Chapter 43
Brody
Yes, it’s Boxing Day. The day after Christmas. A public holiday in the country. Not that it matters for the helicopter service I use.
Within an hour of my calling them for a pickup, we’re in the air and on our way home.
I saw the surprise then the disappointment on her face when I told her that we were leaving. On the heels of it was understanding. Then sympathy. Followed by anger.
Yes, I acted exactly like the coward she accused me of being. Craven. And unable to tell her how I feel or acknowledging it to myself.
But I'm beginning to realize that self-preservation is a trait that I value more than anything other. And I need to think.
To digest what it was I felt when I saw her covered in welts from the knots I’d placed against her skin. And the marks that were painted on by the ropes I’d slid over her curves. Or the possessiveness that filled me when I looked into her eyes and came inside of her without any barriers between us.
She’s the first woman with whom I haven’t used a condom. And the symbolism of that isn’t lost on me.
The fact that she’s my wife makes it feel right. And that gives me more cause for concern.
It shouldn’t feel this natural.
This effortless.
This inevitable.
Like this is where she belongs. With me. That this is where I belong. With her.
The fact that I spent the night watching her sleep and began to dream of tying her up and fucking her every night, and waking up next to her every morning, concerned me greatly.
It's not so much that I'm not committed to her. I married her and I take my vows seriously. This is different. More and more, I find myself needing her. And I can't have that.
Try as I might, I wasn’t able to remove the images from my mind. The longer I stared at her, the denser they grew. Until I began dreaming of caring for her, contemplated falling for her, wondered how it would be to have a forever with her that consists of more than a piece of paper.
What if I gave her more than my name? What if I gave her my heart?
To say that sounded the alarm bells is an understatement.
That’s when I knew, I had to get back. Enough of this honeymoon bullshit.
The marriage has been consummated.
Gramps is happy that we're legally married. Enough to hand over my portion of the shares in the company. His lawyer reached out about giving me access to my trust fund before the ceremony.
This is why I went through with the marriage, after all. And yes, to help her go through with a wedding to save her the ignominy of being dumped a few days before she walked down the altar.
All of which were delivered. There’s no need to pretend anymore. Is there?
Except. I’m in love with my wife, and I don’t have the guts to confess my feelings to her.
I’ve gone on missions where one wrong move meant death.
I’ve dragged brothers out of danger and stared down enemies without blinking.
I’ve faced corporate predators who’d sell their own blood for a profit.
But none of it prepared me for this feeling of being torn apart from inside.
There’s no need to accept that, for the first time, there’s something in my life that feels more important than myself and what I need.
I glance sideways to find her looking out the window. She’s wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and has her hair put up in a messy bun with tendrils escaping that frame her face. That familiar lurch of my heart, the one I’m not used to yet, takes me by surprise.
No, what I feel for her is not simple at all.
And I have a sinking feeling that it might be too late to put distance between us. But I have to try.
"Ten minutes to landing," the pilot’s voice comes over our earphones.
Suddenly, the chopper pitches to the side, then dips as if the bottom has fallen out of the world.
She gasps and grips the armrests. My heart threatens to leap out of my rib cage, and all I can think to do is grab her and hold her close.
Then the helicopter straightens out. It regains altitude, then levels out. It’s flying along now like that brush with turbulence never happened.
"Sorry, folks. Bit of wind shear. Caught us off guard, but all good now," the pilot apologizes.
Some of the tension slides from me, but my muscles refuse to relax completely. My heart feels like it’s in my throat. My cheat heaves, and each inhale scrapes against my throat. I have her head pushed into my chest, and for a few seconds, she stays there.
I sense her trembling and run my fingers down her hair.
"It’s fine. You heard the pilot. We’re okay."
She nods. Takes in a few breaths. She doesn’t let go of me, and I don’t release her, either.
I tuck her head under my chin and absorb her nearness. It was a patch of rough weather. I’ve faced much worse on my tours as a Royal Marine. But that had been me in the line of fire. That, I can cope with.
The thought of anything happening to her, though, is unbearable. It sets my heart racing and my pulse rate multiplying all over again.
She must feel my agitation for she runs slow circles over my back. Her touch is soothing. The gentleness of her touch a balm for my ragged nerves. Slowly, the rest of the tension fades away. But I don’t let go of her. And to my relief, she doesn’t try to break free of my embrace either.
Once we land, I help her off the chopper.
Our bags are unloaded, and I thank the pilot, who apologizes again for the rough ride. I wave him off, it’s not his fault, and really, it barely lasted a few seconds. But it was enough to turn my world upside down. I can’t seem to let go of her hand as I walk her to the waiting car.
Once inside, though, I take refuge in the length of the back seat between us.
Coward.
The fresh burst of confused feelings inside of me doesn’t let me start a conversation or look at her.
I sense her shift restlessly in her seat and look at me a few times.
But I pretend not to notice. I keep my gaze firmly on the passing scenery.
Once we reach home, my manners don’t allow me to leave her behind.
I make sure to be the first out of the car and wave the chauffeur off to open her door.
She doesn’t look at me as she gets out of the car and precedes me to the house.
I should carry her over the threshold. This is the first time we’re coming home after the wedding. And this is her home as much as mine. I do want her to feel comfortable here. Only I’m unable to get the words out.
The incident on the chopper has revealed the depths of my feelings for her, and that’s confused me further.
Surely, I can’t have fallen for her so quickly?
But my reaction to thinking I could lose her was pure panic.
And the realization that my life would be incomplete without her.
The thought of losing her makes it difficult for me to breathe.
My world only makes sense with her in it.
It was a blinding, and unwelcome, revelation.
One which is sinking in. Not surprisingly, it took a perceived brush with death to strip away my bullshit refusal to call it what it is.
Love.
I’m in love with my wife.
And I want to tell her how I feel. But I don't know how.
Which means, I’m thoroughly fucked.
Because, for the first time in my adult life, I’m vulnerable.
Cracked open in a way I swore I never would be again. Not since I stood at my parents’ graves, stone-faced and hollow, pretending I didn’t care while my insides burned.
When my father died, I turned to my mother for solace. And, when she too was gone, the world felt stripped bare. Like someone had torn away the shield and left me standing naked in the cold.
And this…this thing I feel for my wife…it hits deeper.
It’s a hunger that chews through bone. A constant ache that eases when she’s near, when her scent is in my lungs, when her voice threads through the chaos in my head. And when she’s gone… Christ, it’s like a void opens inside me, dragging me under.
If this raw, consuming, brutal thing that turns me inside out and threatens to eviscerate me is love, then I want no part of it.
But it’s too late.
Because it’s found me.
I’m in love with her. And no matter how hard I fight, I can’t shake it off.
I carry our bags into the house, then take the stairs. She follows me. I reach my bedroom, leave my suitcase by the door, and carry hers inside the closet. Then, I grab a couple of suits and ties, along with business shoes, and step out with my arms full.
She turns from where she’s standing next to the bed. When she takes in what I’m carrying, her gaze widens. "What are you doing?"
Good question. What the fuck am I doing?