Page 67 of The Wild Fire

With a flippant goodbye to my family, the siren-like older woman snatches a cigarette from her purse and sashays down the hall toward the front door, her hips swinging exaggeratedly. Harry, Mason and Jasper watch after her, hypnotized. That’s the effect Juliette Haywood usually has on men.

But I’m not charmed by my mother-in-law. I know her too fucking well. Plus, she gives off a shady vibe that keeps me from ever being able to let my guard down around her.

Maybe that’s why something tells me to follow her. “Let me help you guys get your coats,” I say gallantly, striding after them.

“Such a gentleman, my Davis,” Juliette turns over her shoulder and gives me that man-eating grin she gives to every member of the male species.

I try not to roll my eyes. The woman is my mother-in-law so I try to be cordial with her but she’s never been my favorite person in the world.

I’ll give credit where credit is due—she’s been clean and staying out of trouble with the law since her last stint in rehab—but I hate the effect she has on my wife. That shady woman can sweep Alana into a tornado of anxiety with one wrong move.

At the door, I grab their jackets from the front closet. I hand Stacey and Jordan their raggedly coats with ripped seams and hanging threads. What happened to the fleece jackets Alana gifted them last Christmas?

I’m helping Juliette into her floor-length fake raccoon monstrosity when I hear a heavy metallic clunk hit the tile behind me.

I glance over my shoulder and find Jordan, wide-eyed and wobbly-lipped, hunched over, staring down at the watch—my watch—on the floor between his worn-out sneakers.

An invisible bucket of rage pours down on my head.

The little boy’s fearful eyes dart up to mine.

Juliette’s hand flies up, clutching her chest with soap opera-style flair. “Jordan James Haywood!” She gasps loudly. Fake as fuck, this woman.

The child’s eyes fill with tears. And then he wets his pants.

Stacey’s arm comes protectively around her brother again. She shoots daggers of hate at her mother. Meanwhile, the six-year-old sobs wordlessly, burying his face into his sister’s side.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what’s going on here.

My hand is fucking shaking when I bend down and scoop the watch off the floor.

Alana bounces into the room right then, beautiful and clueless, with a weary smile on her lips. She stretches a knitted hat out to her brother. “You forgot your hat in the bathroom, bud—” When she sees the watch clutched in my fist, her eyes widen with surprise and a relieved smile breaks out across her face. “You found it?! You found the watch?!” She almost squeals.

Her jubilant gaze bounces to me. Then to her shaken siblings. Then to her remorseless mother. I catch the way the color drains from her face.

Her shoulders droop in defeat, like a balloon beginning to sag after one too many pinpricks. A cloud of embarrassment and rage covers her expression. It breaks my fucking heart.

“Mom…” she whispers, her voice shaking. “What did you do this time…?”

* * *

Tonight,when I look into Alana’s bloodshot eyes, I see that same cloud of defeat. I lose all train of thought.

In a heartbeat, I’m on my feet. Grabbing her by her upper arms, I yank her flush against me. Then I steal her lips with mine.

I don’t want to steal her breath. I want to breathe the life back into her. I kiss her like I’m trying to give her back everything this world has so cruelly taken away from her.

Losing control, Alana leaps onto me. Her legs come around my middle as she kisses me back with a renewed hunger, taking everything I’m offering.

My feet blindly lead us toward the small bed as our lips and hands and tongues take over. I lay her down on the narrow mattress.

The storm rages on outside, with slivers of lightning flashing across Alana’s perfect face.My fingers dive into her hair and I brush the lines of her cheekbones with the pads of my thumbs.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I say before I can stop myself.

A blush creeps across her cheeks. Her lashes flutter like they’re trying to sweep the emotions away from her eyes. “Why does it still give me butterflies to hear you say that?”

I think we both know the answer to that question.

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