Page 63 of The Locksmith's Promise

His heavy footsteps plodded up the stairs behind me, his remorse wrapping around us both so thickly I longed to stop, drop, and roll my way clear of all of it.

Instead, we settled on the couch with hot chocolate like two friends catching up on old times rather than a woman bracing herself to learn for sure if the man who gave her a child in exchange for her virginity had betrayed her in the worst way.

“I don’t know how to begin,” he admitted after too long of a silence had passed.

I wrapped my icy fingers around my mug. “Just tell me what happened.”

“The last thing I remember was going home and having words with my father.” His eyes narrowed but he gave his head a shake and carried on. “When I woke up, I was in my bed and Jenny was beside me.”

I swallowed hard, trembling as the memory of that day hitting me anew.

“I had a massive hangover, worse than any I’ve ever had before or since. I don’t even remember much about that morning. I know Jenny was in as bad of shape as I was. We didn’t talk at all, she just wanted to go home.”

He grimaced and gave his head a rough shake as he sucked in a harsh breath. “I remember getting in the shower and examining myself for evidence.”

My stomach hollowed out.

I didn’t need to know this, not for him to be Corwin’s dad.

Still, I rasped, “Did you find any?”

His mouth pulled down at the corners. “I don’t remember.”

I scoffed, then immediately regretted it when his eyes dropped, his face going blank.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“I don’t remember a lot of things. I don’t remember going back to bed or driving to your house. It’s all a blur,” he continued.

“Please, Mags.” His dark, tortured eyes found mine. “I know I don’t have the right to ask you to forgive me, but I’m going to anyway. I don’t know what happened, I can only tell you that seeing her there when I woke up was a shock because I belonged to you. And I only wanted you.”

Jealousy burned holes in my stomach. “Have you talked to her since you left?”

He swallowed and dropped his eyes. “Not for the first year or two. She got in touch with me a while after that, once more a few years later, and again just after my dad passed, but I refused to talk about that night.”

Bile rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down. “She wanted to talk?”

He nodded and met my eyes fleetingly. “She said she needed to explain things.”

My thoughts spun. Red-hot rage swirled, tears stung the back of my eyes, and Mom’s meatloaf threatened to stage a comeback.

I wanted to stop.

But I only had to get through this once.

I wrestled control over my voice. “Why didn’t you talk to her?”

He shook his head, staring down into the mug cupped in his hands. “I just couldn’t. Shame? I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It felt disloyal to you. If I couldn’t fix things with you, why would I want to fix things with her?”

The old clock on the kitchen wall ticked loudly.

He sighed and scrubbed a large, rough hand over his eyes. The edge of his t-shirt pulled up, revealing a sliver of honeyed skin above the waistband of his jeans.

“Do you still have it?” I blurted.

His eyes flew to meet mine. “Have what?”

I dropped my gaze to his ribs then looked back at him.

---