Page 54 of Anchor

Fear.

Dammit.

“I can go home, Travis, that is why I’m in this chair waiting for you,” I say softly, and his whole body deflates until he tenses again when I demand, “The bruises, Travis.”

He shakes his head and mutters, “Not now,” before going to the bed and grabbing my bags. He is not willing to wait another second before he hangs them on the chair and kisses the top of my head.

“Let’s get you home, Angel,” he mumbles and pushes me out of the room toward the nurse’s desk for my discharge papers, all while I feel out of sorts, not knowing how to get through to my husband.

“He’s drowning, Heaven, and I-I know I was bitch to you, and I know I shouldn’t be here asking this of you, but please, don’t leave him….”

His mother’s words from yesterday, when she came to see me out of the blue, echo in my mind. For years, she’s treated me with disdain for not giving her son a chance, bad-mouthing me, so her showing up was a bit of a shock, to say the least.

I didn’t say anything to her, not knowing what to say, to be honest, but I did nod to acknowledge that I heard her pleas, before she gently tucked me in, kissed my head, and then left.

I sigh as Travis wheels me outside, my mind going to the man who hit me, visions of him holding his chest before my body hit the windshield.

“I need to get that guy’s number, the one who crashed into me,” I mumble as Travis helps me into his truck, and his head shoots up, his eyes hard, and I furrow my brows in confusion.

“You won’t be contacting him, Heaven!” he snaps, and I raise a brow at the jackass, but he sticks to his words and shakes his head at me, stating, “You’ll never fucking speak to that man, ever. He’s dead.”

My eyes widen, but Travis ignores my reaction and clicks me in.

“Travis,” I try, but he doesn’t answer me. Instead, he kisses my forehead and shuts the door. “What on earth?” Full of confusion, I mumble as I watch him round the hood before climbing into the driver’s seat. He slams the door and grips the wheel.

“Travis, it was an accident,” I try again, but he scoffs, looking ahead. “He was clutching his chest,” I state, hoping to calm himdown. But it doesn’t work. Instead, he looks at me, his emotions shut off, making me flinch back, not understanding what his problem is.

My eyes soon widen when he sneers, “That fucker was drunk, Heaven, he wasdrunk, and while, yes, he had a heart attack, he decided to climb into that car after assaulting a stripper at Jimmy’s, the same fucking strip joint you work at. That fucker nearly killed you, could have killed our son, anddidkill our baby. Six feet under is where he belongs.”

My mouth parts in shock.

He killed him—he doesn’t have to say the words, but I can see it; it’s why he’s shut his emotions off.

He killed the man who nearly killed his wife.

“And if it was just an accident?” I ask, and he glares at me, but I put my hand up and continue, “If he did just have a heart attack, would you have still killed him?”

Travis scoffs and looks out the windshield, and I have my answer. He wouldn’t have killed him, punched him, yes, killed, no.

Shaking his head, Travis starts the truck, then pulls away, before he places his hand in between my legging-covered thighs, his grip firm, like I’m about to disappear, and a small part of me relaxes a little.

For ten years, he’s fought for me, but right now, I’m starting to see if I want this marriage, if I want him after the past, then I may have to fight for him this time ‘round, because this man is closed off from me, and I just don’t know why.

I swallow the lump in my throat and look out the window, wondering if he’s sleeping withheragain, and if he is, then there will be no coming back for us.

Half an hour later, I don’t question him as he pulls up before the club gate. I’m not stupid; I know he’s probably moved all my stuff into his place here, but what he doesn’t understand is that I won’t be staying for long, just long enough to get better.

He doesn’t get to dictate my life just because I was run over. If I decide to move in with him, it will bemydecision, and if anything, it’ll be him moving to our home, the one I’ve brought Micha up in.

As Travis pulls up outside the clubhouse, I frown in confusion and look at him as he switches off the ignition.

“I’ve got church, so you’ll sit in the common room until I’m done, then I’ll take you to our son. Surprisingly, your mother is with him,” he says.

I ignore the ‘mother’ comment because I swear someone has taken over her body and I don’t want to look into it just yet. I raise a brow and dare, “You did not just tell me that I’ve got to wait for you in there.”

He sighs, removes the keys from the ignition, and snaps, “We’re not arguing about this, Heaven. I’ve got church, and I’m already running late.”

I scoff, my anger taking over. “So, yet again, your wife’s feelings come second to the club?”

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