Rika
I'mstandingbarefootinmy driveway, my heart hammering against my ribs, and I can't catch my breath.
Not from the frantic scramble to get dressed, though that was bad enough—I had yanked on yoga pants and an oversizedcardigan while Noah practically vaulted down the stairs—and not from the lingering warmth still buzzing through my body.
No. I can't breathe because Mitchell's ridiculous little red sports car is idling in my driveway.
"Mitchell." My voice comes out tight and high. "What happened? Where are the kids?"
Mitchell is already at the back of the car, yanking open the trunk with sharp, angry movements. His lavender wings are stiff and flared behind him and his face is set in harsh, angry lines. No, scratch that. When his lips are pursed the way they are right now, it means he's furious.
And he doesn't even glance my way. He hauls a suitcase out and drops it heavily on the driveway without looking at me.
Then another. Then a backpack. Zoe's backpack.
My mind swirls around in a thick ooze as my gaze trails to the rear window of Mitchell's car. I see them there, and my anxiety lowers just a fraction. But it doesn't last long.
Zoe and Matthew sit in the back seat, side by side and silent. Matthew's face is pressed against the glass, his purple eyes red and swollen, tears streaking down his round cheeks. Zoe's expression is blank and hard as she stares stubbornly in front of her, her arms crossed over her chest, lips pinched to a fine line.
Something is very, very wrong.
"Mitchell, will you stop!" I turn to my ex-husband, still busy throwing the kids' stuff onto my driveway. "Talk to me! Are the kids okay?"
Mitchell doesn't look at me. He just drops another bag on the driveway with a thud that makes me flinch.
"The kids are definitely not okay," he snaps, his voice cold and clipped. "And that's on you."
"On me?" I blink. "I have no idea what you're even talking about."
"Save it." He straightens up, finally turning to face me, and that's when he stops mid-sentence.
His lavender eyes rake over me from head to toe, taking in the damp hair still clinging to my neck, the cardigan clutched closed over my chest, the bare feet on the cool concrete.
The just-fucked look I'm definitely radiating.
His gaze sharpens and then it flicks past me toward the front porch. I feel the shift in his attention like a cold wind and turn slightly to follow his gaze.
Noah is standing on the porch. He looks the very picture of male temptation, with his sex-mussed hair, t-shirt, and jeans. He's also as barefoot as me.
Yeah. The picture is pretty clear, even for someone as self-absorbed as Mitchell.
My stomach twists with dread. Because I know exactly what this looks like.
It looks like we've been fucking. Which is exactly what we were doing.
Mitchell's expression twists into something ugly, into something disgusted and triumphant all at once. His lip curls as he looks from Noah to me and back again.
"Is this why you wanted to saddle me with the kids over spring break?" His voice drips with venom. "So you could fuck the new help?"
The words land and heat floods my face. Humiliation and fury mix into something that makes my wings snap tight against my back.
I glance at the car and see that Zoe is watching me. I don't need her verbal confirmation to know she heard everything.
"Mitchell, the kids can hear you," I begin, lowering my voice in the hopes that Mitchell gets the message.
"Don't." He holds up a hand, his voice rising. "Don't you dare stand there and lie to me. I can see it all over you. You've been fucking the nanny."
Anger flares in my chest and my cheeks are on fire. What right does he have to put me on the spot like that? After everything he did?
