Page 153 of Seizing Control: Part Two

“So,” he rumbles, deep and low. “What you’re saying is I have to wait a few months then?”

“Y-yes.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.” After a quick kiss, he chucks my under the chin. “Behave yourself while I’m gone.”

With that puzzling comment heralding his departure, Lazarus exits my bedroom. Alone for the first time in days, I lean back in the rocking chair and allow my eyelids to flutter shut. The wall of black that greets me is comforting. I exhale deep, a sigh of relief that comes from the pit of my lungs. Once my chest burns with the need to breathe, I inhale. The air is fragrant, a mixture of my perfume, Lazarus and Slash’s colognes, and the little man baby scent.

It smells like home.

Almost.

Because I need my newborns under the same roof as me and Garrett before I’ll be able to rest easily. Sucking my bottom lip between my teeth, I examine my foreseeable future. The next few weeks will be a trial, the likes of which I’ve never faced. Since my mum died, nothing has really gone right. There have been fleeting moments of happiness. Days of manic bliss. Weeks of madness. Months of peace. Still, when taken as a whole, I appreciate that, with my brothers and the Shamrocks, we’ve run through a gauntlet of loss, disappointment, pain, and betrayal.

Time after time, we’ve attempted to escape the inferno.

Ad nauseam, our struggles have resulted in further casualties.

I will work, day and night, to ensure my children do not face the same tribulations.

I’ll protect them from everything—my desires, their fathers’ ambition, the world at large.

While the rhythmic hum of the breast pump lulls me into a drowsy state of relaxation, I feel the tension that is constantly coiled inside me loosen. The lethargy that dogs me morphs into a languid grace. I am on the cusp of a catnap when a light touch beneath my chin brings me back to consciousness.

“Bloody hell, duchess.” Slash’s naturally strong grip is loose and easy as he collars my throat. His thumb seeks out my pulse point, delicately flicking back and forth over my skin. Narrow-eyed, he smooths two fingertips across my bottom lip to free it from my teeth. “Never truly believed in heaven and hell, but I do now... ’cause lookin’ at you, knowin’ that you’ll run if I try to bend you to my will is both heaven and hell on earth.” I taste coffee when he licks the seam of my lips, then dips his tongue inside my mouth to tangle with mine. Unable to draw anything other than a shallow breath, I submit to my husband’s ardour. The guilt I that assaults me over my easy surrender makes my stomach churn, even as it further strengthens my resolve to follow through on Nadia’s admonition. “You know I’ll chase you if you run, dontcha, baby?”

Our past experiences tell me that Slash will run before I do, yet I can’t find the lie in his question. Something changed in him between my collapse in the back yard and the moment I was wheeled into the hospital room post-surgery. He is committed. Unwavering in his devotion. Apologetic for his preceding abandonment.

I can feel the genuine belief in his demand.

That doesn’t mean I am able to trust him implicitly.

No matter who tries to make me believe otherwise, I am intimately acquainted with how fast truth can change. Reality is fleeting. Faith is evanescent. Nothing in this world is forever.

Which is why my response to my husband mirrors the one I gave Lazarus.

“I don’t care... you promised me time and space.” My movements are jerky as I finish up with the breast pump. It’s tedious, expressing and storing the miracle liquid my body is producing to sustain my babies, but I am willing to give it a red-hot go. “I’m going to shower now.”

Deliberately keeping my back to my husband, I label the new storage bags and add them to the little fridge that magically appeared in my bedroom during my hospital stay. I have a decent reserve built up. It’s not enough to exclusively feed the twins breast milk, even though Nurse Deborah has promised me that I’m providing enough to stimulate a decent supply by the time Ezra is discharged.

The soft snick of the fridge door closing is offensive to my ears.

Slash hasn’t said a word since I deflected his vow to chase me.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, a vague feeling of being stalked prickles over my skin as I head for the bathroom. Seeing myself naked is the least favourite part of my day. My scars and stretch marks feel like a sign of enduring weakness. The softness of my new curves reminds me that I am not as strong as I can be. Logically, I understand that my mind is playing tricks. It’s the irrational side of my personality, the part that uses control to survive, that seeks to ambush me with fears that I’ll fail my children if I remain in this deteriorated state for too long. It’s embarrassing to accept that I’m mentally backsliding, especially when I never really had body issues before my pregnancy, but I’m conscious that I’ll need to return to therapy if this continues.

Discontent shadows me.

Seeking a way into my damaged psyche.

I am the poster child for trauma.

I like to believe that I’m also the pin up girl for survival.

As egotistical as that may sound...

I refuse to get to the point where I find solace in cutting myself again.

“Righto, Lilianna,” I chide myself out loud as I flip the shower tap into the on position. “Chin up, game face on.”

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