Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
OWEN
W ith Laya cradled against my chest, I sit on the mattress with my back against the headboard while she continues to fall to pieces in my arms. I take comfort in knowing I can bring her the reassurance she needs while also providing the security she should have had. Nothing will hurt my girl again. She and our son are my priority, and nobody will come between us, especially not a dead man.
When her sobs become shallow snores, I relax, using my hand to stroke over her silky hair to remind myself I finally have her with me.
T he entire night I spent flicking my attention between her and Romero. Each soft noise he made had me on full alert, but ultimately, the little man slept through. I don’t know much about babies, but I’ve been trying to learn since hearing about her pregnancy. I intend on being the best father I can be and give them everything they deserve and so much more.
A few times during the night, Laya cried, and I’d hold her close, whispering to her I have her. She’s mine, and I reveled in the fact that my words sent her back to sleep.
Laya rouses from her sleep, stretching in my arms, and finally, she lifts her head to stare into my eyes.
My heart skips a beat. Pure anger fills my bloodstream at the sight of her delicate face swollen and bruised. Every cell in my body becomes embroiled in flames of fury, as a sudden need to annihilate something has me vibrating uncontrollably.
“Owen?” Her sweet voice filters through the haze of red coating my senses.
And when I see the panic in her wide eyes, a need to soothe her overcomes me. “Who did that to you?” My thick thumb grazes over her swollen cheek, but she stares back at me with a furrowed brow. Does she not realize she’s bruised? I press gently and she winces, then her face pales and those red-rimmed eyes fill with tears. “Who?” I repeat.
She licks her cracked lips, and I realize she needs some proper care, and possibly medical attention. Then her eyes move toward Romero, and my stomach plummets with a desperate need for answers. If someone touched them…
Her gaze comes back to me, and the way she stares at me with uncertainty pisses me off. She can trust me. She should trust me, yet she’s unsure.
“Laya. Right now. I’m hanging on by a thin thread, and I know you’ve been through so much, but I want answers pretty fucking soon.” My teeth grind as she scans my face, as if searching for something. What? I’ve no fucking clue.
Then she shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter now.”
My eyes narrow. “Of course it fucking matters. Someone hurt you.”
She fiddles with the shirt she’s wearing, and my spine straightens, only now realizing it’s something of his.
“It doesn’t matter because he’s not here anymore.”
Her words send a torrent of pain lancing through my chest.
Holy fucking shit. The bastard hurt her.
He. Fucking. Hurt. Her.
My chest heaves uncontrollably as I unravel. The fact she’s been suffering at his hands, and I could have acted, could have helped her, is like someone is brutally ripping my heart out with their bare hands, destroying me.
I slide her onto the mattress, trying not to wake Romero as I move.
Then I march over and rest my forearms against the wall and breathe with my back to my family, squeezing my eyes closed to rein in the compelling need to decimate something.
If I could dig the fucker back up and slaughter him myself, I would.
“Fuck!” I roar as I slam my fist into the plaster.
“Owen?” Her delicate hand grazes over my back, and my eyes snap open. The warmth of her touch seeps through the material and into my skin. “Are you okay?”
I choke on a sardonic laugh and shake my head. Am I okay?
She’s the one who has been widowed, run from her family home, and beaten, yet she’s asking me if I’m okay? Typical Laya. “He only did it once,” she mutters.
I jolt at her words, then spin to face her. Only?
Her head is down, and she fidgets from foot to foot, that fucking shirt of his hanging off her like it has a right to be there. Like it’s deserving of covering her skin.
Using my finger, I lift her chin to face me, hating the uncertainty that flashes in her eyes. Her usual steely confidence is missing, replaced with a vulnerability that I want to stamp out. “Once is one time too many, Laya.”
She lifts her chin higher, and that strong, ballsy woman I know her to be glares back at me. “I know that. Do you think I don’t know that? I was going to leave him.”
My heart thumps harder on her admission, and I lick my lips. “You were?”
“Yes. But then…” She darts her eyes away before closing them as if it pains her to remember.
“Then he got himself killed.” I finish for her.
She flinches on my words, and I tug her toward me. The moment she wraps her arms around my waist, a sense of calm washes over me. I breathe her in. “Nothing will ever hurt you again. You hear me?” I step back so I can lock eyes with her. “Nobody will ever hurt you again. That’s my promise to you.”
Tears well in her eyes, and I grit my teeth at the shirt she wears and tug the collar with my hand. “This his?”
She narrows her eyes on me, and I elaborate. “The shirt. Is it his?” The deepness of my voice tells her I’m pissed, and the way her confusion turns to annoyance would make me laugh if I wasn’t so angry right now.
“My husband’s, yes.”
My temple throbs as I try to regain some sense of calm, but I’m struggling. Boy, am I fucking struggling. Husband?
I want to tell her the fucker is dead, where he belongs. He isn’t your husband anymore , but I bite my tongue, knowing how much she’s been through.
“He isn’t the one looking after you right now, baby girl.”
Her jaw tics, and she crosses her arms over her chest. The fire in her eyes makes my cock hard with a need to punish her disobedience.
“Go take it off.” I tilt my head toward the bathroom. “And while you’re fucking at it, get in the tub. Please.” I tack on the latter, hoping to soften the bite in my tone.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “The tub?”
“Yes. The fucking tub. Gonna wash him from you.”
“Wash him from me?”
I nod, liking this plan the more I think about it. “Exactly. Make you mine.”
“Yours?”
I nod again.
Then she releases a heavy sigh. “I really don’t have it in me to argue.” My lip twitches at her compliance, then she spins on the balls of her feet and marches toward the bathroom, leaving me to check the closet. We need a crib for Romero.
We won’t stay here for long, but while we are, my boy needs to sleep in his own bed so his momma can sleep properly in mine.
Exactly where she belongs.