Page 52 of The Spare (The King Dynasty #2)

Chapter thirty-one

Hard Truths

" M ari." I half turn, looking towards the corner of the bedroom where Maribel stands with her back to me in a floor-length pale gold nightgown, looking out the window.

Her dark hair spills down her back, molding to her curved waist and flowing over her lithe arms. At almost fifty-nine, time has been very kind to her, and if you didn't know her you wouldn't be able to tell she was a day over forty.

The wind whips against the window pane as if the elements themselves can't help but to mirror the anxiety and anger that radiates off her in waves so strong they reach to where I stand on her side of the bed waiting for her, but it's a futile effort. She's not coming.

Her arms are folded, and she doesn't even bother to acknowledge I've called her, much less I'm even in the room.

"Mari?" I call again.

Finally she turns her head to the side to look at me, and as our eyes meet that stare of hers pierces me down to my soul.

"How. Dare. You," she whispers through trembling lips, something akin to hate swims in her eyes, and I balk at the fervor of it.

It causes me to feel hot, and my heart to freefall into my stomach.

She's never looked at me like this before.

"I'm sorry, honey," I plead, needing her to reassure me.

Needing her understanding, because for so long she's been the only one who's seen the depth of my hurt.

The only person who's witnessed how the strain of shouldering King Dynasty alongside my mental and emotional anguish has eroded my sanity and left me broken at the worst, and at my best, depleted.

But I think I've reached the end of my rope with her.

I roam her features greedily, as always. Her usual bright eyes are dulled, her face is washed out and there are bags under her eyes.

When did that happen…

I swallow uncomfortably.

"I don't want your 'sorrys,’" she says in a hard voice that shocks me.

Her jaw is tight with tension, and her eyes are filled with pain.

She turns to face me, keeping her arms folded, and her brown eyes narrow in a look that's becoming more familiar than her understanding.

"I've been hearing some version of ‘I'm sorry’ for forty years, Richard!

" she snaps, making me wince. "When are you going to stop saying sorry?!”

I blow out a heavy breath, turning from her to shove an agitated hand through my hair and grind my teeth .

I know she's right. She always is. My heart thumps painfully as I futilely fight the feelings of anxiety and unrest that have plagued me for years.

But now those emotions are compounded with my children demanding answers from me about horrific things, trauma, that I've tried my entire adult life to scrub from my memory.

Maribel's been the only one who's kept me sane, normal.

If I lose her, I'm as good as gone.

But I can't lose her. She's the love of my life. Though she's kept me sane I love her. Need her. Cherish her.

"Those are our kids!" she half-yells, tears welling in her eyes and her face flushing a deep pink as her breath catches in her throat.

"What do you want me to do?" I say wearily, rubbing my hand across my jaw.

She walks over to me, her bare feet tapping the hardwood floor and her eyes searching mine, but I'm reluctant to meet her gaze.

"I want you to fix this!" Her eyes remain hard on mine, but her voice quivers. "I want you to fix yourself! To heal yourself, Richard . If you aren't careful, your father, sister, and brother aren't going to be the only family members you've lost. Go to therapy!"

I avert my face, inhaling a deep breath as anger floods my system.

"I've been asking and asking you-"

"Therapy isn't going to bring them back, Maribel!

" I snap in a rough, loud voice, feeling my face warm as I finally meet her gaze and feel every muscle in my body tighten.

"I can't relive that night. I won't. That night almost killed me!

And if I'm forced to dissect it, I might not come back from it! "

She turns her face away, rubbing her fingers across her brow as she wets her lips. "I won't keep talking to you about this. Asking you- no- begging you to- "

"I'm your husband, and we took vows to always be here for each other," I yell, my voice strained as my throat begins to clog with emotion.

"You're my husband, but you are ruining our fucking family!" she yells, her face turning a deep red now, and a vein in her temple stands out. A tear falls down her cheek, but when I raise a hand to reach for her she steps back. "No!" she hisses, taking a deep step back. "Don't touch me."

"Maribel!” I say, feeling my face contort with pain. She never removes her touch from me or disallows me to touch her. Furthermore, her words hurt. They slice deep, touching that part of my soul that I don't think will ever be healed.

My hand falls to my side, and I take a deep breath, willing my emotions into check so I don't lash out at her. I know I'm deserving of her wrath. There's truth in her words, but I can't. I physically can't bring myself to do what she's asking of me.

It hurts too bad. Can't she see it?

I scrub a hand down my face, willing myself to stay calm. But the heat and tremors come anyway despite my best efforts. I swallow bile, wrestling with the looming panic attack threatening to break free.

"That's your son!" she yells, pointing to the door that leads to the study we just came from. Shame fills me at her mentioning Mason. "That's your son, and you treat him like trash."

"I am not a bad father," I growl, but the tears come along with the self-doubt, with the pain of her words, because it's true. My lips tighten as my body lights up with emotion so strong the hair on the back of my neck and arms stand up.

Her eyes narrow. "You are barely their father," she says in a tight voice laced with venom.

My face turns to stone, and I inhale a ragged breath, but she keeps her eyes tight on mine. My hands begin to tremble, and my face begins to perspire, but I bite the inside of my cheek hard to take my attention off it, fighting off the panic as the shame of her words eats me damn near alive.

"The only one of our children you act like a father to is Teresa, and you know it.

And I am tired, Richard," her voice cracks as more tears flow down her face, but I don't dare reach for her right now.

"You told me if they somehow found out, that you'd discuss it with them.

But the moment you had the opportunity you somehow made it worse.

Our son told you that he felt like you couldn't stand him," she whispers, hurt lacing her tone.

Her chin quivers with emotion. "Don't you see how badly you're hurting him?

And I'm left to pick him up every time." She points a finger at me, narrowing her eyes.

" To hold the broken pieces together while you get to wallow in your self-pity, and we all tiptoe around you because you can't be bothered to do what it takes to fix yourself. "

"Mari, I-" I cut my words off, unable to express how I'm feeling. "I was ambushed," I say weakly. "And he brought up William. Mari, you know what that does to me. You know how I feel about him and what he did-"

"I don't care any longer." She holds up a hand and sniffs. "That is my son! I birthed him. Twenty eight hours in labor, in case you forgot. And I will not sit here and watch you treat him this way. The way you talked to him tonight was despicable!"

"Mari, I'm not-"

"You have stewed in your anger for four decades now and the time for excuses are over.

" She pulls her five foot one frame straight and pins me with a stare.

"You don't want to go to therapy, fine. You don't want to let your sons close, fine.

You don't want to tell anyone what happened to you, and leave everyone guessing and closing yourself off then that's fine.

You do what you have to do Richard, but I'll be damned if I stand by you while you hurt him or our other two children. "

"Where are you going?" I ask, but she presents her back to me, striding across the rug of our bedroom towards the door. "Mari!" I shout. "Mari, please!"

She doesn't answer me.

I blink, feeling my own eyes well with tears, but I can't bring myself to move to her.

"Don't leave me alone," I whisper, but she's already on the other side of the room, heading out of the door. "Mari, don't leave me." My voice cracks just like my heart, but I have no energy to fight right now. She slips through the door without a backwards glance, and my knees buckle.

I sink to the floor, my hands clenching into fists and I gasp as I dive headfirst into a panic attack. One of the worst I've had in years.

All I can see is my father shooting Stephanie point blank in the face. Her blood splattering all over the room. All over me.

Momma screaming as her only daughter, her first born slumped over lifeless on the living room rug.

William coming around the corner yelling, and Father swinging the gun on me, too. The sound of the bullet as it went off, but momma rammed her body into him and it missed my head by mere inches. Two more gunshots as he aimed wildly at William and me, despite her attempts at stopping him.

My nails catch on the rug as I grasp at it, trying to claw my way out of this hell that feels like it'll never leave me.

Me flinging myself into William and getting him out of the room, screaming at him to run while I went back to find my momma, rolling around on the floor, fighting with him. The gun just feet away while he punched her in the face, flinging her off so that he could reach for it. But I got it first.

My eyes flicker, searching for Mari's help, but she's gone. A tear rolls down my face, followed by another one as the memories become sharper, clearer.

Almost as if I was back in that room with the feel of the steel gun in my hand. I squeeze my eyes shut, but my other senses pick up the slack.

The smell of the smoke as the bullet released and hit Father in the head.

The sound of his body when he hit the floor, so close to Stephanie their fingers touched. The lifeless look of their blue eyes as the blood pooled between them.

I shudder, bringing my hands to my face to try to scrub the memories away. But they won't leave like Maribel just did.

No.

Out of everyone and everything that leaves me, the memories won't go. Gripped tightly around my psyche, planted deep. So deep that no amount of culling has helped because, like with all things invasive, they come back, even if I think they're gone. But they'll never be gone.

The memories and the pain of that night are here to stay.