Page 26 of Seizing Control: Part Two

Plus, he was absolutely devastated by Zeke’s death, and his actions since then have done nothing to make me believe that he knows anything about the ruse. The way he reacted to the weed charm wasn’t feigned. It was real. Genuine sorrow. A bout of grief that couldn’t be conjured by anyone less than an Oscar-winning actor.

Which my cousin decidedly is not.

As I fish the pendant out of the porcelain bowl, my skin still prickles with awareness. My gaze darts around the tiled room. When I giggle at my own paranoia, I end up leaning on the vanity and pressing my thighs together. The pulsing ache at my core is too intense to ignore.

It’s a cruel confirmation of the realness of my dream.

Standing tall, doing my best to breathe through my unsatiated lust, I take in my dishevelled reflection. My hair is a tangled mess from all the tossing and turning. The flush in my face is from more than my embarrassment at talking to myself. I’m too hot. Uncomfortable in my own skin. In desperate need of release, preferably one that isn’t provided by my own fingers.

The woman staring back at me is a needy mess lacking options.

Sad but true.

While I’m scanning myself, I notice a mark on my neck. I push onto my tiptoes and leans closer to the mirror. In the spot where my pulse beats too fast is a small hickey. Jutting my chin and angling my head, I press my fingertips to my flesh. It’s tender. Like a love bite or a rash caused by a five o’clock shadow.

“You’ve got to be kidding me?—”

The little man’s cries rip me out of my reverie. Footsteps sound from my bedroom. I pull the edges of my dressing gown together, hiding the worn Black Shamrocks MC t-shirt that I wore to bed. It’s one of Zeke’s, I think. It’s also equally likely to belong to my husband. Either way, I don’t want anyone to see me in it.

I’m not in the mood for their pity.

But I am in the mood for some online shopping to complement the large expense I’m making today. With the tiny mark on my neck to support my growing theory that Zeke, himself, is sneaking into my room at night, I decide that I’m going to splurge on new nightdresses. Sexy ones. Made of lace and wispy pieces of silk. With straps that make it hard for him to uncover my body while I’m sleeping.

If he wants to play dirty, I can, too.

“You’re up early,” Nadia comments when she opens my bathroom door without knocking. After handing my squawking son to me, she does a little shimmy, then grins. “Are you excited to finalise your house purchase today?”

“I am.” Avoiding my reflection, uneasy at the idea of drawing my best friend’s attention to the love bite marring my skin, I fix my focus on Garrett instead. He’s settled now that I’m holding him. Satisfied to suck his pacifier since it’s too early for his morning feed, he throws one arm above his head just like his daddy does when he’s about to fall asleep and closes his eyes. My conscience kicks into hyperdrive as the magnitude of my scheming hits home. It’s ridiculous to feel guilt over my decision to leave Slash’s house with his son without telling him, yet I’m constantly battling my shame over giving up on us. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

For the fiftieth time in the past three weeks, Nadia offers her assurances without hesitation. “You are doin’ the right thing, Anna. He has had ample opportunities to come home to you and he’s chosen not to.” Indignation creeps into her features as she steps forward to cover my son’s ears with her hands. “I’ve said it a hundred times, and I’ll keep sayin’ it until you actually hear me—” Nadia gives me a knowing look and wordlessly urges me to repeat her mantra. “—Fuck men. All of them.”

I comply with her silent request. “Fuck men.

“You’re literally movin’ into the house behind this one.” She offers her reminder in a soft tone when my chin starts to wobble. I bite the inside of my cheek, doing my best to keep my misplaced remorse from spilling over. My husband is a bad candidate for my regret, considering he doesn’t appear to have any of his own. “Once they’re old enough, the kids’ll be able to come and go between the two homes at will.”

We both leave unsaid the possibility that Slash won’t want the children to visit him.

I push our conversation onto more neutral territory just in case Nadia decides to broach the topic. “You’re going to handle the renovations, aren’t you? I don’t want anyone to know until it’s too later for them to stop me.”

“I’ll handle everything,” Nadia promises. “Your home will be done before your baby is born.”

“Thank you... I’d be lost without you.”

With a flick of her hand, she dismisses my gratitude, then motions for me to follow her downstairs. Even though it’s early, the ground floor is likely to be filled with Shamrocks. Crystal rarely leaves the house. My brothers and Nadia live with me fulltime. The club has turned Slash’s home into a mini compound of sorts, with everyone hanging out here more than they do the official clubhouse.

I know it’s my dad’s fault.

His treachery has sullied decades of history, much in the same way that my husband’s prolonged absence has ruined my enjoyment of the home I once loved. Everywhere I look, there’s another reminder of the man who swore to love me until death do us part. To make matters worse, I can picture better times with Zeke here as well. The memories are painful, but they, at least, come with a side of hope.

My first love leaves keepsakes to show he’s thinking of me.

Slash sends me text messages that promise nothing.

His communication is more regular than it was at the start, yet he feels further away than ever. There’s a distance between us that I can’t bridge. My love isn’t enough to fix him. It breaks my heart to acknowledge that fact, but it’s true. We’re at an impasse. An impossible stalemate. I understand the cause of his issues, that the trauma he suffered irrevocably changed him. I can acknowledge that he needs to love himself before he can love me and his son properly, and admit to myself that there’s nothing I can do to speed that process along.

Still, knowing the reasons for his absence doesn’t make it easier to handle.

The spectre of Zeke’s possible resurrection excites me.

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