“Does it sound like I’ve only wanted you for three days?”
After he cleans us both up, he tows me inside, where we embark on a whirlwind of wedding traditions. We exchange vows. He slides a stunning pink diamond ring on my finger, which is encircled by smaller white diamonds on a platinum band, popping against my other jewelry; he chose coordinating wedding bands for us as well. And we become husband and wife at Chapel in the Clouds with my most beloved classic rock songs warbling in the background.
I bet my mom would’ve thought this was pretty cool. The music. The city lights. The spontaneity. It’s all so her. The ache of her absence hits me so deep that my insides twist.
Gage is our only guest. It’s lonely and not at all how I envisioned this momentous occasion, but his boisterous, “Welcome to the family. You’re one of us now, angel,” in the form of a bear hug is endearing, so I try to hold on to that.
We eat cake and candy and sip champagne. And somehow, Ty senses how palpable the loss of my mom is tonight, so he asks me questions and encourages me to share everything I remember—treasures that didn’t incinerate with her, but are often kept with her ashes. Not with him though. Here, they are alive and well.
So, anytime my heart pangs with the alarming cognizance of how shattered my brothers will be, I remind myself that we can do it again with them later. That we can endure all the heartbreak between us because I’m where I belong, and they’ll see that. They all respect Ty. If he’d expressed interest in me prior to the Skulls incident, I think they would’ve been in favor of this. Maybe this marriage was wise. They’ll fuss less over a done deal.
As Ty sweeps me into his arms for a husband-and-wife dance, I extend my gratitude for the gift he bestowed upon me tonight. “I’m good. This is my blueberry fields and rain. Us.”
His shoulders droop as he pecks my nose, and the glum cloud from his steamy shower encapsulates every craggy breath he releases. “Not yet, Little Moon. We’ll find our way there. But this was field prep. We still have to endure the burn.”
TY
Crunch. Squeak. Blood. One wrong choice.
The thing about nightmares stemming from flashbacks, the remembrance of real-life horrors that never loosen their grip, is that they can’t be brushed off or dismissed. They aren’t a fabrication of an overworked mind or a weary psyche. They happened. They’re mine.
My memories. My past. My story. My terror.
So, it’s hard to know what’s true. To draw a line between then and now, here and gone, mourning and moving on. It’s jumbled and suffocating and chained by shame. The antithesis of freedom.
My prison.
I’ve been locked up my entire adult life. A captivity I vowed I’d never inflict on another soul, which is why I strive tirelessly to be outwardly optimistic. To spare those I love from being bound by my shackles.
But here I am. Clipping the wings of the freest spirit I’ve ever known.
Buried inside her while she peacefully sleeps because she’s become my refuge.
And I’ve become her bondage.
We returned to the Vegas house last night as husband and wife. I took immense pleasure in consummating the marriage and watching her radiant face illuminate with pleasure. For fleeting minutes, here and there, a greater happiness than I’d ever known enveloped me. But it was always met by the shame of what I’d sentenced her to. The fear of losing her. The rage that someone thought about harming her.
When I finally drifted off, visions bombarded my rest—my murdered mom and sisters; Steve’s cold, beady eyes; Wells climbing into the truck with a beaten Ivy curled around him; Celeste, bruised and battered after being attacked; the rapist I stabbed in the Middle East until I couldn’t form coherent sentences, moments before we were bombed and thrown and taken prisoners and tortured.
And Rena, plummeting from that beam into the hands of those monsters, who wanted to do unspeakable things to her. All the while, I stood helplessly by. Waiting for the right moment to act. Thank God that part wasn’t a memory, only a terrifying lie my mind conjured up based on a truth.
Waiting means loss.
I woke to an angelic, tear-soaked face and Rena’s pleas to let her help me. And swarming guilt over the pain that I was already causing her before we even concluded our first day of marriage.
But I took her up on her offer and persuaded her to let me sleep with my cock inside her because there was no greater solace. She was more than amenable. My girl eagerly agreed. And it worked.
By the brightness of the sun bursting through the sliver of undraped window, it’s got to be at least noon.
I have never slept this late. Nor have I ever slept that soundly.
My Little Moon is magical.
And warm and wet and tight.
Her breaths are so even and serene—a consoling melody washingover the crook of my neck. We’re chest to chest, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. Pink-and-gold strands fan to reach my forehead and bicep and pecs. I’m coiled around her like a snake seizing his innocent prey. Arms and legs engulfing her tiny frame. My nose burrowing into her sweet berry-scented hair and my steel cock nestled snug in her heat.
She’s a goddamn sanctuary.
