Page 130 of Method for Matrimony

So, I’d called in a bunch of favors. I’d fucked with him in any way I could.

Because I needed to hurt someone to feel better. I needed blood.

And driving home with a feeling of dread in my stomach, I feared I would have blood on my hands once more.

It just couldn’t be the blood of my wife and daughter.

Not again.

No way in fuck would I survive that.

fiona

Of all the unexpected visitors I thought I’d get in my lifetime, my ex-husband really wasn’t one of them.

He still existed to me, in many ways. In nightmares that were now few and far between. In memories that no longer haunted me. I’d checked up on him online every now and then, saw he got remarried to someone young, beautiful, and shiny. I’d wondered if underneath the makeup and the fake tan, she wore the same bruises I had. I’d really fucking hoped not.

He’d never had children. I was glad of that, at least. The thought of inflicting him as a father onto innocent children made me shudder.

I’d been sure I was never going to see him again. Because I’d never put myself in a situation where I would be at risk of seeing him again. That’s what the whole sham wedding had been about. Making sure I wasn’t going to be on the same continent as him ever again.

When I’d let myself think of him, I’d be struck with the fear that he’d make good on his promise to kill me the last time I saw him, the day I got the divorce. But time passed. A lot of it. And I figured he was never going to be motivated enough to search me out across the world purely to kill me. He wanted to scare me. Lived off that.

He barely existed for me now. I’d never fully forget the scars he’d forged in my soul, but they didn’t throb like they used to.

So yes, I was fucking shocked to open the door and see him standing there after a decade.

I was so surprised, in fact, that I didn’t do the smart thing like shut the door in his face and go grab the gun Kip kept in his bedside table. The gun we’d bickered about because I didn’t love the idea of being in the house with a weapon.

Right now, the idea of being in the house with a weapon seemed pretty damn comforting. Or it would’ve if I’d gone to get said weapon.

I just stood there, stunned. Like a fucking idiot in a horror movie.

Which gave Emmet the opportunity he needed to push through the door hard enough for me to tip backward, almost going down before I caught myself. Apparently, the prenatal yoga I did every few days helped with something.

I might’ve scrambled out the door to make a run—or wobble—for it if Emmet hadn’t snatched my upper arm and yanked me back into the house.

My fear response hadn’t spiked yet. I couldn’t quite believe he was here, in my house. I was having some kind of out-of-body experience. Which really fucking sucked because I liked to think my fight-or-flight response was a little more robust.

Only once we got into the kitchen did I regain my wits enough to yank him off and get as much space from him as I could. I rounded the kitchen counter, putting the island between us, my back to the french doors that led to the deck. Emmet surprisingly let me do that, though he stayed between me and the front door.

My heart thundered in my chest, anxiety and fear curling in my body. I tried to remember where in the fuck I’d put my phone. Kip had been lecturing me about always having it close by in case any kind of emergency happened when I was alone. Which wasn’t often.

I’d fought him on that because there was almost always someone here with me now that my due date was approaching, and because my overprotective husband called, texted, and came home multiple times a day to ‘check on me.’ I felt incredibly foolish in this moment for being so goddamn stubborn.

But living in that mindset wasn’t going to help me in this situation. Kip could walk in the door at any minute. He probably would.Someonewould.

But I couldn’t rely on that. Strength. I had to portray strength.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, tilting my head upward and looking at him straight on.

He had aged well. Assholes tended to do that. He was still handsome, in that effortless ‘surfer boy who never grew up’ type of way. Dark messy hair, tanned skin, smooth and expensive-looking polo. Muscled arms and manicured nails. But his eyes. They gave him away. They were empty. Soulless.

Those eyes were focused on my now-large stomach.

“My husband is going to be home any minute,” I told him, trying to sound casual and not terrified.

But I was.

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