Page 32 of Meating Dalton

He just stares at me, brow cocked. I don’t like how similar we look. I don’t like the baby’s cute little babble erupting from her while Uncle Zaiden holds her. And I fucking can’t stand the normalcy of drinking beer while the women are out doing God knows what.

Zaine sees too much and I’m jumping back when he prowls closer, all lithe muscles shifting, reminding me too much of a lion preparing to pounce. And I feel like the fucking gazelle. My breathing is coming fast and I don’t know how to slow it, palms sweating. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Hands touch me and I lash out, but I’m shoved roughly against a wall, a hard forehead thunking into mine. Zaine breathes with me, one hand pressed on my throat and the other pinning a shoulder to the wall.

“Who’s in your head, Z?” I shake it emphatically, but I swear Ihearher, whispering how I’m an abomination, that I don’t deserve a fucking family. Is she right?

“No,” Zaine says, answering the question I don’t remember opening my mouth to ask. “She’s wrong and she never should’ve told a child that. You have issues, we all do. But I’ve got you. I’m your big brother and I’m right fucking here. This is what family is. We pick up the pieces when your arms are too damn heavy. Let it go, Z.”

My knees buckle and Zaine catches me, tearless sobs leaving me, stretching that wound I didn’t know I had wide fucking open, letting all the pain and fear out.

She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead. I did that. I killed her. I plucked Natalia up, the only lead to my family. Zaine rocks us and I let him, eyes drifting closed. Deaton never held me like this and being so tightly wound, I don’t think I would’ve let him.

It took witnessing my two brothers fawn over an infant to realize how deeply I craved that. Not a kid, but family, that easy fucking connection that I never had with the Lewis’. Zaine keeps holding me, waiting for me to signal I’m ready to let go. I don’t think I’ll ever be willing to let go of this feeling. It feels too much like coming home.

* * *

NATALIA

My feet ache from endless walking through the mall, but my cheeks hurt from all the smiling. A girls’ day was exactly what the doctor ordered, and it felt wonderful. Zoe and Sarah chatted frequently about pregnancy, lactating and the price of formula going up while I talked about anything and everything between the two women.

Sarah and I frequently made trips down memory lane. Zoe and I got more acquainted, swapping experiences between us, from finding the right leave-in conditioner to discussing some of the blatant racism we experienced in the workplace. It felt good, too good, placing a balm on the festering hole left behind by Dalton.

Pulling into the driveway of Sarah’s house, looking out of the window, I’m loath for the day to end. I’m not looking forward to saying goodnight to Sarah and goodbye to Zoe, whose fiancé is eager to place her back under mock house arrest. Before we left, I noted the possessive aura pulsing around Zaine and Zaiden, each snagging an arm around their woman, poking at the Dalton sized hole. It’s clear they’re over the moon for the two women.

But I remind myself that great sex does not make a great relationship, especially when one is a killer. Stepping out of the car, my eyes snag on a motorcycle parked near the sunroom’s window.

I look at Sarah, walking around the car and point at the unknown vehicle. “Whose is that?” She shrugs, jerking her head toward the door. My heart rate picks up, my body sensing exactly who the bike belongs to, panties growing wetter with each step toward the pink door.

Sarah opens it, Zoe trailing behind us, and laughter slips through the doorframe. We step through and gawk at the men in the living room. All four of them sit around the coffee table, each holding a hand of playing cards, Zaria resting near Zaine’s leg in a car seat he rocks absently with one hand.

I’ve stepped into an alternate universe. Dalton sets his cards down, the laughter dying down now that they’ve noticed us. He looks good, still wearing all black like the color is going out of style.

“Can we talk? In private?” His head jerks at the kitchen entryway. Several pairs of eyes jump around the room, avoiding us. I nod, too shocked to do anything. This was not what I had expected to come home to. He smiles, arming himself with those dimples, and holds out a hand.

A gravitational pull yanks me toward him until our fingers link and he’s leading me into the kitchen.

MY FLOWER

DALTON

Her hand feels good in mine. I’m reluctant to release it when we enter the open space of the kitchen, but I don’t fight it when she slips from my grip, pacing away from me. Wiping my palms on my pants, I decide to rip the band-aid off.

“Natalia,” I murmur, waiting for her to turn around. Before I can say the speech I’ve been repeating in my head, she talks over me, brown eyes sparking with anger, holding a glossy sheen of tears.

“What are you doing here, Dalton? I asked for space. This isn’t space.” Her hand waves at the room behind me, where I just know my fucking brothers are eavesdropping. She’s not exactly whispering, putting this whole spectacle on display.

Is this what she wants or needs to feel safe with me?

“I know.” Nodding my head, I inhale deeply, reaching deep for humility, scraping the bottom of the fucking well, because this is hard.

“I couldn’t stay away.” I walk toward her, slowly, watching her pupils expand. “I can’t stay away from you, Nat. I need you, probably more than I need to kill.” Another deep inhale, slow on the exhale. “I’m willing to change, to try and be what you need,” I confess, heart in my throat.

The power to destroy me rests in her fucking palms.

“I just got out of a relationship, Dalton. You’d know, apparently you stalked me and witnessed the whole thing. And you killed him.” She sniffs and I wish I could kill him all over again for bringing tears to my flower’s eyes.

“He didn’t deserve you?—”

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