Page 27 of Make You Mine

Chelsea

It’s nearly noon, the roast is perfect, the table is set, and the children are playing in the next room. All that’s missing is my husband.

I smooth down the front of my dress, fussing with the hem though it’s already pressed flat, then reach up to pat the loose waves I’ve put into my hair using Amerie’s curling wand.

The mirror in the front hall reflects back a version of myself I rather like—bright-eyed, flushed with purpose, radiating the soft glow of someone who’s finally come into her own.

The lady of the house, just as I ought to be.

My lips, painted a rose-petal pink, lift into a smile that’s almost girlish as I hear the unmistakable crunch of tires on gravel, followed by a car engine dying.

He's home.

My heart gives a dainty flutter as I spin around, preparing to open the door and greet him the way a good wife should—arms open, smile warm, hot meal waiting on the table.

But before I can even cross the threshold, Willow darts ahead of me, little legs flying as she throws the front door open with a delighted squeal.

"Daddy!”

I pause mid-step, my smile faltering for just a second as she launches herself into his arms. I’ve noticed she’s been a touch withdrawn all morning, lips pressed tight over her cereal, glancing toward the windows like she expected someone to materialize from thin air.

I’d assumed it was simply the oddness of her mother and father being away, but children are adaptable.

She just needs more time to bond with me and forget about her.

That’s all.

Declan scoops her up with a grunt, burying his face in her curls as he whispers something I can’t make out, though I do hear the soft laugh that follows and the affectionate murmur of, “There’s my Widget.”

It’s a sweet father/daughter moment that belongs to the two of them. But it cuts that I’m ignored as if I’m not standing right beside them.

He doesn’t even look at me at first. He’s still holding Willow when he finally steps past the threshold and offers the briefest nod in my direction.

“Cheers for staying last night. For looking after them.” His voice is rough with exhaustion, but there’s no warmth in it. No gratitude in his eyes.

I blink, frozen in the entryway like an afterthought, the edges of my vision going tight.

He walks straight past me. Just walks past like I’m invisible.

I follow him into the sitting room where Emmett is already stretching his arms from the playpen, wailing until Declan crouches down and lifts him into his chest with fatherly devotion that leaves me burning.

It isn’t right, that a man can hold such tenderness in his hands and still be so cold to the woman who’s made it all possible. I fed them. I bathed them. I kept the whole house together while he whimpered over his wife.

“Is she… better?” I ask, tempering my voice into a gentle lilt. I approach him from behind, placing a light hand on his shoulder.

He flinches. Actually flinches from me, shrugging off my touch.

His tone is clipped, his words vague. “She’s awake.”

Willow gasps, spinning on the balls of her feet. “Mommy’s awake? When can we see her?”

“Soon,” he says. “She’ll be home today.”

Today.

That word lands like a heavy stone, pressing down on my chest. So she’s coming back. She’s actually coming back.

I swallow the scream that wants to rise and force out a bright little hum instead. My hand smooths over the apron I’ve put on.

“You must be knackered. And starving. I’ve made a proper meal for you—roast beef, gravy, roasted potatoes, steamed veg, bit of crumble for after. Let me sort you out, you’ll feel right again in no time.”

My fingers brush his elbow as I try to guide him toward the kitchen.

He pulls away like my touch scalds.

“I appreciate it, really,” he says, eyes finally meeting mine, but there’s no affection. Only polite dismissal. “But I can manage now. You’ve done enough.”

Done… enough?

He doesn’t stop. He keeps talking, as if he hasn’t just pulled the rug out from under me.

“We’ll pay you four times the usual rate, of course. For the trouble. But you can head off now, Chelsea. Amerie will be home in a few hours. I’ve got it from here.”

The knife turns in my gut.

I smile, the muscles in my face twitching.

It takes every ounce of control not to let it crack.

“Of course,” I say sweetly, my voice syrupy with calm. “I’ll just pop upstairs and gather my things.”

I pivot on my heel and march out of the room, wearing my mask until I’ve rounded the corner. And then… and then once I do it slips, and I can feel it happening again. I can feel myself dropping into the dark well I promised never to go down again.

I climb the stairs with shaking hands and a buzzing energy coursing inside me. They think I’ll go quietly, but they’re sorely mistaken.

They’ve left me no other choice…

Fifteen minutes later, Declan has sat the children down for lunch and come upstairs looking for me, likely expecting to find me tidying up in the guest room, slipping my bag over my shoulder like the good little nanny I’ve always been—quiet, helpful, invisible.

But I’m not in the guest room. I’ve already packed, zipped my things neatly, placed the bag right on the bed like a dutiful exit cue.

He pushes the door open and pauses. I can imagine the furrow in his brow as he sees the empty space, hears the silence. The bag confirms I haven’t just wandered off. I’m still around somewhere.

“Chelsea?” he calls, his voice echoing down the corridor. “Chelsea?”

I listen to the pad of his footsteps as he moves from one room to the next.

The hallway bathroom, the children’s bedrooms, both his and her offices.

Each door opens with a gentle creak, then closes again with a soft snick.

It’s only when he pauses that I know he’s realized the last place he hasn’t checked.

The master bedroom.

He steps tentatively inside, probably assuming I’d never be so bold. And for a few seconds, he must think he’s right.

It looks empty like the others. But I’m already lurking. I’m waiting just for him.

The moment he’s a couple feet inside, I step out from behind the door and swing the large brass lamp with both hands.

The heavy base arcs through the air and connects with a sickening crack against the side of his skull.

The sound is awful and grotesque but also intimate in a way, like bone splitting open due to the sheer weight of betrayal.

He collapses before I fully register what I’ve done. One moment he’s upright, blinking in surprise. The next he’s crumpled to the floor in a twisted heap, his limbs slack and blood trickling down the side of his face.

The lamp slips from my hands and clatters on the floor beside him.

I stand there trembling, my breath catching in uneven little gasps. The sound of children’s laughter floats faintly up from the kitchen, serving as a disturbing contrast to the violence that’s occurred upstairs.

My fingers twitch at my sides as I blink down at him and the shock gradually fades.

“They always make it so bloody difficult,” I murmur under my breath.

It takes me ages to get him situated the way he needs to be, what with the size of him and the fact he’s floppier than a sack of wet laundry.

Declan Keating is no dainty thing—six foot four inches of pure dead weight—and I’m not the strongest. He’s completely out of it, thank god, but that almost makes it harder.

He’s got no tension in his limbs, no cooperation in his muscles.

Just a hulking, unconscious man sprawled on the floor like a fallen tree.

I squat low, knees cracking, and loop my arms beneath his. The moment I start dragging, my back protests with an aching spasm. Each inch is agony, my breaths sputtering out of me, palms sweaty against the fabric of his shirt.

We make it a few feet before my legs give way entirely and I go down hard, landing flat on my arse with a wheeze that rattles my ribs.

I sit there for a second, staring at him. At the man I love. The man who has made it clear he’ll never choose me—not unless I make him.

Then I push myself up again with a sort of manic determination, gritting my teeth so hard my jaw aches.

I hook his arms and heave once more, dragging his upper half onto the mattress with a grunt that sounds more animal than human.

Then I brace my feet against the edge of the dresser and shove until the rest of him rolls onto the bed.

The moment he’s flat on his back, I stagger back a step, chest heaving and sweat beading along my brow and dripping down my spine. My arms are trembling and my whole body feels like it’s been wrung out, but I smile anyway.

I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead and blow out a breath, half-relieved and half-furious.

“Thank fuck for that,” I mutter under my breath. “That was exhausting. I’d say I need a minute, but knowing my sodding luck, he’ll wake up if I so much as blink.”

Fortunately, I’ve already brought up the ropes from the shed in the garden. Something told me I’d need them, and my intuition was correct.

I set Declan up in an impossible web of tight knots, securing his wrists and ankles to the bedposts. I test them, checking to ensure that even a brawny man like him can’t break free.

“And for the finishing touch,” I mutter giddily. I crawl over his unconscious body and stuff a pair of knickers in his mouth.

My knickers, freshly worn.

It’s so naughty that I can’t contain the girlish giggle that bursts out of me.

The gag does the trick.

He jerks awake with a violent start, emerald eyes snapping wide as he realizes something's terribly wrong. His instincts are immediate—pure brute force, all snarling rage and twisted muscle. He wrenches against the ropes with a guttural growl, the bed frame creaking under his strength. For a second, I’m genuinely startled by his level of rage, shrinking back.

I admit, I didn’t expect him to be this… angry.

I suppose the romantic in me was hoping he would be a bit more… repentant .