Page 76 of The Heir
"She's dead."
"Yes. Or will be very soon."
"Holy shit." I watch as my mother's chest stops rising and falling. Her eyes turn glassy and unfocused, but she's still staring at me. She's gone. She never raised a hand against me, but she never stoppedhimeither. She faked it until I was gone. She was my mother by blood, and shedidfeed me. Clothe me. House me.
She did the bare minimum. And she only came to find me when she thought I could be useful.
Hot tears trail down my cheeks as I stare at the corpse of my mother. I don't even know why I'm crying. She never loved me—I don't think she did, anyway. And I hadsomelove for her, like a good daughter should. But I guess I never really was a good daughter, was I?
"Go to bed, love. I'll take care of this." Dante leans in and kisses my forehead. Numb, I nod and trudge up the stairs.
Our bedroom is immaculately clean, the bed made with hospital corners. Marie must still be coming by to tidy up, dust the shelves, and whatnot. I peel back the blankets and kick off my shoes before settling in. The dark grey sheets smell like home. Fresh laundry detergent and comfort. My eyelids are so heavy, but I can't sleep. Guilt and something unnamed roil around in my gut.
My mother is dead.
My husband killed her.
As fucked up as it sounds, I want to thank him for it. I didn't realize the extent of her emotional power over me until I watched the light leave her eyes.
My stomach clenches, and I swallow hard. I can't get comfortable. The lingering scent of gunpowder mixes with the laundry detergent the more I toss and turn. Huffing out a sigh, I look down at myself—and notice the blood I've smeared on our nice, fresh sheets. Sorry, Marie.
"Ugh," I mumble and groan. Throwing the sheets off me, I hoist myself up and plod over to the shower. Maybe that'll help. The knobs turn without a single squeak, and steam fills our en suite bathroom. Catchinga glimpse of my hair and body products, I nearly break down in tears again. I'm home. I'm really, really home.
Dante
With my messy job done and all of the blood and viscera showered off, I slip into bed next to my wife. She's curled up around a pillow, her chest slowly rising and falling. I can't help but smile when I look at her. She's here. She's mine.
She'smine.
From every messy dark wave on her head and the full kissable lips, down to her sock-covered toes, she belongsto me. The twin babies in her womb belong tous. They may not have a maternal grandmother anymore, but I don't think they ever really did. If she was willing to come here to extort Melody… there's no way in hell I would let the twins anywhere near her.
As I stare at the darkened ceiling, many emotions float through my mind. None of them is guilt. I don't feel guilty in the slightest for getting rid of that woman. I don't feel guilty for bringing Melody into my chaos—not anymore. She's a fierce woman, and she fits my imperfections perfectly.
Snaking a hand around her hips, I gently adjust my body to fit around hers. She inhales deeply, and I freeze—did I wake her? Cursing internally, I watch her face and only let out the tiniest sigh of relief when she curls in deeper. Fully asleep. So peaceful. So beautiful.
My breathing deepens, and sleep blurs the edges of my vision. We're here. We're home. Together.
And she's still mine. She always will be.
We fall into a routine again. I coordinate her doctor's appointments so she doesn't have to think about it, and she scurries around the house waiting for Helena to come back. We just received news that Melnyk iscleared for travel, and we're going to the private airstrip to pick up our comrades.
"Do you think I look pregnant?" Melody grumbles, looking down at her soft tummy.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I peek at my gorgeous wife. She's always been curvaceous, but thereisa little extra swell in her lower abdomen. My heart pounds a racket against my ribs as a protective, possessive love fills me to the brim.
"You look gorgeous, love. Gorgeous—and pregnant."
She huffs out an exasperated sigh, but a pleasant smile curves her lips upward. The smile gets bigger and wider as we near the airstrip. Melody plasters her hands against the passenger window and lets out a tiny squeal. "Is that her? Is that their plane?"
A small white plane descends from the sky, aiming perfectly for the landing strip. It's a bit far to read the identifier on the tail, but it certainlylookslike the right plane. "Yes, love."
"Oh, my god. It's her. It's them!" My wife bounces in her seat. "God, I'm huge. I look so fucking different. Do you think she's going to… I don't know, hate me? For leaving her there?"
"No." My answer is firm and immediate. "No, she won't. It was damn near impossible to rip her away from Melnyk's side while he healed. In fact, I think she'd be more upset if we forced her to leave him."
Melody pauses and chews on her lower lip. "Yeah. Yeah, you're probably right."
Her excitement comes back in full force as I turn into the small parking lot. Men in pilot uniforms mill about, smoking, and they give a respectful nod as we pass. The private airport is incredibly tiny: one gate, no restaurants, and a friendly receptionist who waves us through.
