Chapter 10
MARA
Purple lines of dawn streak across the horizon a few hours later as embers smolder in the hearth, but this sunrise is unlike any other.
Warren still holds me, and the heartbeat that lulled me to sleep thumps a steady cadence in my ear and drives away the small moment of panic I felt when I awoke.
After all I’ve been through at the hands of men, never would I have imagined that I would willingly be in the arms of one this soon after finding freedom.
But now that I’m here, I don’t want to move.
Birds chirp outside, their song a reminder that no storm lasts forever.
If they can sing afterwards, so can I. Life has given me nothing but misery and heartache, but in this eighteenth year, it’s now offering me a second chance through Warren, and I’ll be damned if I let happiness for me and Emmaline slip away.
Ignoring the fullness in my breasts for a moment, I press my face deeper into Warren’s chest. He doesn’t have a lot of hair here like the others.
It’s different, and I like it. There’s not much to tickle my nose as I breathe in his scent.
He smells so clean. I sniff until dizziness threatens to overtake me.
It’s a good thing he’s still asleep, because I can’t imagine what he would think of me if he caught me smelling him like a madwoman.
The chirping turns to a lilting melody, every trilling note more comforting than all the hymns I sang in my childhood.
My eyes are swollen from last night’s tears, but my soul is at peace.
God may never grant me the understanding of why he turned his back on me, but maybe I don’t need to know.
Knowledge wouldn’t change anything. Besides, God isn’t the one who’s rescued me twice now.
It’s the man holding me.
The man whose shirt and socks I wear.
“S’okay,” Warren mumbles. “Papa’s…got….” His words trail off, but a flutter stirs in my heart. Even sleeping, he thinks of himself as my baby’s papa.
Easing away from him, I peer down at Emmaline. She’s too adorable with her little fists resting on either side of her head, and the mere sight of her has my breasts burning with the need to nurse. “Look at you, my darling girl,” I whisper.
As if she heard me, her face scrunches up, a sure sign that a cry far too great for her small mouth is on its way.
It’s been too long since she last fed. But how to untangle myself from the arms holding me captive?
Bracing a hand on the edge of the rocker, I slip one foot to the floor and shift my weight. But the damn chair groans.
From sound asleep to fully awake in less than one second, Warren snatches me back to his chest. “I’ve got you,” he rasps sleepily.
“It’s m-morning,” I stammer breathlessly as his confused glance moves between me and our fussing baby. He must have thought he was holding her instead of me.
I’m certainly in an awkward position now.
The flat of my palms barely keeps my full breasts from touching his bare skin, and I can feel my milk seeping through the material and dampening the backs of my hands.
If I angled my chin just right, our lips would touch.
This man’s embrace is a thousand times more intense when he’s conscious and staring into my soul with his whiskey brown eyes.
This close, I can even see the golden ring around each pupil.
“I…” My dry mouth loses any hint of moisture when his fingers rub over the small of my back. “I need to feed her.”
“Mhm,” Warren murmurs in a voice rough with slumber, and his hold tightens as he leans over to check on Emmaline.
“Good morning, Little Bit.” A languid smile parts his lips when he turns back to me, a smile different than any other I’ve seen from him before.
As if the innermost parts of my very soul were laid bare before him, and he accepted them without hesitation and staked his claim on me.
“And good morning to you, wife. Sleep good?” His voice is even deeper now, and the intimate tone has my heart stumbling over itself at the thought of his lips breathing the words into my ear as we lie in bed.
I fight back a shiver, but I’m not cold. Sleeping in his arms awakened a hunger for simple human touch, but nothing about the touch of this man is simple. “I did.”
“My shirt looks good on you, wife.” Warren dips his chin, and I wonder how much of me he can see through the fabric.
If he can see the wetness from my breasts.
A fierce blush burns my cheeks, the likes of which I can’t remember experiencing before, but Emmaline’s demanding cry saves me from any further answer as I snatch my palms back.
As if reluctant to let me leave his lap, his fingers trail across my back until I fully stand and reach for my baby.
“Come here, my sweet girl,” I coo, torn between craving his attention and desperately wanting it off me. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?” Little grunts of annoyance leave Emmaline’s mouth as she jerkily roots at my covered breast in search of milk.
“Here.” Warren stands and guides me back to the rocker. “You can sit here and I’ll get breakfast on for us, okay?”
Distracted by my baby’s furious cries, I sit and undo the buttons, hiding a wince at the soreness that weakens my right hand. I wonder what—oh. Punching the steps maybe wasn’t the best thing to do. When she latches on with a garbled noise, I tip my head back and sigh at the instant relief.
“Does it hurt?” The question has my eyes flying open. I’d thought Warren was in the kitchen by now, but no. He stands at my shoulder and watches with a furrowed brow as Emmaline suckles in hungry gulps.
“My hand?” I wiggle my fingers. “Just a little, but I’ll be okay. It’s not bruised, just sore.”
Warren frowns and lightly captures my wrist. “That’s not what I meant. But what happened to your hand?”
A man.
Touching my hand.
Before I can stop myself, I jerk it back and tuck it under Emmaline’s bottom. Old habits die hard. “Nothing.”
Hurt dashes across his face before he schools his expression and drops to a knee beside me. “Mara, apparently something did happen if it’s sore. Let me see.”
A gentle demand, but a demand nonetheless.
There’s no malice hidden behind the concern.
No threat in his posture even though he’s shirtless.
Truthfully, after last night, it’s clear that hurting me is the last thing on his mind.
With every passing day, he proves to me that he’s nothing like the men I’ve known.
In a silent invitation, he extends his own hand, palm upward, and patiently waits.
Trust has to start somewhere. That’s what he told me my first night here. And it’s just a hand…even if the fingers are twice as big as mine and could easily crush my bones or inflict some other pain. But if his arms bring safety, surely his hands will do the same.
Needing to see his true intentions one more time, I search his face.
He returns the favor, and the weight of his stare is so heavy that my cheeks tingle in its wake.
Decision made, I hesitantly place my palm above his, hovering it close enough to feel the heat emanating from its surface before finally lowering it the remaining distance.
Warm. Callused. Strong. That’s what his hand feels like as it wraps around mine.
“Thank you for trusting me, wife,” Warren says quietly. He carefully rotates my wrist, watching sharply for any hint of discomfort. “Is it here?”
“No.” I close my eyes, but that only amplifies the sensation. Not that it’s a bad feeling. It’s the tenderness that takes a little getting used to. Just like when he brushed my hair last night. “My knuckles.”
“How’d you hurt them?” His thumb slides between each knuckle in a soft caress, and I want to melt in the rocker at how good a touch can feel when the person doing the touching doesn’t intend to render pain.
“The porch steps.” I match his calm, quiet tone, breath catching when he reaches a sensitive spot. “I was mad, so I hit them.”
“Mhmm.” Warren eases his touch but doesn’t release me. “Why’d you hit them?”
“I…I had a birthday.”
“Is that right? When was it?” His face brightens before falling, like he realizes that a birthday might not be a happy occasion for me.
“I don’t know. Some time within the last month or so. I never knew the exact date.”
His fingers carefully brush over my knuckles. “I’m sorry, Mara.”
“It’s fine.”
“You say that, but I don’t think it is.” Warren’s kind tone takes away any sting from his words. “Birthdays are more than just one day out of many that makes you a year older. It’s a celebration of the moment you appeared in this world. No one should be forgotten, and I’m sorry that you were.”
There’s nothing for him to apologize for, but hearing him apologize twice brings on tears that I blink back. He truly sees me, doesn’t he? I’ve been forgotten and unwanted by everyone except this man.
His thumb resumes a gentle caress over the back of my hand. “I think you should choose your own birthday. Change it to a date that has meaning to you. And I swear to you that I’ll make sure all of the next ones are happy. Every single one of them. Emmaline’s, too.”
Our eyes catch, and I wonder if he can see all the words I want to tell him building up in the back of my throat.
I want my next birthday to be tied to a happier memory.
Instead of marking the years by the death of chrysanthemums, maybe it could be marked by the day Warren carefully and tenderly pieced my shattered soul back together.
“I think today would be a good day,” I whisper through trembling lips.
Warren’s hold flexes. “So do I.”
For a moment, all is quiet but for Emmaline.
But before the quiet can turn awkward, Warren grins a little.
“Now just so you know, these hands are too pretty to go around hitting things like that. You wanna let out some anger or frustration, I’ll take you out to the back field and let you shoot my gun. ”