Page 56 of Absolution
But Dane will always shield me from harm. The only danger he poses is to anyone who might try to separate us.
I’ll do anything to keep and defend him too, even if I’m not as strong as he is physically.
My love for him has made me a little more vicious, but I’m becoming more comfortable with my newfound ferocity. I’m powerful in my own right. I don’t have to wear false smiles or bend over backwards to please others.
My happiness is genuine, even if that means it’s a little sharper than the fake cheer I used to present to the rest of the world.
Dane finally tears his gaze from the painting so that his eyes meet mine. His handsome features split in a wild, silly grin, and he brushes his thumb over my unicorn badge in an offhand display of affection.
He’s helped me find my strength, but I’ve softened something in him.
Well, only for me. I don’t think my fierce, psychopathic husband will ever be soft for anyone else.
The knowledge only makes me that much more enamored with him.
“We should probably let everyone in,” I breathe, even though all I want is to linger in this moment with him.
He drops a quick kiss on my lips. “We’ll celebrate your success properly later.”
It’s a dark, sensual promise, and my pulse quickens.
“Don’t do that to me right now!” I protest with a giggle. “I don’t want to be a flustered mess when I’m greeting people.”
His grin sharpens, unrepentant. “I like when you’re flustered for me. But I’ll make you a mess when we’re alone at home.”
“Dane!” I scold, but I loop my arm through his.
He escorts me through the gallery, toward the glass door and the waiting crowd.
He just chuckles, a slightly cruel promise.
I hold my head high, and his low laugh morphs into a satisfied hum. “There’s my queen,” he praises. “I’m so proud of you.”
I flush with pleasure, but before I can reply, he unlocks the door.
The next hour flies by in a haze of compliments and Champagne toasts. The entire night seems surreal: a dream I never dared to indulge before meeting Dane.
A few people mention the article, but they keep it to brief, respectful comments of solidarity and support. Dane’s warning glower ensures that no one discusses my trauma in detail.
A commotion at the door, pierces my happy bubble. I recognize my mother’s haughty voice, slurring slightly from indulging in too much wine.
“You can’t stop me from seeing Abby,” she insists. “I am her mother.”
She says it like that gives her the authority to do anything she wants to me, as though she holds power over me by some sort of divine right.
“I’ll handle this,” Dane promises, voice dropping to that flat, cold register that makes my spine tingle in primal warning.
I push past him. “No. I will.”
As I near the door, I note that one of the catering staff is blocking my mother’s entrance. He’s considerably bulkier than the other servers, and I realize that Dane probably hired him as discreet security. The man is acting as a bouncer, physically preventing my mom from stepping into the gallery.
“What are you doing here, Mama?” I ask, my own voice cold and carefully controlled.
Her cheeks are red, and I’m not sure if she’s flushed from alcohol or rage. Probably both.
“You won’t answer my calls,” she seethes. “How else was I supposed to talk to my daughter?”
“I haven’t answered because I blocked your number,” I reply coolly. “I don’t want any further contact from you.”
