Page 16 of Crimson Flames

But it is no use, my emotions are too raw, my mind too broken, and the memory sweeps me away.

I pick her up in my arms, her joy as tangible as her skin beneath my fingers. We are having a baby.

Nessa smiles at me as she places mine and Cillian’s hand on her stomach. “Together,” she says.

“Together,” we echo.

I picture what having a boy or girl would look like. Will the dessert be pink or blue? Which nursery will she choose, what name did she love the most?

My hand reaches for the cupcake just as a sharp ring fills the air.

I do not know how I came to sit on the ground or when my cheeks began to feel damp. I shake my head, knowing I cannot just sit here accomplishing nothing. There are things that need to be done, and none of them will be completed while I am sitting here on my ass.

Wiping my face, I get up to resume cleaning the kitchen again. The chef will be here soon to start cooking breakfast for the kids, and no one deserves to walk into an unkempt space. This is something Icancontrol.

Except, when I pick up the cupcake Nessa made to throw it in the trash, a piece of paper unfolds slightly under it, causing me to pause.

My throat feels tight as I reach for it, but it is nothing compared to the burn that comes to my face when I read the single word written there.

Aiden.

All of my life I have trained myself to be in control, but this one word, thisnamecauses everything in me to snap.

My hand slides across the counter, sending the dish that held the perfect pink cupcakes flying across the floor, making a perfect mimicry of my heart as it shatters.

The flour and food coloring follow, starbursts of pink mocking me as they stain the room. Spatulas clatter against the tile. Icing coats the cabinets as the bag explodes under the force of my wrath.

A vase of flowers shatters, sending the water inside all over the room. Eggs crack against the freshly painted walls, leaving a trail of yellow yolk dripping down the once pristine surface.

Everything is thrown until there is nothing left. Glass and ceramic shards litter the area, likely to cut anyone who comes in here. But no one else is on my mind right now other than the two girls I failed to protect. One laying in a morgue, the other in a hospital bed fighting for her life.

An anguished cry leaves my lips as I lift the chair from the table and slam it back down, causing the legs to splinter off. It is still not enough though. My fist meets the wall, crunching along with the plaster.

Nothing is ever going to be enough.

I roar in rage over the injustice as I cause a hurricane of destruction in my path. Nothing will ever be right again, I know it in the depths of my soul. Something has shattered within me that can no longer be put back together.

When the ruination of the room around me is no longer enough, I begin to pull at my hair as I sob, falling to my knees among the shards of glass. My chest burns with despair ripping apart every fiber of my being.

Am I having a heart attack?

Rubbing at the muscle that is certainly failing me, I fight more tears and look at the room that is a physical echo of my soul. It cannot survive the pain, and neither can I.

Just as the edges of my vision turn black, a hand lands on my arm. My first instinct is to lash out, to hurt as I hurt.

I need someone, something, to reflect the gut wrenching pain I feel from head to toe. I need blood, bruises, split knuckles, and pure violence. I need an outlet for the tornado of destruction locked in my chest.

My fist collides with a jaw, and Damien’s face jerks to the side. His shock is evident. But where I expected anger, there only seems to be humor.

“My father could hit better than that,” he goads.

I know I could hit him again. We could brawl it out right here on the floor in the mess I have created, and Damien would take every single second of it.

I am sorely tempted to allow the anger to win. Damien would let me too. He is the kind of man that would sacrifice his mental health for another. But I am not his abusive father, and I will not be the one to subject him to that kind of wrath ever again.

This is not the kind of man I would have been to my daughter, and it is not who I will be without her. Especially to a man I have come to consider one of my sons.

The moment brings me some much needed clarity, even amidst the storm still raging in the forefront of my mind.

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