Page 157 of Seizing Control: Part Two

It was a guarantee I clung to, even as too much time elapsed between updates.

Until the head doctor came barrelling through the same double doors my wife had disappeared through to tell me that he couldn’t meet that assurance because the scar tissue from Alex’s assault and her miscarriage was impeding their efforts. In a rush, pressed for an immediate answer, I was put on the spot and given two options. Approve a total hysterectomy or wait to see if the haemorrhaging they had so far failed to staunch could eventually be stopped. The surgeon’s recommendation was the first option, but as her husband, it was my call to make.

I canvassed for opinions.

Every single person said the hysterectomy was the safest choice.

The death grip I had on my phone cautioned me that I hadn’t asked everyone’s opinion.

Still, I kept Lazarus out of the discussion and made the decision alone.

My action fuelled by equal portions of selfishness and self-preservation. It was a scheme I thought I’d get away with because I didn’t know that the charms he leaves for my wife are full of technology that doesn’t technically exist right now.

Thankfully, I have a way to keep him in line if it comes to it.

A secret for a secret.

He was at the compound to kill me, despite his promise to Cherub that he wouldn’t.

I didn’t let him know that the twins had been born and his Lily was fighting for life.

The skeletons in our closets balance the other’s out...

“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” My wife’s voice is laced with trepidation when she says, “Another scar to add to all the rest of them.”

With her weight braced against the basin behind her, her hands gripping my shoulders for stability, it’s clear that the trembling racking her body is caused by her fear that I will find her lacking. Ugly. Gross. My discussion with Lazarus downstairs before he left with his consigliere and my brother in tow broke my heart.

Cherub is struggling to adjust to her new body.

Which is crazy to me since I find her more beautiful than ever.

The body she harshly judges created life.

What’s not to love about that?

“You’re fuckin’ stunning’. A goddess,” I tell her. She flinches, letting go of me to cover herself. I catch her wrists with one hand to halt her movements at the same time as I cup the swell of her hip. “Don’t hide from me, baby.”

When it becomes clear that my wife duchess is going to heed my request without an argument, I open the antibacterial wipes. She shudders, anxiety getting the better of her, until I press a kiss to the bottom of her sternum and soothe her in a murmur, “You can trust me... I’ll be gentle.” I don’t wait for Cherub’s permission to start, instead I set about cleaning her wound, soft but firm in my ministrations. Pausing every few seconds, I blow on her incision to ease the sting. Noticing that she has her eyes closed, I command, “Look, duchess... it’s all done.”

“Thank you.” Her hand hovers over the uninjured side of my head. Like a cat in need of affection, I butt my skull against her palm. My wife strokes my shorn locks with a frown while I press a clean adhesive bandage over her cuts. “I miss your hair.”

“Me, too.”

She sighs. “Then why did you do it.”

“It was supposed to denote a fresh start,” I admit. “But I fucked that up too.”

Buying myself time to find the best words to describe my decision, I tidy up the first aid kit, then pack it away. With a steady hand, I steal the towel Cherub tries to use to cover her body, then lead my naked duchess into her bedroom. She disappears into her walk-in-robe, apparently intent on giving me the space I need to formulate a response. As much as I appreciate her calm approach, it’s not what I want from her. I desire the fierce woman I married. The woman with the hair-trigger temper and a mouth that runs away from her. While I understand that she’s been changed by motherhood, first with Garrett’s unexpected arrival, and again by the twins rushed birth, I fear the main cause is mine and Lazarus’ conduct.

We destroyed her innate sass and robbed her of her voice.

Made her placid when she used to be bold.

Furious at myself, I pull on the sweatpants I discarded when I decided to join her in the shower, grab yesterday’s clothes from the floor, and stomp back to my bedroom. The need to slam the door behind me is alluring, but I resist. My mood cannot touch my duchess. The guilt and disgust I feel is for me to deal with. If I learnt anything from my life flashing before my eyes when Cherub collapsed, it’s that my emotions are my responsibility.

I’ve spent a year throwing them like poison darts at her heart.

The time has come to take charge of my reactions to the things that trigger me.

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