Page 93 of Perdition
War was standing with Locust and Redtube by the firepit, talking about the psychology behind men who stalk their women—a completely appropriate topic for those two obsessive assholes.
Sorsha was sitting with the old ladies, including her mother, and Frost did his damn best to ignore the way his baby girl kept peeking at Tiburon across the backyard.
Patriot chuckled, bumping his shoulder into Frost’s.
“You’re going to have some trouble there, brother,” he teased, making Frost turn and glower at him.
“There won’t be a problem as long as the fucker keeps his eyes and hands to himself.”
“What are you two talking about so intently over here,” Emily asked as she came up beside Frost, slipping her arm around his waist, and leaning into him.
It had been six months since the night she’d decided—against her best judgment—to forgive him. There was still a space between them that she wouldn’t let him bridge, but he was patient. It took months to degrade what they had before, it would take much longer to heal it. And hewouldheal it, because living without her, without the woman he loved, was impossible.
So, when she was silent, he let her be silent, he never asked her if she wanted him home, he just came home, every night, to spend time with her. Even on the nights when she stayed late at Flower’s Blooms, he made sure to be home waiting for her. The porch light on, calling his warrior woman home. Some nights, he made sure to have her favorite wine open and ready for her, especially on tough days. And some nights, he was just a listening ear for when she wanted to unload.
And it felt damn good.
How the hell did he ever think she didn’t need him?
He’d been a fool, but the fool died an agonizing and well-deserved death. They stood at the edge of the clubhouse back lot as the sun melted into apricot and gold, fingers intertwined like an old, unspoken agreement. Around them, the trees whispered with the slow, certain language of seasons, and the air smelled of grease, smoke, and the faint ghost of vodka. Mads squeezed Emily’s hand, a small, private punctuation, and she leaned into him as if the rest of the world had finally learned to wait.
“We’re plotting a murder,” Frost groused, making Patriot throw his head back and laugh.
Emily, her eyes wide, chided, “Don’t say stuff like that!”
She followed his gaze and hummed.
“Ah, so you finally noticed, did you?” she asked, smug as shit.
He reeled back, glaring at her.
“You knew about this and didn’t tell me?” he protested.
She giggled, her smile lighting up her face, and her laugh lighting up his heart.
Damn, he missed that sound, even when it was at his expense.
“Of course, I knew, but that’s mother-daughter privilege, buddy.” She playfully poked his chest, and he grabbed her finger, licking the tip.
She gasped, her eyes growing heavy, her breathing labored.
Hmmm…his woman was in need.
“While you two do your weird foreplay, I’m gonna go get my lady another lemonade,” Patriot informed them before he strode off toward the coolers lined up along the back of the clubhouse.
After he left, Em and Mads stood silently watching the party playing around them.
Em in his arms, next to him, her head on his shoulder, his chin on top of her head—they fit. Meant to be. Better or worse.
Mads loves Em 4-ever.
That tree was gone, and that carving with it, but the meaning and the intention were still the same today as they had been back when he’d etched that heart and those words into the bark of that red maple.
Yesterday, today, and forever, it was Mads and Emily.
“Do you ever wonder what our life would be like if Sarah hadn’t done what she’d done…if you hadn’t had that emotional affair with her?”
That question…it was one he’d been waiting for her to ask.
