Page 95 of The Unwanted Wife

My heart stops, then starts again. The blood, which threatened to drain out of me, begins to pump through my veins, and tears fill my eyes. I’m here, alive. And so is she. But Ben. Oh god, Ben. I place my hand on her shoulder, but she shakes it off. "Don’t touch me."

My chest collapses in on itself. My stomach threatens to turn into a tornado, which twists up through my throat, before I push back the bile that threatens to spill out.

She must see the anguish on my face, for her features soften. "I meant, if you touch me, I’ll lose my train of thought, and right now, I need to be clear-headed… So I understand what happened."

I nod, then stick my arms behind my back and lock the fingers of one hand around the other wrist to stop myself from reaching out to her, holding her, and soothing her. Right now, she doesn’t want that. So, I’ll do as she says. For now.

She turns and walks into the apartment, I follow her. I can’t keep my gaze off her bare legs, those creamy thighs, the curve of her hips. As she opened the door, I noticed she was wearing pink cotton sleep shorts and a camisole that stretched across her breasts. Her nipples were outlined against the fabric, and I’d be lying if I said my fingers hadn’t twitched to reach out and tweak those buds.

How can I be thinking of her body, of how much I want to bury myself inside her sweet pussy, when she’s finally remembering the events following her brother’s death?

She glances over her shoulder, and when she sees my gaze, a pink color smears her cheeks. She looks away, then veers toward her sleeping area. She grabs her bathrobe from the foot of her bed and shoves her arms into it. She ties the belt around her waist, before walking to the window to look out. I take a step forward, then stop. I want to go to her and take her in my arms. I want to console her. But she asked for a little space. I owe that much to her, no matter, every cell in my body insists I stay close to her.

She wraps her arms about her waist, the gesture, one of defensiveness. Doesn’t she know she doesn’t have to protect herself from me? That I’ll never hurt her? That everything I’ve done is for her. That I’d kill myself if I could shield her from pain. That I’d do anything for Ben to be standing here instead of me, so she wouldn’t have to face the grief of what’s coming.

"He’s dead, isn’t he?" she whispers.

I flinch.

I never had to get those words out because she understood it by looking at my face. That day, I witnessed how the understanding dawned in her eyes when she saw the chaplain. I’d told my superior in the Marines that it was better to take a grief counsellor or welfare officer, or someone whose very presence wouldn’t scream that there’d been a death, but I’d been over-ruled. Another reason I’d known my days in the Marines were over. If you couldn’t bend the rules when it was in the best interest of the person concerned, then what use were they? And I’d never had thoughts like this before. Rules were what governed my life.

After my chaotic childhood, and moving around so much with my mother, it was a relief to find a home amidst the discipline and the black and white of the Marines. Until I wasn’t able to save Ben. Until I stood there facing his sister and had to convey the news to her. I was only authorized to be the one to do so because I’d threatened the chain of command with outing them about the corruption I’d seen. They’d agreed at once. But insisted the chaplain go with me. Something about being able to justify my presence, as I was Ben’s senior and had run missions with him, but that they couldn’t bend protocol further. Well, fuck them. I’d said so before leaving, knowing I was leaving active service after that final trip to see her.

Only, she ran out of the apartment building. I wasn’t able to stop her. I raced after her, but I was too late.

She turns to face me. "You came to break the news to me, and I didn’t want to listen." She swallows. “I ran away from you. I stepped onto the street, and in the path of a motorbike. A bike which was driven by Hugo—” Her features pale further. “I remembered being hit by his bike, but I couldn’t understand why I was running across the road.”

I flinch again. I found her sprawled on her back, with blood pooling under her. And she was still, so still. My breath caught, and my entire body felt as if I’d been plunged into the depths of a cold lake. I have no recollection of sinking down next to her, but I placed my fingers against her neck, and when I caught the pulse—faint, but it was there— Only then, did I come back into my body, the noise of the crowd, and the distant wail of a siren slowly filtering into my sub-conscious. I didn’t dare move her, managing to find the presence of mind to take off my jacket and place it around her to keep her warm. I followed her into the ambulance and rode with her to the hospital.

"I stayed with you until you regained consciousness."

"I never saw you."

"I couldn’t face you. I saw the devastation on your face when you realized what had happened."

"You mean, when I realized Ben was dead?"

I nod, unable to bring myself to say the words. I’ve never said it aloud. Not to my superiors. Not to those who were there at his funeral. Not to myself. On the surface, it might seem like I’m coping better, but that’s because I’ve had her in my life.

Her voice is soft and hard at the same time, her eyes dry. Her entire being is one straight line. Stiff. Unyielding. Those beautiful curves stamped with defiance and suffering and anger. So much anger.

I deserve it, though. I deserve her hate, her bitterness. Everything she throws at me. Why doesn’t she yell at me? Or tell me to leave. Why doesn’t she slap me again? Anything is preferable to this cold, unfeeling woman who faces me.

"Your loss of hearing"—she narrows her gaze on me—"you said a bomb went off next to you?"

I nod, knowing what’s coming next, but staying silent. My wife is so fucking smart. Of course she’d piece it all together.

"Was Ben injured on this mission, as well?" Her chin trembles, but she doesn’t cry.

"He was. A mission gone wrong. It’s always a mission gone wrong." I rub the back of my neck. "We ran a dozen successful ones. We knew our luck was going to run out. I told him…” I pause. “I told him I didn’t have a good feeling about this one, but he waved it off. You know Ben." I laugh, the sound hollow.

"I know Ben, the eternal optimist." A small smile graces those gorgeous lips. "He preferred to see the positive side of things. It was almost as if he could change the future to be what he wanted it to be."

"And he succeeded, always," I say softly.

"Until he didn’t…” Her voice is low, her features anguished. My heart stutters. All I want to do is gather her up in my arms and console her. But will she let me? I take a step in her direction; she doesn’t protest.

“You—” She swallows. “You brought him back home?"

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