Melissa paid the driver and climbed out, Danika bouncing ahead of her toward the front steps. I followed more slowly, my heart in my throat, watching as she unlocked the door and pushed it open.
She didn’t close it behind her.
Her message was clear:Follow me if you dare.
I stepped through the doorway and stopped dead.
The house wasfurnished. Completely, beautifully, impossibly furnished. The empty shell I’d left behind had been transformed into a home. Warm rugs on the hardwood floors, comfortable furniture arranged in the living room, photographs on the walls, toys scattered in the corner where Danika was already playing.
“You moved in,” I whispered, my words coming out more confused than I’d intended. She didn’t respond. She just stood there in the middle of the living room, her back to me, her shoulders rigid with tension. I took a step closer. “Melissa, I—”
The slap came out of nowhere.
One second, I was reaching for her, and the next, my head snapped to the side, as the sharp crack of her palm against my cheek echoed through the room like a gunshot. The sting was immediate and fierce, radiating across my face in waves of heat.
I didn’t move. Didn’t raise my hand to my burning cheek. Didn’t do anything except stand there and take it, because God knew I deserved it. Deserved that and so much more.
“Youbastard,” she hissed. The venom in her voice was like acid. “You selfish, cruel, heartlessbastard.”
I kept my eyes on hers, watching as six months of pain and rage and abandonment came pouring out of her.
“You left me.” Her voice was shaking now, rising with each word. “Youleftme, Rowen. You made me promises. You told me you’d come back, that we’d have a life together, that you’d be there, and then you justdisappeared. Six months. Sixmonthsof nothing. No calls, no messages, no way to know if you were even alive.”
I wanted to explain. Wanted to tell her about the phones that couldn’t be trusted, the enemies who would have used any connection to her as a weapon, the impossible choice between keeping her safe and keeping her close. But I knew better. I knew that explanations would sound like excuses, and excuses were the last thing she needed to hear.
So I stood there and let her rage wash over me like a cleansing fire.
“Do you have any idea what that was like?” She cried now, tears streaming down her face even as her voice grew stronger. “Waking up every morning not knowing if you were dead or alive? Going to bed every night wondering if I’d ever see you again? I waspregnant, Rowen. Pregnant and alone and terrified, and you weren’t there. You weren’tthere.”
Each word was a knife, and I welcomed the pain. Deserved it. Had earned it with every day of silence, every choice I’d made that put the war before her, every moment I’d convinced myself that staying away was the same as keeping her safe.
“I thought you were different,” she continued, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I thought you actually meant it when you said you loved me. But you’re just like everyone else. Just another man who makes promises he can’t keep, who walksaway when things get hard, who chooses power over the people who need him.”
That one hurt worse than the slap. Worse than anything else she could have said. Because there was truth in it, a kernel of ugly, undeniable truth that I’d been refusing to acknowledge for six months.
Ihadchosen power. Had chosen the war and the consolidation and the impossible task of building something stable enough to walk away from. Had convinced myself that it was all for her, that every drop of blood spilled and every alliance forged was bringing me closer to the moment when I could come back and offer her a life free from the violence that had defined mine.
But in doing so, I’d left her to face her own war alone.
“I hate you,” she sobbed; her words were like bullets. “I hate you for leaving. I hate you for making me love you. I hate you for coming back now, when I’d finally started to accept that you were gone. I hate you, Rowen. Ihateyou.”
I knew she didn’t mean it. Not really. Could see the lie in the way her voice broke on the words, in the way her hands shook as she wiped at her tears. But I also knew she needed to say it. Needed to give voice to the rage and pain and betrayal that had been building inside her for six months.
So I stood there and took it. Every word. Every accusation. Every justified condemnation of the choices I’d made.
“You broke my heart,” she whispered finally, her voice raw and broken. “You broke my heart, and I don’t know if I can forgive you for that.”
The fight seemed to drain out of her all at once. Her shoulders slumped, her hands falling to her sides, her entire body sagging under the weight of everything she’d been carrying. The tears kept coming, silent now, tracking down her cheeks in endless streams.
I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I closed the distance between us in two strides and pulled her into my arms, wrapping her in an embrace that was equal parts desperation and apology and the overwhelming relief of finally being able to touch her again. She stiffened at first, her body rigid against mine, her hands pushing weakly at my chest. But I held on, held her like she was the only thing keeping me tethered to the Earth, like letting go would mean drowning in the darkness I’d been fighting for six months.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered into her hair, my words inadequate but necessary. “God, Melissa, I’m so sorry.”
She made a sound that might have been a sob or might have been something else entirely, and then her resistance crumbled. Her hands stopped pushing and started clutching, fisting in my jacket as she buried her face against my chest and let herself break.
I held her through it. Held her as she cried out six months of pain and fear, and loneliness. Held her as her body shook with the force of emotions too big to contain. Held her like I should have been holding her all along, like I’d failed to do when she needed me most.
