“I already do,” I admit quietly. He knows that. “I’ll never be good enough for her.”
“No,” he agrees. “You won’t. And I’ll never be good enough for Riley.”
I glance at him.
“But sometimes,” he continues, “you have to be greedy enough to take what they’re offering. We’re never going to be good enough. But we fight like hell trying to be.”
I swallow. “She was raped.”
Spike doesn’t flinch. “Does that change how you feel about her?”
“No,” I snap. “It makes me fucking furious. If I hadn’t pushed her away, she would’ve been safe in my arms that night. Not beaten and violated by that bastard in Maverick’s basement.”
“He still there?” Spike asks calmly.
“Too early,” I say. “He put ninety-seven cuts on her body. I’m keeping him for ninety-seven days of play with the twins.”
Spike huffs a dark laugh. “Sick fuckers. I can’t wait to join them in a few days.”
Across the room, Max and Lila wave as they head out, leaving Bree in Foster’s capable hands.
Spike straightens from the wall. “Get your shit together, brother. My sister is standing on the edge of a cliff when it comes to you. You’ve got two choices. Push her off… or pull her back.”
I nod, already forming a plan.
“And Tank,” he adds.
I look at him.
“Do it before she takes the decision out of your hands and fucking jumps.”
With the last blow landed, Spike turns and heads to his office.
***ABBY***
“Delivery,” Eli calls from somewhere in my house.
“In my office,” I call back.
It’s been two weeks since I moved back into the compound. Two weeks since I stepped away from running the shop and focused on what I love most…designing.
Two weeks of pure contentment.
Minus the nightmares.
“I brought coffee and lunch,” Eli says as he enters, setting everything on my desk.
“Thank you,” I smile. “I haven’t pulled myself away from this dress since six this morning.”
“Looks like you’re almost finished,” he says, nodding toward the most extravagant wedding dress I’ve ever made.
“Pretty much,” I admit, moaning softly as the coffee hits my tongue. “I just need to add more crystals to the back, and then I’ll probably add some to the veil too.”
“How much are you charging her?” he asks. “Because, honey, this dress is freaking magnificent.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling my face heat. “She’s paying a hundred grand. Which is a lot for a no-name brand like me. I tried to talk her down to seventy, but she flat-out refused.”
“You need to stop doing that,” he laughs. “You don’t bargain people into paying you less for your work. Your name might not be Vera Wang big yet, but one day it will be.”
