
It couldn’t have been clearer. I’d hurt her, damaged her with my want. With my inability to handle my own emotions. So I’d done my very fucking best to push that night from my mind. Not just because it was the night Calliope almost died, but because it was the night my body truly came alive for Hannah.