Pieces of Us (Fractured Hearts #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Lance

“Please, sir. I want some more.”

Trussed up in black leather, shackled in chrome, my wife begs to be punished. The whip cracks—a vicious snap that slices the air. Her answering moan makes my stomach churn.

This isn’t foreplay. It’s a punch to the gut I never saw coming. A knife to the heart, I don’t deserve.

Her tongue darts between pink lips, hungry for the next hit. It burns. I know that look, but I never thought I’d see it aimed at someone else.

“You want some of this, wench?” he growls.

I stop breathing. My body locks to the spot.

Hamish Campbell, my oldest friend, strolls to the bed and lifts the blindfold from her eyes. He leans forward, planting a soft kiss on her lips. The air crackles with sex, of what’s been done and what’s to come.

Then he raises the whip and cracks it hard across her stomach. She squeals. Grins. And opens her knees wider. Her hips rise from the bed, and he presses his free palm on her stomach, securing her to the white silk.

Eight months away from home.

Eight months desperate for her to be back in my arms.

Eight months of dreaming of our reunion.

But this is the last scenario I imagined on my return from war—bearing witness to a porno starring my wife.

“Hell... you turn me on, baby,” she purrs. “I can’t believe our months of freedom are up already.”

Freedom. The word slams straight through my ribs.

Her face turns sad and forlorn. The expression flickers, not from guilt or shame, but disappointment. My homecoming is not the celebration for her that it is for me; it’s an interruption to her fun.

A floorboard creaks under my boots as I turn to leave. Ainsley’s head whips toward the door, and our eyes lock through the crack.

“Lance? Shit. Lance. What are you doing here?”

Panic takes hold. She thrashes at the cuffs, desperately trying to free herself. Hamish scrambles to pull on random bits of clothing without looking at me. A gazelle avoiding a lion’s gaze.

“Bloody hell, Hamish. Untie me,” Ainsley screams from the bed, her eyes frantic.

I look from my wife to her lover and back again. She’s distraught. Good, let her feel a fraction of what’s tearing through me.

I don’t shout.

I’ve lived through worse.

But the raw cut through my heart bleeds heavy, every hope I had of coming home fading with it.

“Get dressed. Both of you. I’ll meet you downstairs,” I snarl, walking away before the rage eating me alive wins.

Downstairs, my hands shake as I pour myself a glass of whisky. A big one.

The glass rattles against the oak table my mother gifted us for our wedding. There was no way we could have afforded it ourselves. It’s far too big for the house.

Why we needed such a large table, I’ve never understood. But it was the one Ainsley wanted, so I didn’t argue. Looking around now, I see the truth. This house, our life…it was always built for her. Never for us. My wife bulldozed her way through our world, laying the path as she wanted it.

Needing something stronger, I rummage through the cupboards. My whisky collection is obliterated. Of course, the bastard drank it. Why wouldn’t he? He’s helped himself to everything else. Bastard.

Hamish ambles down the stairs, then stands at the bottom as if waiting for a bus, not like a man who just blew up my marriage.

I’ve known him since we were kids. His family were a huge support to my mother when my father died. Our mothers were extremely close friends.

Our summers were spent thick as thieves. We shared ice cream cones and fished for tadpoles under the warm Scottish sunshine. He was the brother I never had. My best friend through school until I left for the army.

We grew apart over the years, but I thought I could rely on him.

Now I know the truth.

I trusted him with my family, my home, my wife.

He thanked me by fucking her in our bed.

His family owns the bar, The Cooray Inn, where I met Ainsley. He runs the place now. And fucking his staff is his obvious pastime, I think bitterly. No wonder she insisted on keeping on a few shifts a week. I never understood why she loved that job—until now.

He runs his hand through his mop of curly red hair and shifts nervously from foot to foot. A tall man, he can look me in the eye but is built like a beanpole. His pale skin is smattered with spots. He still looks like the awkward kid I knew from childhood.

At least he has the decency to look ashamed of his behavior, but we both know he’s not. Underneath the dropped gaze is a smirk, the mocking smile of a man who believes he’s won. The bastard might as well be laughing at me. Screwing my wife and laughing hard.

The shock that kept me paralyzed for the past ten minutes cracks open, rage flooding through. My fingers clench at my sides, curled into fists. Every muscle tenses, the way it does when I’m waiting for the enemy to take the first shot.

I talk myself down. If I lose my cool, I’ll end up in the cells overnight.

I can’t do that to Hannah.

I won’t be the father who ruins his return home by getting in a fistfight. My daughter deserves so much more than that. Me being away for months at a time is hard enough to deal with, without my temper breaking. And now, she will be facing the destruction of her family, however that may look.

Hamish slides into my view, creeping toward the front door. Clumsily, his shoulder connects with a framed photo of Ainsley, Hannah, and myself on the wall. It crashes to the floor, glass scattering over the wood. My family lie, cracked on the ground, staring up.

“Done with my wife? Or are you not satisfied yet?” My words come out hot, loaded. He’s seen what happens when I’m pushed. He’s witnessed what I’m capable of. My knuckles have slammed one too many jaws over the years.

His mouth bobs like a fish blowing bubbles, but no excuse comes. He just gapes. Mute. His silence does nothing to ease the fury in my gut. Right now, I want to kill him. If this was a warzone, he would have a bullet between his eyes.

“Fucking say something, bro. How could you?”

His gaunt frame startles, vibration running through each limb. His shoulders lift to his ears as if that will make him invisible, like a child covering their eyes in hide and seek. I rise from my chair; he takes a step back.

Then Ainsley appears. “Lance, I know this is a shock…”

She descends the stairs, dressed demurely in a simple white blouse and jeans, suitcase in hand. Her movement elegant, calm, rehearsed, like she’s been practicing this exit for years. She glides to the bottom stair.

“Hamish and I are in love,” she says. “I want a divorce.”

“No,” I bark back, grasping for a semblance of power. Anything I can control in this shitshow.

She shakes her head, flashing me a sympathetic smile. One I want to scrub off her face.

My muscles fire again, ready to fight. My nails dig into my palms, wanting to feel anything but hatred.

“Hannah will be home from school soon. I’ll give you tonight, but please be gone by tomorrow.” Her tone is detached—she’s miles away. “And take Dog with you.”

Take Dog, as if he’s another thing she’s discarding.

“He’s your friend, not mine. Not my problem.”

She takes Hamish’s hand and leads him out my front door.

Her front door, I correct myself.

It isn’t mine anymore.