Page 18 of Fury

“That’s wonderful. Hey, listen, do you think you could feed the fish today?”

Her eyes light up as she nods, dropping her backpack to the ground and turning, rushing toward the fish tank. I love seeing her slowly come out of her shell. Fury reaches down and lifts the bag off the floor, his eyes never leaving mine. Slowly, he straightens, and his hand reaches out, his fingers stretching toward my scarf. I know what he’s looking for, and I can’t do this right here.

“Please don’t,” I say, my voice more panicked than I’d like.

His brows furrow. “I can help you.”

Oh, but he can’t.

If it was just an abusive relationship, maybe he could help me.

It’s not.

I’ll go to prison for life.

My job, everything ... gone.

“There is nothing to help,” I respond, calming my voice.

“You think I don’t know a beaten wife when I see one?”

“Don’t pretend to understand my situation,” I grind out. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know that every single fuckin’ time I reach for you, you flinch. I can see fear in your eyes, hidden in the depths. You think you’ve managed to keep it from the world, but your truth is written all over you.”

“Stand down,” I seethe, completely unsettled. “This isn’t the place.”

He leans in close. “I don’t like men who abuse women. I won’t stand down.”

With that, he turns and walks over to put Hope’s things away.

I watch, my fingers trembling. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I take a few steadying breaths to calm myself as my eyes scan the room. Thankfully, nobody is watching. A few of the moms have their eyes on Fury, and I’m not at all surprised. He’s something to look at, and everyone knows he’s single. Half of these women would throw their husbands to the curb for a night with a man that looks like him.

Fury turns, winking at one of them, and a flurry of giggles fills the classroom.

Seriously.

Turning, I begin writing on the board, praying he’ll be gone when I turn back.

That’s not at all his plan, and moments later, the warm presence of him behind me has me stiffening. I keep writing, forcing my hand to move as he slips something into my pocket. Then, without a word, he’s gone. I don’t want to turn and look at the women who are no doubt staring at me. I don’t want to give them something to talk about.

My fingers burn to pull the note from my pocket, but I don’t.

Instead, I wait until everyone has gone and my class is reading before pulling the paper out and unraveling it.

Scrawled on a small, ripped piece of paper is a phone number.

I know it’s his.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I shove the paper back into my pocket.

Every ounce of me screams to throw it in the trash, to not let him get involved, but something in the background is telling me to keep it somewhere.

Maybe one day ... I’ll need it.

Maybe.

5

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