Page 186 of Savage Empire

“Apollo,” Dad begins, but I can’t hear his gentle reprimands right now.

“She could have died,” I snap, teeth clenching hard. “She could have died with our son in her stomach because she still doesn’t trust me. She married me, she said she loved me, and she still doesn’t actually trust me.”

“Son…” He shakes his head. “She made a mistake.”

“A mistake that could have taken her from me.”

“A mistake that you will both regret for the rest of your lives if you let it tear you apart,” he says patiently. “Rayna is a good woman with a hard past. She’s trying to trust you, but fear makes even the smartest people act rashly.”

“You don’t think I know that?” My jaw flexes, mental and physical pain clashing. “You don’t think I want to just forget it? To wrap her in my arms and tell her it’s all going to be okay now? It fucking kills me to see her so upset, but this anger?—”

“Will fade,” Dad interrupts. “I know it seems unlikely, but it will. You need to be there for your wife. You could have lost her, so now you need to hold on to her harder, not push her away. I would have killed to have found love with the mother of my children the way you have. Don’t let your anger take even a minute more of that away from you.”

His words sink in as Anatoly makes his last stitch and begins to wrap up my arm. He’s right, I know he’s right. But fuck if it’s easy advice to follow.

“Why do you always have to be the voice of wisdom?” I gripe, taking another shot of whiskey to try and quell the pain in my side. “Don’t you ever take a night off?”

His responding grin is victorious. “When it comes to my children? Never.”

Anatoly gets the cut in my side disinfected and stitched up within the next few minutes. He wraps it up too, and tells me to come back to him to change them in the morning. Since the stitches are so fresh, I’ll need to wash up in the sink like I’m taking a fucking prison shower. But despite how dirty and sore I feel, the only thing I can think about is my wife.

I find her in our old room, laying on the bed that’s been left here just in case we return for a night or two. Curled up on her side, she’s unmoving in the dark. The only sign of life is her chest slowly rising and falling, but she doesn’t move a muscle as I come in.

She isn’t asleep, that much I can tell from not only her breathing, but the fact that she’s lying on top of the covers. My girl can only ever dose off after tunneling under at least two blankets, needing warmth to soothe herself. And right now, she looks anything but warm and cozy.

She’s stiff, and all I want to do is fix it.

I hesitantly reach across the bed, placing my hand on the top of her hip. I open my mouth to speak, only to feel her flinch hard.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she rasps, voice broken. When my hand doesn’t instantly retract, she thrusts herself forward, moving to the very edge of the bed. “Kiwi, Apollo.”

The word stings worse than obtaining either of my wounds tonight did. It fucking burns in veins, pain spreading like a disease as I realize why she chose to speak it.

“I was going to offer you a hug,” I reply quietly as my chest constricts. “Did you think I came in here to fuck? To punish you for our fight?”

Please don’t say it’s true.

A muffled cry comes from her as she sniffles. “You’re furious at me, I certainly haven’t been expecting you to come and offer me ahug.”

“I’m not furious with you, love.”

“No, don’t call me that,” she snaps, spinning around to face me. Her cheeks are stained with fallen tears and my heart breaks. One look at her devastated face and I wish I could take back everything I said. “You don’t get to call me that when you don’t l-love me anymore.”

“Idolove you,” I insist, eyes imploring her to hear the honesty in my voice. “Rayna, you scared the fucking life out of me tonight. I reacted badly, I snapped at you while I was hurt. Fuck, baby, I was so goddamn terrified. I couldn’t talk to you. Not the way I should have.”

Her lips tremble, and she wraps her arms around her middle. “I d-didn’t mean to.”

“Come here,” I request softly, reaching for her.

My sobbing wife crawls into my arms without any further protest, clinging to me like a life line.

“I’m sorry for what I said?—”

“I’m sorry I left,” she cuts in with a croak, face buried into the crook of my neck. “I should have come to you. It’s all my f-fault that we fought.”

“Your action prompted my anger, but my response was still unacceptable,micina. I don’t want to talk to you that way, ever.”

“You had a bullet in your?—”