Chapter 40
DEXTER
It’s years ago, but I remember the night like it was yesterday.
We’d ridden home from the bar on my bike, Holly sitting behind me, arms around my waist, head pressed to my back. It was not long after my dad died.
I’d barely killed the engine when we saw him, her ex, standing in front of our building. My fist itched. What the fuck was he doing here?
As soon as she got off my bike, he said, “I forgot something at your place.”
She shut that down fast. “No, you didn’t.”
He looked at me. Then back at her. “You whore.”
I was off the bike before the last letter could leave his mouth.
With the full capacity of her lungs, Holly shouted, “I’d rather be his whore than your wife!”
Straight out of Titanic, of all things.
She’d begged me over and over to watch that damn movie with her, and I finally gave in. I endured all three hours, but not without the occasional eyeroll. That night, her line had barely registered with me. She’d said it to provoke him, and I didn’t blame her.
I knew how much he’d broken her. She was done with love, because of him.
My fist slammed into his face. He went down, and I went with him, crashing to the pavement.
And I didn’t stop.
One punch. Then another. And another.
She’d given him everything. And he paid her back like this?
She gave that bastard her first time. My fist split his lip.
And then the piece of shit had the audacity to tell her she couldn’t wear white on her wedding day because she wasn’t “innocent.” My knuckles smashed cartilage.
An innocence he had stolen from her. She gave that bastard the greatest honor a woman can give a man, and the son of a bitch turned it into a scar he made her carry.
I twisted his arm until a shoulder joint popped and finished with a blow.
He took off his wedding ring “because it made his finger sweat” and went on inviting women into his bed as though his marriage didn’t exist. There was a sharp give.
A finger, this time. He twisted every goddamn truth, draining the life out of her, trapping her in a waking nightmare.
I cupped his jaw, thumbed along the ridge of his broken nose, and rammed an elbow.
Teeth started flying. Blood gushed.
He didn’t just fuck her body. He fucked her soul. Her heart.
Another rib went, a clean crack under my palm. I stopped counting.
That night, I broke his nose, his jaw, and a few ribs for good measure, and I didn’t stop until his shirt was drenched with blood.
Goddamn justice, plain and simple. I’d never felt better.
Scarred for life by one worthless narcissistic fuck who had events twisted in his sick mind, making them out to be her fault—he deserved worse than teeth on the pavement and bones cracking under my hands.
People like to say time heals all wounds. Bullshit. Some wounds don’t heal. Instead, they transform into invincible demons. They also try to sell you this crap about forgiveness being some kind of virtue, good for your soul. More BS.
Fucking forgive?
I agree with her—some things, you can’t.
Some things don’t deserve forgiveness. Some things go too far for that.
He kept trying to lift his head, so I pressed my thumb into the soft spot under his jaw until he stopped. I didn’t watch him die. Not that night.
I leaned down to his blood-slicked face and got close to his ear. “Come anywhere near her again, and I’ll end you. Even breathe in her direction, I’ll end you. You try this shit with another woman, I’ll end you.” My thumb dug in harder. “That’s your only warning.”
He glared at me, terror in his eyes.
Somehow, he managed a nod. He had no doubt that what I promised was exactly what would happen to him.
Holly stood there, watching, and she didn’t stop me.
She let me handle it.
And I did, making sure the fuck would never bother her again, or another woman, ruining her to the point where she was desperate, hopeless, scared of having to live alone, and without love, and without a man for the rest of her life, terrified to let anyone near her body or into her heart.
Rot in Hell, you sick bastard.
He tried to run his mouth, threaten a lawsuit. But he had no witnesses, no one would back him. As per Sweet Thelma, Beth, Cal, and Reed, at the time of the “alleged” incident, I was in Mom’s bar with Holly.
Motorcycle gloves help. No fingerprints. No DNA. Nothing to trace back to me.
Weeks in a hospital bed, after that, he limped out. Left the state. But not before making it clear he’d come for me, and for her. About a week later, he was dead. According to police records, he “sustained fatal injuries consistent with an accidental fall from a balcony.” Died a slow, ugly death.
One less bastard in the world.
I warned him. He didn’t listen.
And I kept my promise. Because I had to protect her, no matter the cost.
I’d burn in Hell if it meant she was safe.
Back then, I was braced for the blow, ready to face whatever came. What I wasn’t ready for was tonight.
Seeing Holly.
Seeing her paling face when I turned around, seeing the way she looked at me, seeing the trust drain out of her. She’d heard everything, every single word.
Goddamnit.
Shelby was supposed to take the money, move here, and the two of them would be reunited, none the wiser.
Holly would still have her dream.
And I’d have her.
Because that first night, when she wrapped her arms around my neck and held onto me like she had, something in me came back to life, and there’s no fucking way I’m letting that go without a fight. I was planning to tell her everything. Eventually.
I wasn’t a monster.
I just gave her the option, an offer too good to pass up. And yeah, maybe I knew what I was doing. I nudged the game board, made it easy to choose the right square.
But I’m not sorry.
I wanted Holly here, I wanted her close. So I made it possible. If that makes me the bad guy, fine, I’ve been called worse. But let’s not pretend Holly didn’t have a say.
I didn’t trap her or take her choice away. I opened a door. She walked through.
Angrily, I pull out my phone and march back to my apartment. I hit Keith’s number.
“What’s the craic, boss?”
“I’m going to fucking kill you, Murphy.”
“Hold on, what did I do?”
“What fucking business did you have showing up here instead of calling? Holly heard every goddamn word. And now she’s pissed.”
“How’s that my doin’?”
“It fucking is. You could have—”
“Don’t get me involved,” Keith cuts in. “I did what you asked: Soon as I heard somethin’, I came straight to you. If Holly found out and is ragin’, that’s on you. If ya wanna find someone to blame, boss, I’d suggest you take a long, hard look in the mirror, ’cause it sure as hell isn’t me!”
He hangs up.
Swearing, I toss my phone onto the couch. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Everything was moving in the right direction, and now it’s all gone to shit.
She’s not some girl who needs rescuing—she’s Holly.
Her heart is bleeding.
Every word she heard me say to Keith must have felt like another cut.
I pace, lungs tight, breathing deep and trying to gather my thoughts.
Holly holds a grudge like no one else. If I don’t act fast, this will take her forever to move past. The important part is to let her cool off. Charging over there would just add fuel to the fire. She needs time.
So I leave her alone, even though it kills me.
In the kitchen, I eat the food I made for her.
I’m not remotely hungry. I strip off my shirt on the way to the bedroom and stop to stare at the bed we tore up just hours ago.
The side she’d slept on still smells like her: like warm, sweet cherry cake.
I drop down and pull her pillow close, closing my eyes, breathing her in.
That’s how it’s supposed to be. Her, here. In my bed. In my arms, my hand on her belly.
She belongs with me. She knows it.
Not across the goddamn ocean.