Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
SHAE
I ’m about five seconds away from hyperventilating.
It doesn’t help that a giant man shadows my every move from my suite to Storm’s on the floor below.
Or that the twins had a million questions about the man in the garden, or that they zonked out early , which left me at Yennifer’s mercy as she pelted me with another million inquiries into what the fuck is going on.
I wish I knew. Really, I do.
But Yennifer didn’t just leave me alone after I answered everything she asked—she insisted I bring condoms with me to this meeting with Storm. Despite my protests, she ignored me and ended up shoving them down my bra.
“I’ll leave you here,” the guard who looks like Dwayne Johnson back in his The Rock days says. He knocks three times, turns away, and enters the waiting elevator.
And just like that, I’m alone in the hallway outside Storm’s suite.
What the fuck am I going to do?
The reality of my situation didn’t hit me until I finally stopped sobbing on Yennifer’s shoulder. From Storm’s perspective, I’ve done him a grave wrong. I hid his children from him; I denied him the opportunity and the right to be a father.
From my point of view, I did the best I could. I called him repeatedly, but he never answered. I did the best I could…or at least, what I thought was the best I could at the time.
I won’t take all the blame here. I’ve got enough self-esteem to know that it’s just as much his fault as it is mine. The only problem is, I’m not sure he’s capable of being as pragmatic as I am right now.
And that’s the scary part.
His anger makes him unpredictable, and if it were just me I had to concern myself with, I wouldn’t worry. But it’s not just me. Our children are tangled up in this messy shit, and I’ll be damned if they suffer because of our actions.
The door swings open, and I suck in a breath.
Where I’ve dressed for modesty after my shower with a simple purple flowing skirt that ends around my calves and a plain white T-shirt, Storm is practically naked, dripping wet as if he’s just got out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist and nothing else besides a gold chain.
“What the fuck?” I nearly shout, spinning away from the view. Not that it’ll help, because the sight is already burned into my memory.
Eight years ago, Storm was built like a god. Now, he’s even thicker, harder, more menacing. Storm Sandoval grew into a man, and holy fuck, every single part of my womanhood comes alive just from a two-second glimpse.
“Put some goddamn clothes on, Storm! I don’t know what the fuck you think this is, but it’s not that .” I say all this with my back to him.
Storm makes a deep sound—damn near a growl—and my spine stiffens.
“I’ll get dressed, but you need to come in,” he says, his voice like gravel.
“I’ll wait here,” I throw back.
“No, you won’t,” he says with a frustrated puff of air.
“Why not? I don’t have to listen to your orders. I’m not one of your minions,” I spit.
Storm makes an even louder frustrated sound, then says, “Fine. Don’t move.”
I keep my back turned, picking up the sounds of him moving around the suite with his door open. After a few seconds, he says, “Don’t look, since you’re so sensitive.”
And then there’s the sound of fabric shifting, and— Shit! A slightly damp, white towel lands next to my right foot, part of the fabric flopping over my ballet flats.
Is he… Oh, my God, he’s naked in the open doorway.
“Storm!” I shout, still not turning around, but this time, starting to vibrate…with rage, I think.
“Hold on, hold on… There, I’m decent now,” he says, and I highly doubt that.
Still, I take my time facing him and admit that him dressed isn’t really that much better.
A black sleeveless undershirt paired with gray sweatpants….
This is a bad idea.
“You know what, we can talk in the morning,” I grumble, telling my body to move away, but it doesn’t listen.
“No, we’re talking now,” he commands, and with a swift tug, he pulls me into his suite.
Fuck.
He slams the door shut.
“Sit,” he orders, dragging me to the living room that looks somewhat like mine. The layout is similar, except I have four bedrooms, and it looks like he only has two.
“Again, I’m not your puppy, Storm. You will not order me around.”
Storm stares at me, and I hold his gaze. I won’t back down from him.
“Sit down,” he says slowly, enunciating each word. “Please.”
I fidget, wondering if I should push back again like I want to. After all, I haven’t made it to where I am in life by letting anyone run over me. But this is Storm, and we’ve got a lot of shit to lay out, and me being antagonistic isn’t a good way to establish a co-parenting relationship.
And yes, that’s the only type of relationship Storm and I will have. Period.
I lower to the sofa.
Storm takes a seat on the armchair diagonal to my spot, and he slings his leg up to rest his ankle on his opposite knee.
And he goes silent. Still.
As if he were a snake waiting to strike.
“Well, you wanted to talk, so talk,” I say, my tone and spine firm and unwilling to let him play games. Even now, I can see his stunt of coming to the door in a state of undress for what it is: a mind game.
“Why did you answer the door without clothes?” I blurt out, and Storm’s face barely moves when he answers.
“I went for a run to burn off some energy. It lasted longer than I’d planned. I hopped in the shower before you came.”
I nod slowly, accepting his statement, even if I’m still skeptical of his motivations.
Storm tilts his head to the side, his moss-green eyes colder than I’ve ever seen them. He’s never looked at me like this.
Like…I’m someone he abhors.
“Do they know?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Who?” I ask with numb lips.
He inhales slowly, that blank expression never leaving his face.
“My children. Tempest and Raiden,” he replies slowly, seeming to caress their names as he says them. “Do they know who their father is? Have you ever shown them a picture or told them my name?”
With each word, a mix of anger and hurt hardens their delivery, and by the end of his sentence, his eyes have gone from frigid to a blazing inferno.
My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach, because the answer is….
“No,” I say, infusing as much clarity into the world as possible. “I haven’t told them anything about you.”
He inhales a startled breath, a hand flying to his chest where he rubs the space over his heart. It’s an absent, distracted movement, as if he’s physically trying to keep the organ from falling out of his chest.
“So what? They think they were born from immaculate conception? Or do they think some other nigga is their daddy?” He leans forward at the last question. “Zane Gibson, perhaps?”
I shake my head, my heart rate picking up.
“No, they don’t think that. They haven’t even really met Zane.”
He makes a rough, disbelieving sound.
“They haven’t! I’ve told them…” I stop, completely drawn into his gaze.
I get a flash of…something. Not a memory, not a premonition.
It’s almost like an alternative timeline, and in it, Storm and I didn’t break up, and instead of sitting with me in outrage, he sits there while we discuss us.
Or what schooling would look like for the twins.
Or him begging me to finally let him put another baby in me now that I’ve “arrived.”
He wouldn’t look at me as if he hated me. He would look at me as if he loved me.
Tears flood my waterline, and I look down at my lap, twisting my fingers to prevent them from falling.
“You told them what , Shae?” Each word is like a bullet to my chest.
I suck in a shaky breath and speak through the nausea.
“I’ve told them their father lives far away and can’t see them.”
Storm goes quiet, still, and searing pain shoots up and down my esophagus.
“Storm, I’m sorry?—”
“ No, ” he grinds out. “Save your sorrys.”
I swallow, an edge of fear and indignation warring within me. I’m not a weak woman. I can stand up to all sorts of intimidating people and make them kneel.
But right now, that ability is thoroughly absent in my soul.
“Were you ever gonna tell them about me?” he snaps. Hardness coats his face, and the only tell of his agitation is the way his chest rises and falls with his staggered breathing.
“I…I planned on telling them if they asked when they are older. When they could decide if they wanted to find you.”
Storm hums.
“And if they never asked? If they lived their lives thinking there was a man out there who knew of their existence but chose to stay away? What would you do then?”
There’s so much hurt and outrage lacing the words, and I can’t look at him. I shouldn’t feel guilty. I shouldn’t feel guilty.
“I tried ,” I plead, then suck in a breath, remembering one of the last things he said to me.
Don’t beg.
I feel sick.
“You didn’t try hard enough,” he spits.
“You made it impossible!”
“You can figure out how to go to Harvard with two kids, but you aren’t resourceful enough to make sure I knew I was going to be a father? Fuck outta here with that.”
“Storm—”
“Why didn’t you put me on the birth certificates? Were you unsure? Were you fucking around on me? What was it, Shae?”
I make a horrible sound in my throat, unable to form words all of a sudden. It’s like I’m choking, my tongue going thick in my mouth.
“What? Can’t talk now? You were talking big shit earlier today, and now you’re mute?”
I shake my head, a weak attempt at grounding myself.
“Can we take a breath?—”
“God damn it, Shae! You erased me. You taught our children that I don’t fucking exist!” he yells, standing abruptly and grabbing the nearest object, which happens to be an avant-garde vase. It smashes into a million shards when he throws it against the wall near the front door.
I squeak, pulling into myself, hiding.
The room goes quiet, the only sounds our agitated breaths.
This is much worse than I thought it’d go.
After a full minute, Storm speaks in a voice so soft, I almost miss it.