Page 89 of Wedlock

“No,” he accepts the drink and meets my eyes. “I’m here as a favour to your husband.”

70

I don’t know how I expected to feel seeing her again, but the reality and my imagination are completely at odds now that she’s before me.

I’d tried to convince myself I could see her and I’d have little of the old attraction, maybe a twinge, nothing more. Instead, I find this woman has some kind of hold on me, even when she’s not trying.

She’s wearing jeans today, a dark-green top that hugs her curvaceous body perfectly, and a black leather jacket that gives her a sexy edge. Her long hair is up in a habitual ponytail, and there are small, dangly crystal earrings in her exquisite ears.She looks strong, healthy, a new scattering of freckles across her nose testament to an active, outdoor life.

A human life.

Of course, having been under a thrall, even for a short time, she’ll live longer than most humans, ageing at half the rate a normal woman would. But she’s mortal again, easily hurt, able to get ill, and her life will still be, by vampire standards, short. It pains me knowing that if I’d bitten her at the altar she’d be immortal and none of the past wrongs against her could have been inflicted.

That’s where I’d first failed her.

“Thank you for coming,” I murmur as she walks towards me, her eyes flicking from me to the child on the bed.

“Thank you for inviting me,” she says quietly, her gaze warm and sad as she looks down at our son. “What happened, Falcon?”

“Didn’t Jag fill you in?”

“He said Tiger was dying. He couldn’t say of what. He said you needed me.”

I clear my throat and try to remain unaffected by the notion that she might have come just as much for me as for our boy, but I know it can’t be true. She’s been gone three years now. Three long years for me, even as an immortal, and try as I might, I realise standing here with her that I haven’t moved on. Seeing her here in the same room as our child, I find myself strangely moved.

‘What I wouldn’t give to turn back time. To right the wrongs. Perhaps if I’d never pushed you to run, this never would have happened. You left this child in my care, sacrificed part of your heart for me and my title, and this is how I repay you. How can you ever forgive me? How will I forgive myself?’

“We don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Mother answers for me from where she’s seated at the other side of the room, staring out the window.

Angie turns from looking at the boy to stare at Mother’s profile.

“When I left him he was healthy,” she says quietly. “Strong.”

“Is that so?” Mother stands and faces Angie, and I instinctively shift to protect her, although she stands confidently, shoulders back, and meets my Mother’s glare.

“Yes. Do you believe me capable of leaving a sick child?”

“I believe you capable of that and much more,” Mother says haughtily, raising her nose.

“That’s the fucking pot calling the kettle black,” Angie snorts.

“Mother,” I shake my head. “Angie’s here to spend some time with our son. His bedside is not the time, or the place, for your indignation.”

Nodding, her breeding and station taking over as I’d hoped it would, she rings for the wetnurse and Angie accepts the chair I’d vacated beside Tiger.

“How long?” She whispers as she takes one of his small hands in hers. “How long has he been ill? When did this start?”

I shake my head.

“He seemed fine for the first month or so after you abandoned him.” She jerks her head up and I see the brief flash in her eyes at my terminology. “Or so I was told. For much of that I was in prison. When I got out I called for Mother to return, knowing our son would need someone to care for him.”

I don’t add that I wanted someone tolovehim. I care for the boy, but at arm’s length. Mother says I need to spend more time with him, but I fear that, given my melancholy and anger, being around me would do a child no favours. She’d tried to reassureme that I would be a good father, unlike my own, if I just gave it some time. But deep down I feel that it might be best if we interacted once his formative years are done and I can’t fuck him up. Now it seems it’s too late.

I clear my throat and continue.

“When Mother returned from her banishment she claimed immediately that he was ill and so affected that she barely recognised him. Slowly, day by day, month by month, he’s become worse. He fell into what we think is a coma on the night of his third birthday.”

“That was just a few days ago,” Angie murmurs, frowning as the wetnurse enters the room, a vial of pink milk in her hand ready to pour it into the intravenous tube running into our child’s nose. “And who is this?”