Regrets and Recriminations
Flicka von Hannover
And now, after two long years,
and deeper cracks in my soul than I thought possible,
I am in Dieter’s arms again.
Flicka tried to sleep on the train from Montreux to Paris, but with Dieter’s strong arms around her and his kiss still warm on her lips, her mind buzzed.
Her shoulders and arms hurt where she had wrenched her joints, trying to twist away from Pierre and Quentin Sault in the early morning hours. Her whole body hurt, every bone, every muscle, every cell, down to her shredded soul.
Yet in Dieter’s arms, she could rest. He could protect her. No matter what, even if she tried to distract him, he wouldn’t waver because he was her guardian angel.
She pressed her hand to her thigh, pressing the seam in her pants against her leg, just like she always did when she needed comfort. The gold and diamond brooch pinned inside scratched her skin.
Regrets and recriminations rolled through her brain. Anger shook her that she had been so stupid to believe anything Pierre had ever said. She painfully wished for a do-over for her whole life, every single minute, and she wanted to walk away into the crowd at the train station when they got to Paris and never look back.
She wished that, three years ago, she had knocked the Kensington Palace security guard out of the way and chased Dieter, demanded that he talk to her instead of running away, and forced him to stay with her.
But he had obviously made his decision.
That kiss felt like he had decided something else, now.
Whatever was going on in Dieter’s head would have to wait. She was, quite literally, a victim of domestic abuse by a powerful man who threatened more and worse, and she was on the run, trying to divorce him.
Dieter would have to wait his damn turn.
But she cuddled deeper into his arms as the train sped toward Paris because his strong arms comforted her, and any breath of peace that stilled the maelstrom in her mind was a relief.
