Page 41 of Release Me

‘Fuck’s sake, Rian,’ Anthony’s tone sharpens. ‘When did you become so fucking religious?’

‘I’m not religious, and you damn well know I’m not.’ I rake my hands through my hair. My fingers are actually fucking shaking with rage. ‘But if I had a wife like yours, I’d fucking worship her.’

‘But you don’t have a wife, Rian, because no one forced you into marriage at twenty-four. So mind your own fucking business. Merry fucking Christmas.’ The phone goes dead.

‘Fuck,’ I shout at nobody, my curse echoing off the walls.

My pulse thunders through my ears, but not loud enough to drown out the voice niggling me inside.

Call on her.

Check on her.

Wish her a Merry Christmas at least.

I’m scrolling through my contacts before the thought has even finished rolling through my brain.

I hit dial, barely daring to breathe as the phone rings and rings and rings.

Eventually, it connects. ‘Baby Beckett,’ Rebekka slurs. Her voice hits me like a punch to the chest.

I ache for her.

I ache to be with her.

I ache for everything that we can never have.

But despite everything, despite the hurt inside, even hearing her voice brings a smile to my lips. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she says.

‘Merry Christmas, Rebekka.’ I clear my throat. ‘I thought we dispelled the baby myth, though?’

‘Ha!’ She laughs, and I wonder exactly how much she’s had to drink. ‘Maybe I keep saying it because I’m still hoping you’ll make good on your threat and show me.’

‘Careful what you wish for, sweetheart. It’s Christmas after all. Wishes tend to come true this time of year.’ A grin splits open my face. This woman.

‘Not mine,’ she sighs then, the full weight of the sadness in her tone strikes me like a sledgehammer.

‘Maybe, I can help you with that. Make a wish, and I’ll see if I can make it happen for you.’

‘Okay,’ she pauses, and I think I hear her take a drink. ‘I wish I was married to you instead of that assholeworkingin Dubai. Can you make that happen?’

My heart splits open, for both of us, but in true Rian style, I use humour to hide the hurt. ‘Are you proposing to me, Rebekka? Because that’s what it sounded like.’

‘I think I am, you know.’ She hiccups. ‘There’s just one teeny, tiny, insignificant—and believe me, I meaninsignificant—problem.’ She pauses for effect. ‘I’m already married to somebody else.’

‘He doesn’t deserve you.’ I drop into one of the velvet couches pressed against the far wall.

‘I know, right?’ She laughs, a small, bitter laugh. ‘But I’m learning the hard way that we don’t get what we deserve in this world. We get what we’re given.’

‘Or, we get what we take for ourselves,’ I muse.

‘You going to come over here and take me?’ There’s a daring, flirtatious edge to her tone. It must be the alcohol. Or maybe she’s just finally done with being a good girl while her husband is the baddest bastard around.

‘Sweetheart, if I were to come over there,’ my voice drops dangerously low and husky, ‘I would take you every which fucking way invented.’

A tiny gasp slips from the phone. ‘Maybe we should continue this conversation over FaceTime.’

‘FaceTime isn’t going to cut it, sweetheart,’ I growl. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’