Chapter 15 Slay Her Demons
SLAY HER DEMONS
PIERCE
The front door slams shut with enough violence to rattle the artwork on the walls. She hinted at something earlier; whatever it is must still be festering.
“Dinner should be done in a few. I know I said bath first, but you might want to wa…” The word dies on my tongue when I finally turn from the stove and see the wet streaks pouring down her face.
“What happened?” I demand, eating up the distance between us to take her bags and pull her into my arms.
She doesn’t fight me on the embrace, and that only intensifies the storm brewing in my veins.
Her sniffles are her only response as she burrows in closer to my chest. I haven’t held Lexi like this in years, and I can’t even enjoy the way her hair smells or her soft curves contorting around my frame because there’s something wrong she’s not telling me.
“Come on, Princess. I need you to tell me what happened.”
Her shoulders rise and fall, and those piercing blues peek up at me from below tear-stained lashes.
“I got fired.”
“What? Why?”
“Evan’s pompous, vindictive, bitch of a mother,” she spits, despair parting way for fury.
“While none of that surprises me, since her spawn’s a walking piece of trash I wouldn’t use to wipe my shit stained shoe on, what does she have to do with you getting fired?”
It’s like the lights just flicked on at the theater after a movie, and Lexi realizes I’m still holding her. She pushes away, walking for the fridge, likely to dig for one of her favored ginger beers.
The pullback is expected, but it still stings that she’s not ready to let me be there for her entirely.
I’d do anything to make her problems go away, slay every demon that dares stumble into her path, but this is one I can’t touch.
That would complicate things more than they already are.
Evan was one thing, but Mrs. Montgomery’s unexpected disappearance into a vat of my special concoction of chemicals might have the FBI sniffing around.
“All she had to do was snap her perfectly manicured fingers, tell an edge of the truth, and Bethany May was kicking me out the door without an ounce of care to listen to my side of things.”
She’s clutching the small green bottle like it’s the neck of the woman who vexed her.
Still sloshing full of drink, it goes hurtling through the kitchen.
The bottle hits the wall with a sharp crack, glass shattering outward like a firework explosion.
Shards spray in every direction, catching the light for a split second before blanketing the ground like a glittering minefield.
The air fills with a sharp spiciness and pungent bite from the fermented drink.
“Don’t move,” I say, firm but maybe too late.
She’s already too deep in her head to hear me. One step, and she’s in the mess.
“Dammit, woman.”
My boots crunch against shattered glass, each step grinding the pieces deeper into the floorboards. It’ll take days to clean this up properly. I’ll be vacuuming for weeks, chasing down stray shards that could slice through skin in an instant.
Before she can argue, I scoop her into my arms. She lets out a surprised squeal, her body stiffening against mine.
“Put me down! I need to clean that up.”
“No,” I grunt, shifting her weight as I turn toward the hallway. “What you need to do is get in the tu—”
“But you said dinner was almost done.”
“Dinner can fucking wait.”
I kick open the bathroom door a little harder than necessary. It slams against the wall with a hollow crack that echoes through the house. “Get in the tub. Then bed. I’ll bring dinner to you.”
“But—” she starts, feet landing lightly on the plush bathmat.
I reach for her before she can try to form another excuse. My fingers settle gently beneath her chin, guiding her gaze to mine.
“Bath. Bed. Dinner. Now strip, before I do it for you.”
The words come out more gravelly than I intended, roughened by the heat flaring low in my gut. She’s looking at me with those sex-me eyes. Ones that used to undo me in an instant, and still do.
Her hands tremble faintly as she peels off her cardigan, revealing a soft, low-cut top that clings to her newly developed full curves.
My pulse stutters. I step back like she’s scorched me.
I promised her I wouldn’t go there, not until she’s all in. Both feet. No life jacket. Just trust. And she’s not there yet. Not really. If she were, she wouldn’t have pulled away from me in the kitchen like she did.
I don’t know how long it’ll take. Weeks. Months. Years.
Hell, it could be another decade, and I’d still be standing right here, waiting because the boy who let her push him away all those years ago is gone. The man in his place doesn’t give up so easily.
I’ll wait for her to come to the same conclusion I did months ago.
She’s mine.
Any man who looks at her twice walks a fine line between foolish and suicidal. There won’t be anyone else. Not for her. Not for our child growing inside her. I’ll see to it.
The mess of glass glitters under the low kitchen light, but I ignore it for now. I root through the pantry until I find the bed tray I spotted weeks ago, buried in a pile of unused kitchen gear. Most of it’s coated in dust. The stuff Lexi’s never bothered with, probably never will.
Carefully, I tug the tray free without knocking anything else over. Victorious, I set it on the counter and turn to the meal waiting on the stove. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and greens. Comfort food that might put something steady back in her.
I warm the plate in the oven and tuck a chilled bottle of ginger beer into the built-in cup holder on the tray. Hopefully, this one won’t end up shattered like the last.
Now I can focus on the floor. A sweep will have to do for now; I don’t want to risk missing her as she moves to her room. If she shuts me out again, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep from going after her this time, not with her emotions running so high.
I grab the broom from the closet. The bristles are frayed and bent, but it'll do the job. The glass is scattered everywhere. I crouch down and start picking up the bigger pieces first. Ginger beer still clings in sticky rivulets down the wall, another thing to clean later.
Each scrape of glass into the dustpan feels loud against the steady quiet. I’m hyper-aware of the short distance between us. She’s naked behind a closed door, and I’m here, cleaning up the physical representation of her day.
It takes long enough, but when I glance around the floor, nothing reflects back, and I call it. The pipes groan from the tub draining. Somewhere down the hall, a door clicks open, then closed. I give her a minute. Maybe two. Then I grab the tray and head toward her room.
Her door is slightly ajar. Soft voices drift from the TV—something about the importance of coffee and existential dread. I ease inside.
She’s curled under the blankets, her damp hair twisted into a messy knot on top of her head. The wide bed engulfs her tiny frame, and I can’t help but notice how perfectly I could fill the extra space beside her.
“Hey,” she says, her voice quiet but not cold.
“You feeling any better?”
“A little,” she murmurs, hugging the blankets tighter. “But I could really use a drink to take the edge off.”
“The best I can do is a ginger beer and some home-cooked food.”
“I guess that’ll do,” she says with a faint smile, pushing herself upright to take the tray. Her movements are slow, like the weight of the day has drained every ounce of energy from her limbs.
“Where’s your plate?” she asks, looking down at the single serving.
“I’ll make one later. You eat.”
I turn toward the door—the one that leads to another night alone in the guest bed across the hall—but her voice stops me cold.
“You could make one now… and come eat with me.”
It’s not a command. Not even a request. It’s hesitant, and I fucking hate that.
Lexi, when she was angry, when she hated me, that version of her was stronger than this quiet shell I’ve been trying to coax back to life for months. Her voice now is barely more than a whisper, and I know—without looking—that her cheeks are probably pink with uncertainty.
“You sure? I don’t want to crowd you.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”
That’s better.
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’ll be right back, then.”