I handed over my military ID—the one that marked me as a spouse of an active duty Marine—when it was my turn at the gate. As I sat there, I stared at the fence surrounding the base. It was a clear line in the sand.
On one side, I was Declan Holt, husband of Sergeant Hayden Marin, USMC.
On the other, I was Declan Holt, a member ofTheHolt Family, third in charge at Holt Securities and, at last glance, slowly closing in on billionaire status in my own right.
“Here you go, sir,” the guard said, handing my military ID back to me.
I nodded at the lance corporal, pulled away from the guard house, drove through the gate, and turned toward the beach house.
This double-life shit was getting old.
35
HAYDEN
Good intentions and declarations of love. They paved the world. Then reality, unfortunately, sets in, and everything goes to fucking hell in a handbasket. That’s when you’re left wondering how you’re the one standing on the landmine of life.
The float was well behind us, but my unit was gearing up for our next deployment. I wasn’t excited to be leaving Declan again so soon, but at least this time, we had some warning. I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible to nurture this thing between us.
Marriage. Not thing. I rolled my eyes. I’d made that mistake once, and my hubby got his nuts in a twist.
I still couldn’t believe this was my life. I thought for fucking certain I wouldn’t ever do this shit after getting left at the altar. If someone had told me that I would happily stay married if I got hitched during a drunken Vegas wedding, I would’ve suggested they get themselves checked for delusion.
Yet… here I am. Happily married.
Or trying to be.
Declan moved into my apartment on base the morning after my homecoming party. When I woke up at the beach house, I had the chance to take in my surroundings, and fuck me, the place was even more luxurious than I realized. While we were moving Declan’s stuff, I’d called it a mansion. He’d froze, then gave a weird laugh and corrected me, telling me it was just a beach house. A nice one, yes, but just a beach house.
The man was delusional.
Gunny agreed with me when Declan walked away and could no longer hear us. I don’t care if it had started out as a simple beach house, what sat in it’s spot now, wasn’t. It was sprawling, outfitted with top-of-the-line everything, sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, and had private access to a stretch of the California coast.
Whatever it was or wasn’t, between his SUV, my car, and Gunny’s truck, we loaded Declan’s stuff and brought it back to base with us. Considering where he’d been living, I worried he’d hate it. Yes, he’d been there, but living there was different than staying overnight after a hookup.
He’d surprised me. He’d had taken to tiny-ass base housing without complaint, merging our shit together in a way that made it look like it had always been that way. And I didn’t hate it. Coming home from work to see him at the tiny table he bought for the kitchen with his laptop open and paperwork spread out was quickly becoming my favorite part of the day.
When he dragged me out looking for the table, I’d offered him the spare bedroom, telling him he could use it as an office. But he wanted to keep it as a gym, just the way I had it. Gym seemed to be a stretch of the imagination when all it had was a second, probably third-hand treadmill and weight bench with some free weights. It was nothing like the one I spied at the mansion/beach house. That room looked like a commercial gym complete with Nautilus equipment, one of those expensive ass spin bikes and matching treadmill with attached screens, plus a rowing machine. And guess what? It had its own screen.
It was a good thing we kept the gym because I was shocked to learn my husband could fucking cook. I didn’t expect it of him, but nearly every day, when I got home, dinner was on the stove. I’d upped my PT time twice since he moved in, to keep the extra calories at bay. Regular fucking helped, but not enough to combat the southern boy I married’s cooking.
The fucking was out of this world. Our Daddy/boy dynamic rarely bled into our everyday life. Declan wasn’t a typical boy. Submissiveness would never come easy for him, but I wasn’t complaining, not really. We were still finding our way. What I got in bed, or wherever we ended up fucking, was top-shelf fucking stellar. And what I got out of bed was even better.
We did put some rules in place, though. Nothing drastic.
When I mentioned them, he’d scoffed and said, “I’ll follow them if you will.”
That pissed me off.
So much so, that we’d skirted each other the rest of the day, only speaking when absolutely necessary. That day hadn’t been our best one. Then I realized, if I wanted this to work, at least until we found a third, if we ever did, I would need to make some changes as well.
So, I said, “Deal. You text me when you get up and if your schedule changes, and I’ll text when I get to work and before I leave for the house.”
He looked at me and said, “I can live with that.”
Some days were easier than others. Some days were pure fucking hell, but I loved Declan more with every passing day. I loved the person he was and the way he made me feel. I loved how strong he was and how, even though he fought that side hard before giving in, I loved when he submitted to me. The day he sat on the floor between my feet while I played video games was one of the best days of my life.
So, I’d deal with the days when it felt like the world was burning down around us, and we’d never figure out how to make this relationship work because the days the fire was a tiny ember or just a curl of smoke left from the raging inferno more than made up for all the bad days.
