Page 107 of The Bad Wedding Date

With a nod of thanks for the warning, I walked into the stairwell and looked up the stairs, the door closing behind me. All of Fraser’s demands to search my apartment came flooding back to me. How stupid I’d always thought he’d been with his need to make sure nobody had been inside my place. How many jokes I’d made about him thinking he was in someMission Impossiblefilm, and how I’d teased him about his Hollywood fantasies.

I’d been in denial. The realisation hit me like a truck.

I could have called the police. Maybe I should have. But the thought of it being nothing more than my imagination running away with me made me stop that train of thought. I couldn’t call Fraser, either. I’d already tried to touch base with him three times that day. He was clearly busy. He’d think I was using it as an excuse to get his attention after he’d ignored all my previous messages. Jonah had a lot on his plate at the moment, and I had no family I could call who would be interested in entertaining my dramatics.

I did the only thing I could do. I prayed I’d left a window open, and a gust of summer wind had blown a glass off the kitchen counter or something, and then I ascended the stairs slowly, pushing a single key through my fingers as a weapon in case I should need it to jab someone in the eye.

In case that feeling in my gut happened to be right.

36

Fraser

Mum sat in the chair near the window, staring out at the beach in front of her, rocking back and forth like she was eighty years old. She wore nothing but black from head to toe. Black leggings, black T-shirt, and a long, heavy cardigan, which she tugged around herself and held together beneath crossed arms. I hated seeing her that way—the light in her eyes extinguished because life had been hard for her from the very start. In the end, she’d only had so much energy to fight it until the batteries had run out.

She’d become a shell, and I had no idea how to get her back.

The realisation that I’d let her down stuck in my stomach like poison, making me want to vomit. I’d had her abuser’s throat in my hands, and I’d let him get away, all because of a pretty woman catching my eye. All because I’d been thinking with my dick for the last week.

I scrubbed my hands over my face, the tiredness making my eyes heavy and my brain hurt.

Anya had gone to check on Mum during the early hours of the night only to find her bed empty. She hadn’t been in the apartment. Her shoes were still by the door. Her clothes still hung in her wardrobe. Nothing else had disappeared, just Mum. An hour later, after a frantic search, Anya had found Mum barefoot by the sea, her toes in the freezing cold water and her eyes vacant as she stared out at the inky night with only the moon for light. It had taken Anya over an hour to get Mum back indoors, and when she’d told her she was going to phone an ambulance for fear she could have hypothermia after spending so long in the freezing water, Mum had lashed out, telling her to get out of her apartment. Telling her to get out of her life.

That’s when Anya had phoned me.

Mum never lashed out at anyone, especially not the one woman who stood by her side and cared for her every day of her life.

Things were getting worse, and I didn’t have a clue what to do about any of it.

“You should sleep,” Mum said, her voice monotone as she rocked back and forth, not taking her eyes from the sea. It was the one thing that calmed her. That singular thing that took her away from trauma and brought her peace.

“I could say the same to you.”

“Don’t turn this around on me.”

“I would never try to do that.”

“I can see the disappointment in your eyes, Fraser.”

“That’s concern, not disappointment.”

“You think I’m a mental case.”

“I think you’re tired, nothing more.”

“Liar.”

She’d got into the habit of calling me that lately. I was starting to wonder if it was, in fact, the truth.

With a small sigh, I dropped my forearms to my parted thighs and studied her. “You should sleep while I’m here. That’s all I’m saying. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Hmm,” she mused, letting that single sound hold me still. “Safe.”

While any other son may have chosen to leave London, stop seeking retaliation, and live with their struggling mother, I knew staying in this place, which she called her haven, would surely be the death of me. Mum needed quiet and solitary confinement. I needed the city and revenge to get by. Sitting idly by while the world corrupted itself was not my idea of living. I’d throw myself into the sea with a brick attached to my ankle before the month’s end.

“Safe,” she repeated, huffing. “Why do people think that’s all that matters?”

“Do you want more from me?”

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