Page 62 of Protector

“Asked you a question, princess.”

She snorted and shifted forward, right up against my cock. “I asked you one first. Why are you here?”

I swallowed and propped myself up on my elbows. “I’m pretty goddamn stubborn, so it took me a little longer, but someone once told me that when you love someone, you go after them. I saw the lights kick on in the laundry room and wanted to check on you—”

The palm of her hand came down on my chest, forcing me back to the tile as she hissed, “You broke in? This may come as a shock, but you don’t live here anymore! You can’t come and go as you—wait, how did you know that I was in the laundry room? Are you stalking me now?”

“Not stalkin’ you. I’ve been sleepin’ in the hammock. Wanted to stay close in case you needed me.”

“You—you’ve been spying on me? I thought I was pretty clear in that I didn’t want to see you again.”

I remained pinned in place under her thighs. Lying still would’ve been the smart thing to do. Instead, I thrust my hips up, watching in amusement as the denim of my jeans brushed up against her pussy, forcing a gasp from her lips.

I was nothing but pent-up aggression and sexual frustration. Frustration that was growing stronger the longer my wife used her body to hold me in place. “What happens when you get tired?”

Her green eyes narrowed. “I won’t.”

The corner of my lip turned up in a soft smile. “Darlin’, you need to be able to put a man down; not give him thoughts of fuckin’ you.”

I dropped my gaze down her body, driving home my point, and not missing the way her pink nipples puckered under my stare. Something like a whimper crossed her lips before she stood up, breaking the contact between us.

“You should go,” she said flatly, refusing to meet my eyes.

I rubbed the back of my head as I sat up. “You want me back outside, I’ll do it, but I ain’t leavin’. I don’t give a fuck how long it takes to prove to you that there ain’t nothin’ more important in the world. Before I go though, I wanna know why you’re cuttin’ yourself.”

Her hand dropped to the wound on her arm, covering it. “It was an accident,” she lied.

“And since when do you wash sheets in the middle of the night when no one’s sick?”

“Jamie,” she pleaded. “Just stop. I had a nightmare… just a stupid dream.”

Trauma could manifest itself in a variety of ways. And while Celia’s coping skills were impressive, her mind was filled with land mines of bad memories. She might’ve known how to avoid them during the day, but night was a different story.

“Your mind…” I trailed off, realizing that by saying anything more, I’d be revealing what I knew. “It, uh, it fucks with you sometimes. I’ve been there a time or two.”

She retrieved her robe from where it was thrown over her vanity chair and wrapped it around herself before sitting down. “You have?”

I walked over to her and knelt, ignoring the stab of pain in both of my kneecaps. “You know, I ain’t really opened up to you about my life. It always felt like you had this idea of me; that you saw me as a good person, and I thought maybe it’d be better if you never knew who I truly was.”

Her eyes widened, but she moved in closer, silently urging me to continue.

“I told you that my ma and I had a rough go with my old man, and her losin’ the baby only made things worse.” At the mention of the word baby, something like grief flashed in Celia’s eyes, and she reached for my hand.

“What I, uh, never told you is what happened the night I patched in. I was a sophomore in high school and used to spend all my time with Slim at Phantom’s body shop. It was easier than bein’ at home and watching Ma self-destruct or gettin’ in the way of my old man’s fists.”

I paused, struggling to say the words; to give a voice to the pain that I’d held onto since I was sixteen. “Slim told me one night that Donald had gone against the club and that from what he’d overheard, they were gonna take him out. I rushed home, ready to tell Ma to pack her bags, but I couldn’t find her anywhere…”

Celia’s fingers tightened around mine, and I took a deep breath. I’d only told the story once before, to Wolverine, while sobbing like a baby. “I found my old man in the kitchen, drunk and covered in blood. After runnin’ through the entire house, I found her, right where I’d come in. She’d been behind the front door the entire time—”

“Oh, Jamie,” she breathed.

I saw my mother’s lifeless eyes staring through me and shuddered. “She’d never even had a chance, and you know the worst part, is that it didn’t even hit me how much I still missed her until I found you. She would’ve loved you, Celia. And the girls, ain’t a doubt in my mind she would’ve spoiled the shit out of ’em. Mikey too.”

The tears fell to my cheeks as I blinked, and she brought a hand up to brush them away, watching me with a curious expression. “I never imagined… you and Angel have always been so tight-lipped on it. I guess I just assumed she’d passed, but never like that. And you were only sixteen?”

Her eyes softened. “You must’ve been so scared. What happened to your father? Did the club handle it? Is that why you patched in?”

I scratched at my beard, studying our linked hands while wondering how she was going to take the next part. “I handled it,” I choked. “I went back into the kitchen… and lost it. I hit him for hurting her… for hurting me. I beat him to death and never once regretted the decision. Wolverine showed up, and I thought I was a goner, but he surprised me. Allowed me to patch in; gave me an opportunity to have a family.”

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