Page 27 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

A ndreas

I step off the bed and stare at my wife, curled up like a fetus, her orgasm still tingling the tips of my fingers.

A herd of different emotions collect and collide in my chest. I want to protect her, comfort her, heal her. But there’s a part of me wants to scream at her, punish her, for doing something so despicable to her beautiful skin.

But through all these emotions, I recognize one all too well. Guilt.

She didn’t do this to her, I did.

Those scars are fresh. Within-the-last-month fresh.

I back out of the room, harsh home truths coming at me like cannonballs. I sink onto a sofa and put my head in my hands. I vastly underestimated how much these developments would impact her. I haven’t stopped to really think about how she’s been feeling these last few weeks.

She loved her job and I’ve taken that away from her.

She valued her freedom and I’ve removed it like a defective organ.

She lives for her sisters and I’m about to take her miles away from them.

I hoped she would learn to love me, but she doesn’t even know how to love herself.

I shake my head trying to regain some perspective. The deal has been done, our fates have been sealed and we can’t turn back now. I’m returning to Boston and I’m going to continue my campaign to remove the gangs. And I’m taking my wife with me.

But I’m going to help her. I owe her that.

I owe her everything.

It takes me the best part of two hours to make all the arrangements, mainly because it’s two a.m. and most of the people I need help from don’t tend to kill for a living and are fast asleep without a burner lying next to their heads.

I then pace the room trying to make sense of what I saw in there, and trying to align the girl I knew back in the Hamptons with the girl who has cut her legs to shreds with a fucking blade.

I’m no further on in my enlightenment when I hear her scream. It’s thick and guttural—and the only sound to ever make my conviction unyielding.

In a beat I’m at the door to the bedroom, opening it tentatively. I’m careful when I step inside—I don’t want to frighten her any more than I already have.

Walking softly to the bed, I hear her whimper as she turns to her side. Her beautiful face is screwed up into a deep, anguished frown but as the breaths come and go, getting longer and deeper, it relaxes.

I stand by the side of her bed for a few more minutes, just to make sure she isn’t alone if she cries out again.

When I’m sure she’s settled, I back out of the room once more.