Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
I LOVE YOU
SEBASTIEN
Iknew something was wrong the second I pulled into the driveway.
Dallas was crashing out. The pressure to find the perfect Offering was getting to him.
Adrian has been doing background checks on a few who might suit him, but Dallas has a reason why he can’t marry each one.
He refuses to step down as King, either, which I get.
To do that would mean that his old man was right.
That Dallas wasn’t cut out to lead the Order.
He’ll Claim an Offering at random before he ever lets Jack Collins into his head like that.
The problem is his mom. Therese Collins.
After losing Lucy the way he did, he’s convinced that anyone who is tied to him will suffer their fates.
Even if it’s just a marriage in name only—like mine was supposed to be before I set Annaliese straight—it doesn’t matter.
Dallas kills in the name of the Order, but he refuses to be responsible for another woman losing her life…
no matter how she does… because she got involved with him.
His mother was murdered by his father so that the old King could have his fun with the Used without allowing Reese Collins to do the same.
Lucy… she’s lost to him, something the three of us know.
Because Adrian, Connor, and I have now settled down, finding the woman that’s perfect for us, we understand that Dallas had his and lost her.
But the old guard keep pushing, and August is approaching.
Dallas just has to be married by his thirtieth birthday; unlike the other members, he doesn’t have to take part of the Claiming ceremony in August mainly because, as King, he’s the one presiding over it.
Still. We’ve already come so far, made so many good changes with Dallas in charge.
Plus, I don’t want to be King. If I wasn’t married, I wouldn’t have to worry about my name being thrown into the ring for succession.
However, I am, so I have a vested interest in keeping Dallas in the top office besides him being one of my best bros.
So when he called a meeting of his inner circle—with me, Adrian, and Connor—I knew I had to go.
I offered to bring my wife to Adrian’s house so that she could spend time with Haven and Loni, but I wasn’t surprised when she declined.
I’d just fucked her brains out when Dallas’s message came through, and as hard as it was to leave my wife behind when she looked like she was ready for round two before we ate dinner, I went.
She should’ve been fine. I warned her to lock the door because I’d be gone longer than I thought, and she seems to think that danger is for other people. Sometimes her naiveté is charming; at others, I want to roll her up in bubble wrap to keep her safe.
But then I pulled up into the drive, parking my bike next to a silver BMW that didn’t belong.
Someone had left the car behind Annaliese’s coupe.
While my Porsche is in the attached garage, my wife prefers to leave her car out in the driveway.
I never argued. If it made her happy, then it made her happy, and I got into the habit of leaving my bike next to her car.
That’s Annaliese’s. Whose is that?
I know. I’m a goddamn mechanic. I know exactly how much a car like that costs, and it’s out of the Crawford’s comfortable middle-class budget. Besides, Miranda is using a beater before she gets her license so it’s definitely not Annaliese’s sister. It’s not my brother or my parents.
But someone is here, and I think I know—and if I’m right? Tossing my helmet to the asphalt to get rid of some extra weight, I hop off my bike and book it toward the front door.
I grab the knob. Jerk it. Shove the door open.
Because it’s unlocked. Annaliese texted me back an hour ago, telling me that she would lock it, but there’s a car out front and the door isn’t locked.
I storm into the house. “Annaliese?”
No answer. Jogging now, I check every room on the ground floor. The television is on. Annaliese’s blanket is on the couch, her phone next to it. At one point tonight, she was curled up, watching TV, but she’s not now.
Where is she?
I head to the stairs. Taking them two at a time, I burst out into the hall before marching into the bedroom.
My stomach had already plummeted the second I realized the door was open. Now? I nearly hurl, and it has nothing to do with the blood splashes everywhere or the state of the dead body on the carpet.
For a quick second, I recognize the tortured death mask that once was Eric Ward. He’s on his back, so many holes in him, he’s like fucking Swiss cheese. His eyes are open, blood spattered everywhere. My blood-coated pocket knife is next to his ear, the weapon of his destruction.
No. I’m wrong. The weapon of his destruction is the bloody brunette beauty curled up on her side, two feet from the dead man.
My heart lodges in my throat. In a rough voice, I call my wife’s name. “Annaliese.”
She doesn’t turn.
I shake. Tremble. The idea that he might’ve hurt her so badly that she didn’t survive him after she killed him… bile seeps past the lump in my throat. I swallow it back, then bolt over to her side.
“Annaliese!” I drop down, gathering her up in my arms when I see that her eyes are open. Wide. Staring… but she’s not dead. She’s breathing roughly, moaning under her breath, body shaking as bad as mine… but she’s not dead. “Oh, love… what did he do to you?”
Later, I’ll tell myself it was the soft way I uttered her nickname that brought her back to me. She blinks, once, twice, then jolts. Next thing I know, she’s clutching me, pulling me to her, climbing into my lap, her hands on my face.
Tears streak hers. Her neck… fuck. Her neck is ringed with red, purple bruises already blooming.
What this did this fucker do? Strangle her?
As she gazes up at me in obvious panic, my wife tries to speak, words tumbling out in broken pieces as she says, “Eric… he broke in… he grabbed me… he tried to, said he would… he would—”
I hold her close. “It’s okay.” She’s digging her fingers into my jaw, but I refuse to look away from her pleading brown eyes. She’s scared, but she’s always worried about how I’ll react.
She doesn’t have to be.
Lifting her up in my arms, I push myself to my feet, then set her on the edge of our bed. I don’t look at Eric again. I’ve seen all I need to, and if I focus on that prick instead of my wife, I’ll probably freak her out with the things I’ll do to desecrate that monster.
Fuck Eric Ward. Annaliese needs me. She needs her husband.
“You’re safe,” I tell her, voice low, trying to ground her, ripping her out of her panic. “You’re safe now, love. I’m here.”
Her breath hitches. “I didn’t know what else to do. He was going to open the window… I didn’t—”
“I know,” I say. “I know exactly what happened. And you didn’t do a fucking thing wrong.”
It’s all in the bruises around her neck. In how Eric Ward drove to my house—our house—and let himself in; I one hundred percent believe that Annaliese wouldn’t have. In how he’s in our bedroom, my wife half-dressed, her fear so thick, it nearly covers up the coppery stink of blood.
She protected herself. It doesn’t matter what from. She doesn’t need to tell me, doesn’t need to explain herself. Hearing her say ‘window’ like that… I know exactly what Eric’s plan was.
And my amazing fucking wife stopped him.
Crouching down in front of her, I brush my thumb over her cheek, wiping away some of the blood that I really hope isn’t hers. It’s on her face, my old t-shirt, her injured neck, her hands…
I take one, pressing a kiss to the top of it. “Listen to me. Why don’t you go and wash your hands off, love. Then, when I get back, we’ll sleep in one of the guest rooms. Or, fuck it, a hotel. Wherever you want to go… we’ll go.”
She blinks up at me, still frightened. “When you get back… where are you going, Sebastien?”
I stand up, giving her one of my charming smiles. “To get a shovel.”
Her lips parts, but no sound comes out. She just folds in on herself, then nods. “Okay. I… I need a shower. I want to wash him off of me.”
“Don’t come out until I’m back. Yeah?”
She nods again, and because I can tell that Annaliese needs it, I kiss her, blood and all.
Then I jog downstairs, nearly kicking myself to see that my dumb ass left the front door wide open.
I shove it closed, making a mental note to search Ward for is keys so that I can get rid of his car, then head to the attached garage.
I grab a shovel, snorting to see that it isn’t even dusty.
I’ve helped Dallas bury worse things than this when he’s called me up and asked.
When I come back upstairs, Annaliese is still sitting on the bed, staring at her hands like they belong to someone else.
I drop the shovel to the floor, moving purposely toward her. “I got you, love.”
Slipping my hands beneath her arms, I lift her gently. She’s shaking so hard I feel it down to my bones. I murmur soft assurances to my wife as I carry her into the bathroom.
I undress her slowly. There’s no lust, no need, just reverence for this woman I adore, and unadulterated fury at the marks on her skin.
Her cheek is bruising. Her neck is swollen.
There’s a series of scratches on her hip, and her jagged, broken nails a memento of how hard she fought to save her own life.
Eric Ward is lucky he’s dead. I finally understand how satisfied Adrian was to gun Desmond down, and how he’d do it again in a heartbeat. If I could resurrect Ward myself, then send him back to Hell, I would.
But I didn’t. My fierce little event planner did, and I’ll spend the rest of my goddamn life making it up to her that she had to.
If I’d been here—
I shake my head. No. I can’t think like that. I wasn’t here, but Annaliese is okay, and next time? I will be here.