by H. M. Ward
My arms flail wildly as I dart through the garden like a drunken bee, zigzagging along a path that is obvious to me, but the large man chasing me doesn’t see. There’s a thin trail in the foliage on the ground as if the chipmunks always follow the same path through this area. I stay with it, moving quickly and carefully, so I don’t take a header, but I’m not fast enough. He’s right behind me.
The man swipes for me once, barely missing my arm. As his fingers graze my elbow, I jerk away and scream, rushing onward. There’s no one in sight, and my cries for help vanish on the breeze. My mind wanders, and I hope to God Peter isn’t hurt.
I swallow hard and surge ahead, pushing myself faster. I jerk to the right and zag off the critter path, rushing through the leaves—the man is too close, and my decision dooms me. Vines catch my ankle, and I fall to the ground hard. When I start to scurry, the man is there. He flips me over and sits on me, pinning me to the ground.
My eyes betray me. Visions of Dean flicker through my mind, coming in and out of focus like an old television. All those things he did to me. All the scars he left, real and raw. The man presses his hand to my mouth before I can scream. When I try to bite his palm, he crushes me to the ground harder.
He’s breathless, sweating. His weight is crushing me. I kick and squirm, but he’s too big. Tears well up in my eyes as I thrash. It’s not until he forces me still that I see the dark stain on his hoodie—blood.
He grins at me. “Some people don’t know when to quit, and you had the nasty luck of getting into bed with these fucked up people. This lesson is for him, honey. You just got in the way.”
A knife is in his hand with a shining silver curved blade and a pointed tip. He rushes it toward my chest. I press my eyes shut, waiting for the pain—wondering how death will feel. Fear pulses through me, flooding me from head to toe as I stiffen further, waiting for that cold sting as his knife sinks into my skin, but it doesn’t come.
Instead, there’s a rumble from above, and then he screams. I peel open my eye when his hand flies off my mouth. There’s a barrage of black feathers covering the man’s face as Mr. Turkey tries to perch on his nose. The animal’s claws dig in, slashing the man’s skin with those sharp talons. Thank God for my psychotic pet. My attacker is distracted enough for me to slip away and run. I’m out of the garden, over the wall, down the benches, and running for Jon as fast as I can manage. Sharp pains shoot up my sides as I gasp for air, but I pound my feet harder against the pavement and run faster, my ponytail streaked with debris from the strawberry field.
Mr. Turkey lets out a blood-curdling shriek behind me. I don’t look back. I can’t. It’ll slow me down and then we’ll both be dead. Footfalls rush up behind me. I’m too slow. I can’t fathom it, but as I try to rush ahead, I don’t have it in me. I do the only thing I can think. When the guy is about to catch me, I stop, pivot and dodge to the side. The movement confuses him for a second, but he’s there again in a beat. I do it again, dodging his grasp and ducking under his arm. He’s so close. I spin, duck, dodge, repeat until I finally crash into him.
Panting, I stop and stare up into his blood-covered face. Mr. Turkey slashed through his right eyelid. The wound leaks blood, obscuring his vision in that eye.
He hisses, “You stupid bitch.” He shakes me hard, and that blade is out and headed for me again.
I kick and try to back away, but it doesn’t separate us enough. When he grabs me, he flips me around and presses my back against him, clamping his meaty hand over my mouth. He’s swearing at me, whispering in my ear, telling me what he’s going to do, how much it’s going to hurt. “I wouldn’t have done it like that if you didn’t fucking run, but having that beast rip open my face? You know you’re going to pay for that.”
He rips the knife across my stomach, leaving a shallow wound in its wake. Bright red blood wells up and spills down my stomach. The wound is shallow—made to hurt, not kill. “Nine more and we’ll be even.”
He moves to slash me again when he’s suddenly torn away. Another body hurls at the man, knocking me away and forcing him to the ground. It’s Peter. I scramble away, stepping back as they roll on the ground, that knife repeatedly coming within a fraction of an inch of Peter’s neck.
I glance around, looking for something to use to fight with—to help him—but there’s nothing. Sean is running toward us, but that’s not what makes me scream. I hear it before I see it—the roaring of a truck engine. When I glance up, a bright yellow truck is racing toward us at an alarming speed. It bounces across the uneven construction zone.
“Peter!” I shout his name, but the driver in the truck lays on the horn, making Peter and the thug freeze.
They both stare at the truck that’s headed to flatten them both. Peter takes off first at a full run, rushing to the side, nearly running toward the truck. The other man unfreezes and runs in the opposite direction, in a straight line. I watch in horror, blinking as Jon drives by bouncing in the driver’s seat. He slams on the brakes and the truck skids across the dewy grass. The back end of the truck swings around fast and hard. It collides with the man and continues to slide over his fallen body. The guy vanishes from sight. The truck lurches to a stop, and the force rattles the back doors open. Ice cream cones shoot through the air and fall to the ground in rapid thumps.
Everyone stands still for a moment, waiting to see if the guy gets up. When he doesn’t rise. Peter walks toward the vehicle, nods once at Jon—a thanks—and stops in front of the man’s prone body. At first, I think he’s going to kick the lifeless form—or worse. There’s so much rage in Peter’s face that it frightens me. But he doesn’t do anything like that. He takes the bloodied man’s wrist and checks his pulse.
Sean is there a moment later, followed by Jon. The three men exchange hushed whispers for a few moments, then Jon and Sean load the man into the back of the food truck and drive out of the construction area.
Peter turns toward me. There’s a cut on his face from his temple to his chin—an angry red gash. He breathes heavily, his blue gaze locked on mine and filled with regret. I move to go to him and remember my wound. I wince from the movement. Peter rushes toward me, speaking softly as he kisses my temple. Sudden nausea strangles me, and my head feels so heavy I think I’ll fall. The ground tips to the side and without a word, my world goes black.
CHAPTER 12
When I open my eyes, I expect to be in the park, not on a bed. The early morning sunlight is gone, replaced with moonlight seeping through slatted blinds. I blink and glance around. This is the bedroom Peter was sleeping in at Sean’s. His scent fills the room and wraps around me like a warm blanket. It’s funny how a scent can convey so much in so little time.
Peter is seated next to me in a chair. His head in his hand and he’s leaning forward, pinching his brow. I watch that beautiful face, trying to focus on the stubbled jaw that’s chiseled to perfection. His shoulders are rounded, hunched forward as if he failed today. I wish I could take some of that burden from him. I wish he’d let me.
I wince as I try to sit up. Peter sees the movement out of the corner of his eye and straightens in his chair before rushing to my side, kneeling at the edge of the bed. “Don’t move.” His hand is on my head, his face close to mine.
“Is Mr. Turkey okay? I heard him shrill—”
Peter cuts me off. “He’s fine. The vet checked him. That bird is indestructible.”
I smile at him. “Are you okay?” My gaze drifts from his eyes to the gash.
“I’m okay. How are you? You blacked out for a while there.” He touches my hand, squeezes it gently.
“I’m fine.” I sit up slowly, pressing my hand on my stomach for support. My clothes are clean and dry. I’m wearing a sweat suit that’s not mine. I run my hand over my stomach, wondering if they stitched it up.
“The wound wasn’t deep. It should heal quickly if you take it easy.” Peter’s voice sounds strained. The gash on his face is secured by a butterfly bandage in the middle of his cheek, and a s
hiny line covers the rest. He sees me looking and says, “This was a little deeper. They put liquid stitches on it. Then I got scolded quite a bit. That’s the downside of using my mother’s doctor.”
“He came here?”
Peter nods. “Yes. He doesn’t know what happened, and he doesn’t care. His job is to patch us up, so he did.”
“Where’s the man?” I don’t want to ask the question, but I have to know. “Is he dead?”
Peter’s gaze holds mine for a moment and then dips to the floor. He inhales deeply and confesses, “He won’t bother us again. Sean made sure of it.”
“What about the other complications? You said this was bigger than just the one guy.” I want details, but I don’t think I should ask. I doubt Peter will tell me, and I'm not sure I truly want to know. A shiver rakes through me.
Peter tugs up my blankets and says softly, “He can’t hurt you anymore. No one will. I promise.”
I nod and ask, “What happened with the park? And the truck?”
“The police think a bunch of kids were screwing around in the construction site. Jon paid off the people he borrowed the truck from and bought them a new fleet of food vehicles for their silence.” His mouth twitches and he adds, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how I can ask you to endure a life like this. I can barely manage it.”
I pat the spot next to me. Peter rises from his knees and sits down on the side of the bed. “Together. We’ll manage it together.” I lean my head on his shoulder as he tangles our fingers together. After drinking in his intoxicating scent for a few silent moments, I say, “I’ve been thinking about the wedding, and about our names.”
He sits up and glances at me. “Yeah? I thought you decided on hyphenating Colleli-Granz?”
“I was, but I was thinking about it and—” I press my lips together and spit it out. “There’s strength in a name, Peter. Granz is the name you had when I met you, but it’s not who you are now. Colleli has always been my name, but it’s not who I am any longer either. The life we’re about to start together is going to be complicated.”
He shakes his head, his eyes boring into mine. “I don’t understand.”
I smile at him and place my hand on his, gently stroking the back of his hand with my thumb. “You’re stronger than you think you are, with a family that would die for you. Your brothers, well, we wouldn’t be here without them. I don’t see it as inviting disaster. We’ve both changed, grown. I think we should both take the name Ferro—Peter and Sidney Ferro.”
His crystal blue gaze lingers on mine. He presses his lips together and glances up at me. “You think I’m a Ferro at heart?” I nod. “And that doesn’t frighten you?”
“No, it’s your strength. It fills you up and makes you who you are. The softness of the poet is still there. I suspect it always has been, and now you know. There’s a balance between things, and I think you’ve found it. You showed compassion to an enemy.”
Peter speaks harshly. “I shouldn’t have done that. He nearly killed you because of it. If I’d stuck to the plan and not gone soft—”
I cut him off. “Then you wouldn’t be who you are. You tried to give the man a chance. You’re not turning into a tyrant, Peter. You’re still you, and no one threatens what’s yours. I like that about you. I always have.”
Peter leans his head on my shoulder, whispering, “It doesn’t scare you? You’re not afraid I’ll slip back into the old way of things and turn into my father?”
I snort. “That’s not possible. That man has no heart, and you’re all heart. It makes me feel safe, Peter. It doesn’t frighten me.” I pull back and look up into his eyes. “I know who you are. You've saved me more than once.”
He presses his forehead to mine and looks at me through lowered lashes, our noses barely touching. “You saved me the day we met. I was so lost, Sidney.”
His hands cup my cheeks softly, and he tips his head to the side. He moves slowly, giving me plenty of time to say no, to break the moment before anything happens. My heart pounds in big thuds, and I can’t breathe. I usually control the kiss, but this is a rush of excitement and lust. It curls inside my belly and shoots through me in tiny bubbles filled with happiness. The sensation is frightening at first, but I wait long enough to decide what it is before reacting. His warm mouth sweeps against mine in a gentle kiss, inviting me to kiss him back. But he pulls away so I can’t. When he does it again, I gasp and stiffen in his arms. The third time he does it, I take his face in my palms and hold him there. His mouth is on mine, lightly pressing against my swollen lips. He lets out a jagged breath of warm air and blinks slowly, lowering his dark lashes. Peter leans in and kisses me again, parting his lips, and deepens the kiss. I’m drawn to him and want the warm pressure of his body against mine. I want the gentle touches and caresses that set me on fire.
But he pulls away, shaking his head. “Not until that’s healed.” He gestures toward my wound. I frown and sink back against the pillows, sulking. Peter smiles at me and kisses my pouty lips. “I love you, Sidney.”
“I love you, too. So much.” We sink into the bed, tangled up together, and fall asleep.
CHAPTER 13
A few days pass without Sean coming home, so Peter and I have the entire place to ourselves. The more time passes, the more seriously I think about eloping. And it’s not because Constance Ferro is a scary pain in the ass. It’s more that I want the wedding to be about us, and with all this fuss it feels like it’s not.
It’s barely seven in the morning, and I’m choosing between minutia A or trivial thingy B. I frown as I stare at napkin choices. A row of pale, cream-colored cloth rectangles are lined up in front of me. There are no major differences. “Why do we need to change everything?” I ask—again.
Constance is wearing a sleek, blood-red dress with a cropped jacket. The severe neckline is high with a V right at the center of her neck. She sighs and glares at me. “You’re having a fall wedding now, and the old colors and choices were based on a spring wedding. It’s during fashion week in New York, and everything must be perfect. They judge us harshly, Sidney. You have to surpass expectation. You can’t have linen napkins at an autumn event. It’s crude.”
She rolls her eyes and lifts the tiny cup of espresso Peter made with Sean’s machine in the kitchen. I thought it was a decoration. Apparently, it works. I drained my cup already. Constance showed up a little after six this morning. I’ve been in napkin hell for nearly forty minutes, and I swear I can’t have the fork conversation again. I nod instead of arguing and mindlessly point to a napkin that looks like all the others.
I’m going to jump out the window if we’re not done soon, but I know we won’t be. This took weeks to do the first time. At least the stuck up party planner isn’t here. She bestowed her huge-ass book to Constance, who has brought it over every morning this week. Constance seems to think morning is six o’clock on the dot. I had no idea what I was agreeing to when this started. It feels like I’m marrying Peter’s mother.
I glance over at Peter. He’s pacing barefoot in the kitchen. I rise and pad across the room, heading for the kitchen. I call over my shoulder. “I need some coffee.”
Constance chatters at my back as I walk away. “Sidney, there’s much more to do, dear. If you truly need so many bathroom breaks, perhaps it’s time to see a doctor about that?” I bite my tongue and walk straight up to Peter, wrapping my arms around him. I lean in, pressing our bodies together. He’s warm, and his familiar scent of warm woods and soft spices fills my head.
He drops his voice and whispers, “Did you mean coffee, or coffee?” He waggles his eyebrows at me, and I snort a laugh. One of Peter’s hands rests on my back while the other comes up and cradles my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. His touch is soft, gentle.
“Both.”
Now he snorts. “That could get awkward.”
I can’t help it. There’s a wheezy laugh as I try to stay silent and fail. Peter smirks.
Before he can reply, Constanc
e is there, placing her cup in the sink. “I’m departing. Clearly, you’re not up to making these decisions, so I’ll do it for you. Peter.” She says his name coldly and nods at her son in lieu of a hug. His mother is through the front door, her designer bag filled with wedding selections, before either of us can respond.
When the door closes, I visibly deflate. I smile sheepishly at Peter before gently banging my head into his chest. “I can’t do this again. Planning everything once was hard enough. Doing it again is insane.”
He looks down at me. “I know. I’m not a big party kind of guy. I’d rather do things our way, to tell you the truth. I thought you wanted the big wedding?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I mean, it seems nice, but it’s not me. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but—”
“No, of course. I understand, Sidney. What if we did things small? Only grabbed the people we love the most, and that’s it?” This isn’t the first time he's mentioned it, but I wanted his mother to like me, at least a little bit. This suggestion pretty much ensures she’ll hate me instead.
My face pinches as I ask, “What about your mom? A tiny almost-elopement wedding will piss her off. She’ll be hellish for months.”
Peter presses his forehead to mine, his voice deep and rich. “It’s not about her. It’s about us. What do you want, Sidney?”
Shyly, I say, “You. I want a small wedding somewhere that means something to us. I don’t want to wait.”
“Do you know a minister we could call?”
A smile spreads across my face. “You don’t know?”
