Page 39

MERIT

Passing by the hallway mirror, I check my face.

Holt was right. The surgeon was good. Excellent, really.

Fifteen days later, and my scar is healing into a thin pink line. It’s somewhat noticeable, but not glaring. And you can’t even see it when looking at my face head-on.

One more surgery and it will be gone forever.

And that’s what I’ve spent the past few days thinking about. This scar—it’s the pinnacle of the worst fucking twelve months that any human could ever have.

Yet, it’s also been the best twelve months that any human could ever have.

A battle between good and evil. Right and wrong. Forever and never.

And we are…the war has finally been won. And we are the victors.

Me. My husband. My son.

Holt smiles the second I walk in the living room. He’s laid across the couch, holding his cell phone in his right hand while his casted left arm is propped on a pillow. My eyes are instantly drawn to his taut, tan skin. He just finished working out, and he’s shirtless.

I assume my husband is the only man in the world who willingly chooses to work out while recovering from a near-death experience. He said his arm may be broken, but the rest of him is perfectly capable of moving.

I straighten a sagging ornament on the Christmas tree and plop down next to him.

“And everything’s taken care of?” he asks the person on the other end of the line. After a second, he rolls his eyes. “Yes, Rob, I know they haven’t even talked about kids yet. But one day, they’ll have kids, and they’ll know what we went through. I mean, I know they say they understand now, but it’ll make more sense to them once they have their own children. And if they never have kids, we’ll just open the trust to them. I just wanna make sure they’re taken care of.” He lowers his voice and shakes his head. “I could’ve hurt them.”

He’s talking about the people in the other car we hit. Turns out, it was a couple of newlyweds. They just married the summer before and were in town visiting friends. Fortunately, they weren’t even injured when we hit them. It’s a miracle really. It could’ve been bad. Holt’s already given them money for a new vehicle, but he didn’t feel like that was enough. Especially after he found out that they turned down interviews and paydays from every major TV news program, newspaper, and magazine in the country. Everybody wanted to talk to the young husband and wife whom Holt Hill ‘ nearly killed’ in the wild chase to save his kidnapped son. But they refused to talk. They said it wouldn’t be right to exploit our tragedy. So, Holt decided to establish a trust for their future children—education expense, medical expense, things like that. So, they don’t have to worry.

Rob, the new attorney for the Foundation—who’s also acting as our personal attorney—thought the idea was crazy. But he’s slowly learning the man my husband is.

Honorable and loyal. The epitome of a family man.

The complete opposite of Trenton Trevors.

For a while, we were worried the police would charge us with something, despite the assurances from Crutch and Marcum. If not murder, then public endangerment or something like that because of the way we drove through town. But we did what we had to do. That became more evident with everything the police found.

His trunk told a story that would make anyone sick. He packed all of his belongings with no intention of ever coming back. Money, passport, guns, computer. Even an old baseball trophy. His laptop confirmed his plans for our son.

He was going to sell him.

Holt was right; we never would’ve seen Daire again.

There was already a buyer lined up in Mexico.

There was no plan for ransom, even though Holt would’ve given every single penny he had to get Daire back safely. No, Trenton wanted us to wallow in pain. He wanted us to feel loneliness and despair. Just like him.

How do we know?

Also, in the trunk was a handwritten letter already stuffed in an envelope and addressed to Holt and me. It was even stamped. He was just waiting to mail it.

And now he’s dead. And I never thought I would say I was happy to see someone dead, but I am.

Holt’s struggled with it more, knowing that his hands physically killed someone. But at least he’s had people to talk to. Our family. Both Crutch and Marcum were in the military before joining the sheriff’s department. They’ve never come right out and said they’ve killed people—but it’s pretty plain to see. There’s an empathy there that the normal person just doesn’t have.

He hangs up the phone and pretends to make a big show of looking behind my shoulder, down the hall. “Letting our son wander the house by himself? Might I suggest playing with the breakables in the trophy room? Perhaps watching a porno in the theater room?”

Snorting, I toss a pillow at him. He easily catches it with his good hand. “I put him down for his nap early. I swear he understood me when I told him we’re having Christmas Eve supper at Ella’s, so he needed to rest. He immediately yawned and scrunched his butt like he does when he’s ready to snuggle.”

It’s true. Daire’s a genius.

Smartest baby ever.

I lift an eyebrow. “Besides, I better never catch him watching a porno.”

Holt flashes me his sexy grin. The blinking Christmas tree lights shine across his face, highlighting his freckles. “You realize our son will be seventeen one day, right? He’ll be a dirty, filthy-minded little seventeen-year-old. Who watches porno and hides it from his parents.”

I cover my ears with my hands and hum. “You’re lying to me. You promised never to do that.”

Laughing, he pulls my hand down and lovingly kisses my wrist. “You’re right. It’s a horrible lie.” His hand traces my thigh. I can feel his callouses through the thin fabric of my tights. “The doctor’s office called while I was working out. They’re shutting down until after New Year’s and wanted to know if you decided when to have the last surgery?”

I nibble on the corner of my lip. “I’m not gonna have the surgery.”

Confusion shrouds his features. “Huh?”

“You can barely see it. It’s healing so much better than I thought it would. But… he’s right. The doctor, I mean. If he does another surgery, he’ll make the scar disappear forever. I don’t think I want it to disappear forever. I think I want it. To remind me of what we nearly lost. To remind me of what we have to fight for. Me and you.”

He quietly sits, not saying anything.

Nerves fire in my stomach like flaming acid.

“Unless you want me to have the surgery? Unless you find it hard to be attracted to me…” My voice trails off as I reach up and trace the thin line with my finger.

Roughly wrapping his hand around my arm, he tugs me onto his lap, carefully holding his cast out of the way so I don’t bump it. His breath scatters across my face. He smells like mint and sweat and shampoo. “Hey, that’s not possible. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Scar or no scar, that doesn’t matter to me. I want you.” His deep blue eyes stare into mine, boring a hole into my soul. His mouth parts, and his tongue grazes across my lips. His whisper is a growl. A command. A domination. “I fucking want you.”

Desire pours into me, like a waterfall flowing into a river, constantly running, more and more, and never filling up.

Scrambling from his lap, I quickly take off my clothes. His eyes widen, and his cock jumps with every piece of clothing I toss to the side. Looping my fingers in his waistband, he lifts his hips, making easy work of his flimsy workout shorts and boxer briefs.

Every nerve-ending in my body tingles. I want him too. I want him so badly I can’t even think straight.

We’ve only made love once since Daire was taken. And that was just two nights ago. Before then, we were too busy nursing our injuries. Not to mention, my birth control pill should be in full effect now. Two nights ago, we still used a condom. Right now? Hell, no.

I want all of Holt Hill.

Everything he has to give.

“Don’t let me hurt your arm,” I say, mindful of it as I straddle him.

His right hand drags across my breast and down my waist, settling on my hip, pinning me to him with a possessive and protective hold. “I’d let you break the damn thing again just to be inside of you.” He bites the side of my neck, sucking away the pain, intent on branding me. “To feel you. I want all of you. Everything you have to give.”

And once again, he reads my mind. Reads my face. Reads my heart.

Slowly, I lower myself onto him.

And I make love to the famous Holt Hill.

The football player who walked into my store that fateful day in July to buy a pair of purple tennis shoes.