BLOODY WEDDING, PART I
CONNOR
The first time Haven slept through the night beside me without waking up whimpering, screaming, or needing me to give her another sedative, I stayed awake next to her until morning just in case.
Not because I thought something was wrong.
For once, it was the opposite. She was curled on her side in the center of our bed, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting against my chest where she’d shoved it before falling asleep, like she wanted proof that I was still there even when her mind finally let her rest.
Her hair is longer than it had been when I brought her home last year. I offered to cut it for her if it was bothering her, and she wrinkled her nose as she gestured to my pocket. I laughed, saying that I don’t use my knife for everything, and she just sniffed, obviously disagreeing with me.
That’s not the only physical change I’ve noticed.
She’s gained a little weight, too. Not a lot.
Never as much as I’d like, because my lovely wife is still stubborn as hell even when it comes to something as simple as finishing her breakfast—plus some of the Offering training from when she was a kid has definitely held—but enough that her collarbones don’t look like they’re trying to cut their way out of her skin like they did after her time held by Winter and his goons.
She’s gorgeous, and she’s mine, and it was a shock when it hit me that she looked peaceful for the first time that I’ve ever noticed when she was in my presence.
So, yeah. No surprise, I fucking panicked.
I spent hours watching her breathe, counting each slow rise and fall of her chest, reminding myself that sleeping quietly was a good thing. She’s suffered from nightmares ever since I brought her home to me and even if she missed one night of them, that had to be progress.
I asked her about them once. I wanted to know what had her waking up whimpering, reaching out for me, clutching me as though I was the only thing she could believe in.
I knew it had something to do with those six weeks she was out of Harmony Heights.
Sometimes she brushed me off, telling me she didn’t want to talk about it.
Others, she couldn’t even find the words to snap at me to leave her alone.
And then there were the mornings and the middle of the nights when her tears were answer enough…
They’re not as frequent now. A year after I rescued her, she’s doing so much better than she was.
So am I.
Mostly.
Okay, fine.
I still watch her sleep when I can’t, but now she usually wakes up, opens one grey eye, and tells me to stop being creepy before shoving her cold feet beneath my thigh and falling back asleep.
Or, if I’m lucky—and I consider myself super fucking lucky every single day that Haven Heyward wears my ring—then she shoves me onto my back, tugs on my cock if I’m not already hard as a stone, and climbs on top of me to rock my world before she passes out again, my cock still inside of her where her pussy can keep it warm the same way as her love keeps me fucking alive.
That’s another reason why I delight in my own insomnia. Those six weeks destroyed me in a way, too. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over my fear of falling asleep only to wake up and discover that Haven is gone again. When it comes to nightmares… I have my fair share of those suckers.
I dream that she says she hates me. Unlike every other time she has, I don’t smugly tell her she’s lying. In my nightmare, she really does hate me, and no amount of playing the part of charming Connor Heyward will get her to change her mind.
I dream that she’s wearing a white wedding dress, only instead of her walking down the aisle to me, I watch her head toward Adrian. I dream that she kisses one of my oldest, closest friends, and when I attack Adrian with my knife, I accidentally stab Haven instead.
I dream that I never found her; at least, not alive. In the worst of my nightmares, I arrive at the warehouse too late. She’s lying on the floor, a broken doll, gone where I can’t save her.
I hate that one the most. Mainly because it’s so close to what could have happened, it takes a moment after waking to remember that I did save her. I did manage to bring her home—and that’s where she is, a year later.
This morning, neither one of us is sleeping.
Haven is currently standing in the kitchen wearing one of my t-shirts as a sleepshirt, a pair of pink fuzzy socks I ordered for her because she told me her toes were cold, and the gold wedding band I put on her finger ten months ago while she was still asleep because I knew she would overthink it if I asked while she was awake.
She called me a psycho when she realized the ring wasn’t an engagement ring, but a wedding band for our ceremony later that afternoon.
Then she went through with it anyway, which, in my opinion, means she shouldn’t complain about my methods.
Now that she found her voice again, she complains so much.
It’s one of my favorite things about her.
“Stop staring,” she orders, not looking up from the cutting board.
My grin stretches before I can help it. “Can’t. Medical condition. I always have to be looking at the most stunning creature in the room or else I might go blind.”
Her knife pauses as she shoots me a look that says: I can’t believe I love you.
But she does. I have her first initial carved into my groin to prove it. And, just in case she denies it, the last time she said it out loud, I had my recording app going. Now I can hear Haven Heyward tell me she loves me even when she struggles a little and loses her voice again.
It happens. While she’s decided to give life with me a try, I’d be a fucking fool if I believed that our happily-ever-after somehow cured her of all of her past trauma.
Nothing short of going back in time and stopping her from leaving for her volunteer shift might, and since not even the combined fortunes of the Smith-Heyward household is enough to purchase a working time machine, the two of us are just taking each day at a time.
I blow Haven a kiss. She rolls her eyes, and goes back to chopping with her knife.
It’s not my pocketknife. That one is currently in my jeans pocket where it belongs, even if Haven has stolen it enough times that I’m considering buying her her own next Christmas if I can get her to promise not to slit my throat while I’m sleeping; she seems to like me these days, but you never know.
The one Haven is holding is a kitchen knife, small and sharp and currently being used to slice strawberries into thirds because Haven woke up this mid-June morning and decided that she was going to make breakfast for me.
She’s doing a terrible job, and it’s so fucking charming, I’m thrilled by the attempt regardless.
The strawberries are uneven. The toast burned. I’m pretty sure the eggs are somehow both undercooked and overcooked at the same time.
You know what? I’ll eat every bite, and because my sweetheart made it with love for me, I’ll fucking enjoy it, too.
Haven finally glances over at me, narrowing her gaze suspiciously at me. “What are you up to, Connor?”
“Me?” I shake my head. “Nothing. Just waiting to eat.”
She doesn’t buy it. “Your face is doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you’re thinking something deranged and pretending it’s romantic.”
“That’s just my face, baby.”
Her mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close enough that I feel it deep in my chest.
A year ago, Haven barely looked at me unless she was calculating how much force it would take to stab me with a pen.
Nine months ago, she still went quiet for hours after every nightmare, disappearing into the panic room in the basement she once called her sanctuary while I sat on the other side of the locked door and reminded myself that true love meant not breaking it down unless she was a danger to herself.
Now, she moves through my kitchen like she belongs here, in adorable fuzzy socks while muttering about how she knows I’m up to something because she knows me.
A year after I finally stopped pretending to be the Connor Heyward most of Harmony Heights thought they knew, Haven finally does know the real me…
She still has bad days. I don’t think those will ever disappear completely, as much as I wish they would.
There are mornings when she wakes up with her voice gone again, when the words are trapped somewhere I can’t get to no matter how much I want to tear the world apart to retrieve them.
There are nights when she reaches for me, and others when she can’t stand to be touched.
Sometimes she wants the door open. Sometimes she wants it locked.
Sometimes she looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping her grounded, and sometimes she looks at me like I’m only another wall between her and freedom.
But you know what? I take what she gives me.
Every snarl. Every kiss. Every whimper and each time she lashes out, slapping me, then pulling me close, clinging to me as she lets the tears flow…
I take it all, knowing that Haven loves me as best as she can while I love her more than enough for both of us.
The doorbell rings.
Haven’s hand tightens around the knife.
Mine goes to the one in my pocket.
A second later, my phone buzzes with an alert from the security system. Last year, after Barry Wise showed up at my house, I added another camera to the front of it. Now I don’t need to answer the door if I don’t want to, and I open the app to see who is at the porch.
The screen shows that it’s Sebastien. His brown hair is mussed from the motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm, his expression unusually serious. As I watch, his hand lifts toward the camera like he knows I can see him.
Because he does.
Haven looks at me. “Who is it?”
“Bas.”
She sets the knife down, then immediately picks it back up again.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart? You expect him to attack you over the strawberries?”