Page 102 of L.O.V.E

She passed out in my bed after round five. Her phone continued to chime, and I loved that she didn’t check it once, giving me one hundred percent of her attention.

But the incessant ding drove me mad. I found her handbag in the dark and dug out her cell, my intention only to power the damn thing down.

Her screen was full of texts, all of them reading the same.

I found you.

You can’t hide.

You’re dead.

Mother fuck.

I dialed Detective Waters before considering the time.

A groggy voice answered, “Yeah?”

“If there’s even the slightest chance she could have survived that accident, I need to know.”

Soft breasts pressed against my chest. A bare pussy nestled against my thigh. Warm breaths hit my neck. Good God, waking to such bliss could ruin a man.

I wasn’t ready for the day. Dreaded goodbye. The sharp stab in my gut every time she left. My chest ached despite the way she clung to me.

Cupping her ass, I ground my erection against her belly. My beauty stirred but continued with the deep breathing, her faint snore the sexiest melody.

I brushed her hair away from her face to reveal two scars, almost identical in size and shape, but on opposite sides of her forehead.

One of which Victoria had caused.

Fuck. I had married, then buried, a monster, and seeing evidence of the hell she’d put Natalie through filled me with vile hatred. Anger welled, heating my core, but I refused to allow my rage in the same bed as my angel.

Slow and steady, I inched my way off the mattress, leaving my sleeping beauty to dream. I threw on my workout gear and made my way downstairs to the gym.

Early morning hours were my time to purge. Me and the heavy bag. And, fuck, how I needed a good cleansing.

Blood. Sweat. Pain. Release. Release.

Release.

One strike for every memory.

Martin’s betrayal. Jab. Cross.

Victoria’s deceit. Jab. Cross. Uppercut.

My naive ass. Jab. Cross. Hook. Cross.

Those fucking texts.

Strike after strike, I expelled the demons. Cleansed my murderous urges. Purified my soul of the humiliation.

Only when I couldn’t draw steady breath or lift my arms for another blow, I headed for the treadmill, ditching my gloves on a nearby bench.

“It’s six in the morning.”

Her sleepy voice hit me like a freight train full of happy juice.

“On a Sunday,” she added.

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