Page 195 of Seizing Control: Part One

He says, “Why don’t we go somewhere more private?”

Through the patio doors, I can see that our impromptu backyard barbeque has wound down. Only Delia and her daughters remain. Perpetually lost, and untethered, they have become frequent visitors while the widowed brunette attempts to rebuild her life.

Mumma C is entertaining the girls while their mother engages in an intense conversation on her mobile phone. It’s been a hard year for Delia. She’s lost her husband. Discovered he was a rat. Her dependence on the Shamrocks doesn’t sit well with her, and despite her presence in my home, she avoids directly contact with me as much as she can manage without coming across as rude.

Her misplaced guilt is obvious.

I will never hold her responsible for the part Tank played in Alex’s final attack.

It’s proven impossible to get her to understand that, though.

Especially when I bear a noticeable grudge over her treatment of Toker.

My cousin goes out of his way to show her how much he cares for her and her girls.

She throws it back in his face with every uncharitable insult she hurls his way.

“Where do you have in mind?” I ask.

“The den?”

Following Atlas into the games room, I quickly get comfortable on the couch.

His fingers are nibble when he loosens my top. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I catch hold of the ties to stop him from exposing my chest.

My decision to have a matching cherub tattooed over my heart was rash.

I see that now.

“I’m not a fan of inking pregnant women.”

The stinging graze on the inside of my wrist puts paid to his excuse, even as I metaphorically grasp it with both hands. “Yeah... well, I’m really tired anyway. Rain check?”

“Ring me when you’re ready to go ahead.”

The normally stoic man is frowning as he helps me back to my feet. “I’m sorry about... Venom. Know you’re happily married and all that, but it’s gotta be hard.”

“Yeah.” With my arm folded over my chest to stop my top from falling down, I mumble, “See you around.”

Dashing toward the stairs, I climb them two at a time.

All the while I refuse to blink.

Because when I do, the tears are going to start.

And I don’t want anyone else to see them.

With a subconscious need for security, I lock the bedroom door behind me. The covers on the bed are wrinkled from my earlier interlude with my husband. A slate-grey comforter. It matches my mood. Dull and miserable. I strip off my damp clothes, then dive underneath the duvet, pulling it over my head once I’ve curled into a ball.

Shoulders shaking, I allow my eyelids to droop.

The burn is immediate.

Tears well.

I sob.

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