Page 100 of The Temptation
Just as I go to close the door, she scrambles up onto the seat. “Romeo.”
I pause. “What?”
“Please be safe.”
And fuck me, if those words don’t feel like a kick straight to my ball sack.
This is precisely why I wanted her to stay at home. It’s only natural I’d still worry if she were back at the house without me, but this?
Out here in the open, no streetlights, no houses nearby, and nothing but a flimsy sheet of glass between her and whatever the hell might be lurking in the dark?
This is a whole different kind of risk.
And now, instead of focusing on the job at hand as I scour this goddamn park for my mother, my mind is back in that fucking car park, stuck on the woman I love.
Worrying about her.
Praying she listens.
Hating that I care this much, all the while knowing I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I’ve searched the entire perimeter and there’s still no sign of my mum. Is she still here?
I pull out my phone and send off a quick text. I don’t want to call her just in case heis nearby.
Me: Where are you?
My hand drops down by my side as my gaze moves back around the park. It takes a minute or so, but I finally get a reply.
Mum: Over by the swings. Are you here?
Fuck, that’s on the far side of the park.
I don’t even bother replying. I flick on the torchlight on my phone and start moving in that direction.
With every quickened step, my anger builds. Sticks and dried leaves snap underfoot, loud and sharp, but I don’t care. I don’t need to be quiet. I don’t want to be.
If that worthless piece of shit is out here somewhere, I hope he hears me coming. Because if he finds me first, he’s going to wish he hadn’t.
I no longer care what he means to my mother. I warnedhim not to put his hands on her again, so he deserves no mercy, and that’s exactly what he’s going to get.
The moment the swings come into view, I break into a jog. “Mum,” I call out when I’m close enough for her to hear me. “Mum,” I repeat in a slight panic when she doesn’t step out from where she’s hiding. “Where are you?”
I feel an immediate relief when she finally comes forward, stepping out into the light from my phone, but that feeling quickly dies when I look at the condition she’s in.
Her clothes are soaked through, clinging to her thin frame, and there’s a deep gash on her forehead. Blood trickles down the side of her bruised and swollen face. Her hands tremble at her sides, and her eyes are wide and glassy. At first, they don’t seem to register me at all.
“Mum,” I say again, softer this time, stepping forward. “What happened?”
She doesn’t answer. She stands there, swaying slightly, and for a moment, I think she might fall. I close the few feet separating us, catching her just as her knees buckle. She’s ice-cold.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” she whispers finally, her voice hoarse and distant.
This woman may have let me down countless times in my life, but despite all that, she’s still my mother.
“Of course I’d come.”
When the tears pooling in her eyes begin to cascade down her face, I don’t hesitate to pull her into my arms.
