“We really do,” Emma agrees, and then she drifts off to sleep in my arms before I have a chance to ask her about her ex’s power of attorney. But I don’t even care, because right now, everything is right in my world.
SEVENTEEN
* * *
NIGHTMARES AND NEW NORMAL
Eyes.
The smell of sulfur fills my nostrils, and smoke sears my lungs. The heavy weight of the rifle in my hands is like second nature to me. I could carry it in my sleep. During training, I probably did.
But it’s the eyes that chill me to the bone in the middle of this hot desert.
I don’t know how the intel had gone so bad. I know it happens, but not like this. One minute, the mission was going to plan, and the next, the world exploded. Spurts of gunfire can be heard all around me, but it’s the screams that ring in my ears.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I hear Adams scream through the comms in my ear. “They’re dead. They’re all dead.”
And he’s right. They’re all dead. Every last one of them. I was helpless to prevent this, yet still I feel like I should have. It’s as bad as if their blood was directly on my hands.
I make my way through the village we’ve been watching, my heart in my throat. Buildings, homes, the carts in the market, they’re all gone, burned out shells of what they were before. And bodies crumpled where they fell. Men, women, children—death does not discriminate. Their eyes vacant after life left them.
If eyes are the windows to the soul, then this is a portal to hell as I look at the faces of each person who should not have died. A child we gave a candy bar to yesterday, an old lady who offered coffee in the market, and a beautiful young woman whose belly was swollen with a baby.
Her dark eyes watch me, haunt me, as she sees me and nothing at all. And then they change to the brown of Ashley Horner’s, her belly cut open and her child just gone. I was helpless to stop her death too. I didn’t know her, and she still died.
The smoke burns my throat as I turn to the left and see Emma’s blonde-and-pink hair, her blue eyes open and watching me, her beautiful body mutilated because I was in her life.
“No!” I shout.
But the eyes of the dead scream that this is all my fault.
“Lee!” someone shouts. I don’t know who it could be. It sounds like my girl, but I know it’s not, because she’s dead and it’s all my fault. It’s all my fucking fault.
I should have trusted my gut not to trust the intel. Jake said time and time again that it didn’t feel right. Something was off. Rick, Wes, and I all agreed. It was off. But still. I should have known. It’s my fucking job to know this village was harboring a terrorist, that they weren’t safe, even the women and children.
I should have protected them. It was my job to protect them.
And now they’re all dead.
“Lee, baby, come back to me,” someone says as my body is forcefully shaken, and a small hand grips my shoulder hard.
My eyes blink open, and I stare into the concerned blue eyes of Emma. Not dead. She’s not dead. She’s alive and well…. Well, seeing as she’s currently in a hospital bed, that is a relative assessment.
Fuck.
I had another nightmare, and they’re getting worse.
I blink again and sit up. It takes me a second to get my bearings and realize where I am. I’m in a hospital room, but it’s not my room; it’s Emma’s.
And then it all comes rushing back to me.
We were in my office at the station, and she was talking to me. Wes and Claire were there as a buffer, because they had known what was about to go down. They knew. Emma knew. I did not know, and what I did not know was that she lied to me about the baby she carried. When I found out she was pregnant a few weeks after she had broken it off with me—again—only this time without a reason, I had asked her point blank if the baby she carried was mine, and she lied to my face. And then she compounded that lie by lying to my face about it every day for the last seven months. And like a fucking idiot, I believed every word out of her mouth.
Even after I busted my ass to make her mine again, this time for keeps, she still lied. Until yesterday, when she came clean and I lost my mind, because it fucking burns to know she would do that, knowing how I felt about her all along.
And then she collapsed, and my whole world ended. Because even if it burned like nothing else, even if she cut me like no one ever had, she was still mine, and that baby in her belly is still mine. I’m still in love with her, because she is it for me, and it was my job to protect them. But I did not do that, and it fucking burns to know that. In a way, I know it will always burn deep in me.
“Hey,” she whispers.
“Hey,” I whisper back.
“You came back to me,” she says in a way that I know she means more than just I left the dream world for her, but that some seriously heavy shit went down between us and I am still here with her. So I answer her the only way I can—truthfully.
“Always.”
She closes her eyes, taking them away from me as she angles her face to her lap, but not before I see the tears welling in them.
“Baby,” I murmur. I keep my voice soft and gentle. It’s a shit thing we have to get through, but I don’t ever want to hurt her again. Never again.
“I’m so sorry.” She sniffles.
“Baby, eyes.” I need to see her eyes, and I need her to see mine, to see this is real and it’s happening, but we have to put this hurt behind us first.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” she cries.
“Emma, honey,” I say a little firmer. “Give me your eyes.”
She looks at me instantly. And when she does, I see the tears she’s shed for me dripping down her pink cheeks, and that is one more cut that scores across my heart where Emma Parker is concerned.
“Baby, don’t cry for me,” I say softly as I press my palms to the sides of her gorgeous face and use my thumbs to wipe away her tears, but they’re falling faster than I can sweep them off.
“I can’t help it,” she says as more fall.
“I guess I’m just going to have to find a way to stop the tears and make you smile,” I tell her just before I press my lips to hers. I kiss her tears away, and it is deep and wet and hungry.
Someone clears their throat behind me, and I pull back, but I don’t let her go. Her face is bright red in her embarrassment at getting caught making out like a couple of teenagers, but it just makes me grin at her. She’s mine, and I don’t give one fuck who knows it. Emma takes one look at my shit-eating grin and rolls her eyes at me before I look over my shoulder to see her doctor stepping into the room.
“While I do advise you keep my patient happy—” He smirks. “—I don’t think you should make her too happy for about three to four days… if you catch my drift.”
“No orgasms,” I reply. “Got it, Doc. Anything else?”
“Kill me now,” Emma mutters under her breath, but it’s loud enough for me to hear it, and I throw my head back and laugh. I do it knowing that for the first time in a long time, my soul feels lighter.
“I wouldn’t say no orgasms,” he says. “Sexual activity should be all right as long as it’s not too… rigorous.”
“Sounds good, Doc.” I wiggle my eyebrows at her.
“Kill. Me.”
“No can do, gorgeous,” I say, winking at her. Emma just sighs.
“Here are your follow-up instructions,” the doctor says, handing me a neatly stapled stack of papers. “If you have any questions, feel free to call me, and definitely follow up with your OBGYN, but otherwise, I see no reason why you can’t go home.”
Home.
I didn’t get it before, but now, I do. Home is wherever Emma is. I’ll follow her anywhere, and I will die before I let her be hurt again.
“The nurse should be in shortly,” he says. He turns back just before he leaves the room to look at us, where I’m holding Emma’s hand tight in mine. And he says something so softly I almost don’t hear hi
m, but I do, and I know Emma does to by the hitch in her breath. “Take care of each other.”
“Will do, Doc.”
I carefully peel back the covers and help Emma dress in the pair of my sweatpants and my favorite AC/DC tee that’s a million years old. I know for a fact Emma has been trying to steal it for a while now, and I keep taking it off her body and putting it back in the drawer. Of course, whenever I would have to divest her of my favorite tee, I would soften the blow by making love to her.
Now, all evidence suggests she shared her plight to steal my shirt with my sister, who aided and abetted her in her endeavors by packing it in a bag for Emma to wear home and by bringing no other options, including Emma’s own actual clothing.
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face when I realize what Claire has done for my girl. Fuck me if it doesn’t make the scars seared into my chest feel a little lighter, knowing my family still has her back, because that means they also have mine.
And then the nurse comes in with a wheelchair, and I lift my girl in my arms like a bride and place her in the seat. When the nurse tries to take control of the chair, a rumble bubbles up from my chest, and she wisely steps back.
I loaded her up in my truck and then drive her home.
Home.
The place where I can take care of her. A place to be a safe haven, a shelter in the storm, one where we can raise our children and I can keep them secure.
Only I would find out later—much, much later—and much too late that it wasn’t.
EIGHTEEN
* * *
HUNGRY
Three days later
“Are you hungry, baby?” I ask, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from chuckling at the obvious side-eye I’m getting from my girl.
“Yes,” she says, stretching out the “s” to hiss like a snake. It’s not the only sign of her displeasure since I brought her home from the hospital.
It all started when I decided to follow the doctor’s instructions to the letter. Emma thought as long as she kept a low profile, she could go back to her lab. Not. Fucking. Happening. No, my woman was going to stay home with her feet up and rest. This caused an argument. Well, a one-sided argument, because I decided I was never going to raise my voice in the same room as Emma ever again. Maybe even the same building. I could probably drive to New York if I had to yell. At the time, these all seemed like rational conclusions.
I had visions of Emma lounging around and reading our baby classic literature in the womb. I would wait on her hand and foot, and she would be well-rested and healthy in no time. Emma had other plans. She saw this as not a vacation but a prison. She did not want to rest and be waited on; my girl was in a mood to build her nest before her chick hatched.
Every day, it was something new. I would find her standing over the bed looking down at the instructions to fold some super stretchy sheet into a baby carrier. The next day, I about lost my mind when I found her washing every baby outfit, blanket, and tiny little sock.
We had another row over that one. I wanted to do everything and wanted her to do nothing taxing. Apparently, that was boring. She lamented her plight to my sister, who came over one afternoon so I could go into the station, because the secrets of the baby-snatcher case were still eluding me, the entirety of my department, and the FBI.
Claire had brought over a—gasp—Hawaiian pizza, because pregnant women apparently think pineapple on pizza is appropriate, and some romance novel with a bare-chested highlander on the cover that our mother had given her when she was recovering from being shot. I grumbled the appropriate amount about my woman needing a bare-chested highlander, when Wes laughed and informed me that sexy books turned women on and that book is “inspiring,” his word, not mine. After my lunch stopped trying to retreat on me at the thought of my sister being inspired in any way, I went home to find out for myself.
And that is how I find her now, lounging on the sofa with the book open and cover rolled back. Emma is lost in the book and turning the pages pretty damn fast. But the part that has me most fascinated is the way she absentmindedly rubs her legs together from time to time like a cricket.
My girl finds her bare-chested highlander book inspiring.
Thank fuck.
It’s been several days since she was released from the hospital, and she’s been hinting for the last forty-eight hours that she’s ready to end this self-imposed dry spell. She moved from hinting and vague innuendo to downright demanding dirty, dirty things from me. And it’s all I could do to hold back. I needed her more than ever after our fight in my office, but I’m not about to put her health or that of our daughter at risk.
The doctor said three days, and today is the fourth since she was released.
Dry spell over.
She’s so engrossed in her book that she doesn’t notice me come in or lean over the arm of the sofa, so my mouth is close to her ear when I ask, “Are you hungry, baby?”
“Yes.”
I can barely contain my smile. She’s irritated with me for not giving in… on anything. On her wanting to do heavy lifting or going back to work. I would not eat pineapple on my pizza, and I wouldn’t give her my dick until she was well enough, and that pissed her off.
And it was sexy as hell.
“What do you want to eat?” I ask her, knowing the answer, because there’s only one food group she’ll entertain in her current state.
“Pizza.”
“I knew you’d say that,” I tell her before pressing my lips to the corner of her mouth. I let the tip of my tongue touch her skin for just a second, making her gasp before I pull back like I was never there. “What kind do you feel like tonight, baby?”
“Barbecue chicken,” she replies, and I wonder not for the first time if she was abducted by space aliens in the last six months. We do not put barbecue sauce or fruit on pizza. Ever.
I do not say this though. Instead, I press another kiss to her hair and mutter, “Anything for you, honey.” And then I pull my phone out of my pocket and order the love of my life another crime against pizza.
After I place our order, I leave her to her book in the living room. I jog up the stairs and lock up my sidearm and badge in the safe in my nightstand drawer. I shuck my clothes in the hamper, or really, the area around the hamper. I need to do laundry and bad. And then I pull on a pair of sweatpants, the gray ones Emma hasn’t confiscated yet, and I think she only lets me have them because she likes the way my dick looks in them. But to be fair, I like the hungry way she looks at me in these pants.
I take the stairs two at a time as I pull my T-shirt down over my head. I hit the bottom of the stairs just in time to hear the doorbell sound. I pay the kid delivering what may prove to be the worst pizza known to man and carry the boxes back into the house.
“What do you want to drink, honey? I ask after I pop into the living room and drop the boxes on the coffee table.
“I can get it,” she answers quickly as she snaps her dirty book closed. I take a closer look at her and notice her cheeks are flushed and her full breasts rise and fall with every flustered breath she takes.
“I got it,” I say softly. I hide my reaction to her arousal. “What do you want?”
“Umm… ice water?” she asks, fanning herself. “Is it hot in here?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe you’re getting sick.”
“No, no,” she says. “I’m fine.”
“Okay,” I reply, hiding the smirk that plays on my mouth at the sight of my poor girl trying to hide her reaction to a book.
I make my way into the kitchen and grab two bottles of water and a couple plates and napkins. When I get back to the living room, Emma has moved to sit up on the sofa. Her legs are crossed underneath her as she sits in the middle, waiting for me, and not for the first time, the sight of her takes my breath away. She’s in a pair of my sweats and another shirt of mine. Her blonde-and-pink hair is knotted up on top of her head, and my fingers itch to pull it down and mess
it up. Her face is washed clean of makeup.
I sit down next to her and hand her a plate and a napkin. Flipping open her pizza box, I grab three slices and drop them on her plate before taking her water bottle and twisting the cap to open it before closing it again so she won’t have to struggle with it.
“Thanks, baby,” she mumbles as I set her water down on the coffee table within her reach.
I just nod before filling my own plate. I reach for the remote and turn on the television. The voice of the local news anchor fills the room as the screen fills with a picture of me before panning to a clip of Wes walking out of the local FBI office.
“Local authorities still have no leads on the baby-snatcher case,” she says.
“That’s right, Martha,” the male co-anchor says. “The killer is still at large.”
I flip the channel again, and the sounds of a stadium fill the room as a ball game shows on the screen. I lower the volume and watch as a kid from Texas comes up to bat. I let myself get a little lost in the sound of the crack of the bat and the cheers and let the stress of my case leave my body.
“Whoooa, Doctor!” the announcer calls. “That is out of here!”
At some point in time, Emma and I set our plates aside, and she settles into my side as we watch Dallas beat New York. It’s not too late when the game ends, and I shut off the TV. Emma is so relaxed and curled against me that I wonder if she’s asleep.
“You awake, honey?”
“Yeah, Lee,” she says as she sits up and brushes the hair that’s fallen out of her top knot back from her face with a practiced hand.
“Let’s get ready for bed.”
“Okay,” she replies, looking at me, and I almost drown in the way her blue eyes heat at the thought of going to bed.
“Let me just pick up real fast,” I tell her as I gather the empty pizza boxes and water bottles destined for the trash. She stacks our plates and carries them into the kitchen to rinse in the sink while I take out the garbage.
Hush Little Baby Page 13
