Afterward, she lies on my chest, her breathing slowed.
I put my hand in her hair, wishing I were satisfied.Instead, my mind wanders to a dark place, constantly returning without permission.
I shouldn’t be doing this.Weshouldn’t be doing this.
I drove back two days early from a city where I had legitimate reasons to stay, and I came directly here, to this room, to this woman who’s sleeping on my chest, and there isn’t a single field mission that makes me as anxious as I was on the way here.
I’m a man for whom attachment is a liability. I understood this about myself long ago. My daughter is the one exception. She is my blood, my life.
And now Elizabeth is becoming another exception.
Can I make her strong enough?
The question surfaces, and it’s genuine. She’s been through enough in the last few weeks to have broken most people. She hasn’t broken.
She came to my office alone and demanded answers even after what she witnessed, which proves that she’s either extraordinarily courageous or exceptionally stubborn.
In her case, it’s probably both.
There’s no doubt she’s stronger than I thought. But is she strong enough forthis?For what this world costs? For what being mine means?
Can I truly have her as my queen?
As Anya’s mother?
The question sinks deep into my chest. I follow it down into the depths, searching for my answer.
I don’t find one.
She stirs slightly in her sleep. Her hand tightens on my chest.
I gaze up at the ceiling and think,Maybe that means she isn’t strong enough...
The air thickens in my lungs.
If she’s not, my world will eat her alive.
Fuck. Can I take that risk?
The doubt starts to creep in. Like invading vines, they slither over my heart until all hope is covered in darkness.
By the time the sun starts to rise, I’m staring down at a black pool. In its inky reflection are my two choices: wait for her to get hurt so badly she may never recover… or push her back into the light… and away from me.
The decisions stare back, rippling, taunting.
For the first time in years, I’m not sure what to do next.
31
ELLIE
“Where are we going?” I ask, standing in front of the closet in my underwear, staring at the options as though one of them might announce itself. “I need to know what to wear.”
“It’s a surprise.” He says it from the doorway, leaning against the frame with the infuriating calm of a man whose only decision is to pick a black suit to be ready for any occasion.
I give him a mocking face. He pushes off the frame and crosses the room to where I’m standing. The closet has expanded considerably. An entire section now holds dresses I’ve never purchased, a variety of cuts and fabrics that arrived in garment bags three days ago, each one tailored to measurements I don’t remember providing. I’ve chosen not to investigate.
He reaches past me and pulls a hanger from the rack. Emerald green satin, fitted. I already know it will fit perfectly. They all do.
