Page 6 of Faithless

I’m seeing Mark twenty-five years ago.

“Cole, she’s not an angel. She’s a human being.”

He rolls his eyes again, this time so dramatically his eyelids flutter. “Obviously. But she’s as close to an angel as it gets, and it’s not always a good thing. It makes it so easy for people to take advantage of her. I’m afraid that’s what’s going to happen this summer.”

I nod slowly, my throat growing tight.

I’ve let Mark take advantage of me because I was pretty ideal for brainwashing too. I thought my sins were great enough to warrant this treatment. I thought I deserved to be punished.

Oh God, I should have ended this all a long time ago.

CHAPTER 3

Mark

* * *

She has her appointment today. My heart has been racing all morning.

I have a plan. It’s not perfect, but it’s something.

When I walk into the kitchen, she’s standing near the stove staring down at a pan of pancakes, a spatula in one hand.

Ah, she’s making Maddy her favorite breakfast to entice her to wake up earlier. Maddy has been having trouble waking up and going to school. It’s a battle I hear between her and Whitney every morning. Whitney practically begs her to get up and get dressed.

About a week ago, she started bribing her with pancakes topped with strawberries and whipped cream. Maddy is far too old to have her mother making her an elaborate breakfast on a school day, but this is what Whitney does. She takes care of us all, even when it borders coddling, because this is the type of person she is.

She’s everything I was taught a woman should be—all of my antiquated fantasies embodied in one person—kind, sweet, self-sacrificing, and as warm and loving as an angel.

To everyone in the family except me, that is.

When I walk to where she stands at the counter, she turns to me, looking startled. I haven’t approached her since the day she made her announcement.

I’ve been biding my time. Planning my attack.

Her eyes are wary, maybe even a little fearful, and I can’t blame her. She’s seen my vindictive side. It’s a sign of how truly fed up she must be with me if she’s willing to face it now.

“Can we talk?” I ask, and I’m pleasantly surprised at the lightness in my voice. I don’t sound like a maniac who’s spent the last week wondering if I can lock my wife up somewhere—somewhere she’s safe and cared for, of course—without my children finding out about it.

That wary look fades a little, and she nods. “I just need five more minutes while I finish making these.” She gestures over to the pancakes.

I nod. “I’ll be in my office.”

Just as I turn and start walking away, I’m halted by the sound of her voice. “No.”

My brow furrows as I turn to her.

She crosses her arms over her chest. “In my office.” She swallows, lowering her eyes to the tile floor. “Knitting room, I mean.”

Ah, she wants to have home-field advantage.

Her wariness tells me she thinks I’m going to give her shit, because that’s the kind of bastard I’ve been to her over the years. Even changing the location of our talk seems like something I would hassle her about.

Under different circumstances, I probably would have, but I might as well start now—however small—showing her I will do absolutely anything to keep her.

She belongs to me, and even though I can’t forgive her, a deep primal part of me can never let her go.

She’s mine.

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