I could have subdued her in a second, but I didn’t want to injure her. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Deflecting her flying hands, I grabbed my boots and bolted for the door with her chasing and batting my back with her fists. Thankfully, she was naked and couldn’t follow me down the hall, but she hurled curses, and something whizzed past my head, clipping my ear.
I got to my room, grabbed my shit, and beat a fast path to the airport, shaken by her volatility. Gemma wasn’t carefree and quirky; she was unstable. She attached some meaning to our interlude that wasn’t there, and despite my training and skills in observation, I hadn’t seen the signs. Instead, I’d fucked a stranger, betrayed Lilah, and failed myself. All for what—a temporary distraction because I didn’t want to feel encumbered. Whatever my excuse, it was unconscionable.
While waiting to board, I called Lilah. She answered with a sleepy voice.
“Sorry for waking you,” I said, although I was apologizing for much more than that.
“You at the airport?”
“Yeah.”
“You sound weird.”
“Just tired.”
“You sure? I know I pressured you about marriage. But Jay, it’s all right if you need more time. I don’t want you to go off to God knows where stressing about this.”
Her thoughtfulness worsened my guilt and tempted me to promise her anything. “I love you,” I settled for saying, even though it wasn’t the right kind of love.
“I love you too, Jay. Be safe.”
When I arrived at the military base, already a day late, I was ushered into a briefing on my next assignment—a hostage rescue mission. I tucked away my guilt because emotional baggage could get me or my team killed.
By the time I was back on U.S. soil three months later, the memory of Gemma had faded, but not the regret or the relentless disappointment in myself.
I tried harder than ever with Lilah. I tried to be a better man, the man she needed and deserved. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was afraid of marriage. Maybe I cheated to sabotage our relationship. Maybe it was time I grew the fuck up.
The second week of my leave, I bought an engagement ring and planned a dinner at a fancy restaurant that Lilah was excited about trying. I even rented a limo. That night, we were at my townhouse getting ready. Lilah was wearing a short black dress that accentuated every thick curve, and killer heels that showed off long, smooth legs. Her thin braids were pulled into an intricate updo, and her lips, painted burgundy like red wine, parted in a smile as she looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror while putting on dangly earrings.
Lilah was everything any man could want—smart, loving, and sexy. She was a gifted cellist, the section leader for the Colorado Symphony. Music was her passion. And so were dragons. She collected figurines and dragged me to the exhibits. It was nerdy, but I found that endearing.
“You look beautiful,” I said, stripping out of the gym clothes I’d worn to the dojo. Her eyes traveled my body.
“And you are one fine man, Jay Bailey.” She turned from the mirror and smacked a kiss on my lips. “Now hurry up and shower before the limo gets here.”
“I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” I promised, kissing her back.
She slipped away with a grin and exited the bathroom. I’ll never forget that parting look on her face. Happiness and joy as if she knew there was something special about tonight.
I turned on the water taps and quickly washed, willing away the knots in my stomach. Lilah was an amazing woman, and she would be an incredible wife and mother.
When I was done, I stepped out of the bathroom and heard the sound of voices. Lilah’s and…by the pitch, I could tell it was another female. I paused, feeling this prickly sensation. It was the kind of second sense I’d experienced in the field when there was an imminent danger that you couldn’t see but stirred the hairs on your skin.
The tone changed. Then angry shouts mixed with vicious, brutal screams.
In the space of a rapid heartbeat, I knew, Christ, I knew. I raced down the stairs in my underwear, taking them two at a time, my bare feet slapping the hardwood. Panic clogged my throat, and fear slicked my skin.
“Lilah!”
“DEEANA RAE CHASE-PETERS.” That’s a mouthful. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”
“What do you mean?” she asks on the other end of the phone. “What did I do?”
“As if you don’t know.” Still grumpy because I’d missed most of the game and I’m starving, I yank the fridge door open and pull out the box of leftover pizza from Thursday night. “Stiles showed up here this morning after breaking in with a screwdriver, I might add.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To prove how bad my security is.”
