by Sarra Cannon
She crossed the room, seized the bottle, and began to unscrew it over the sink.
“Don’t, Hallie,” he warned. “Don’t you—”
She started to pour it down the drain, but before she could dump much of it, he seized her wrist from behind and tried to yank the bottle from her. Whiskey sloshed down her front as she fought him. She was no match; even with his years, he was still stronger, bigger, faster, taller. But she held on—until he reached out and grabbed her hair, snapping her head to the side. She dropped the bottle; it slipped through his fingers and shattered.
He let go of her hair as if she’d scalded him.
“You’re a bastard,” she said, turning, her tears finally spilling over and streaming down her cheeks. “You always were. You haven’t changed.”
“Mi reina,” he murmured, reaching for her. Her scalp burned where he’d seized her hair.
“Don’t touch me—don’t you dare touch me.”
His eyes were red with tears, and the whiskey on his stale breath made her stomach roil with fear and hatred. “You’re just like your mother,” he murmured hoarsely, still invading her space. “You fight with the same fire, the same passion. But underneath, I know you’re forgiving, too…”
He tried to cup her face in his hands and she jerked away, sidestepping where she was trapped between his body and the sink.
She felt sick, like his touch had left her dirty. What did he mean, that she was forgiving like her mother?
She thought back to their screaming match that morning, the morning of their accident. Right here in this kitchen, with Hallie and Maggie sitting at the kitchen table, eating their Cheerios. Her mother telling her father how exhausted she was, how she couldn’t take it anymore. Her father brushing her off, telling her that it was her job, and that he had one of his own…
She remembered her mother blocking the doorway, near hysterics. She remembered her father’s low, murmured threat. She remembered the back of his hand connecting with her face—and the angry welt he left, which still hadn’t left her cheek when the three of them piled into the car, Mom and Maggie both crying…. and Hallie trying desperately to keep it together.
“I don’t forgive you,” Hallie said, an icy avalanche of fury crashing over her. “I never have.”
His expression hardened. “Then your mother would be ashamed of you.”
She closed her eyes against the cruelty of his words, her whole body shaking. “Why?” she replied, after a few deep breaths. “Because I’m not going to sit around and take the abuse that she did?”
Now it was his turn to look like he’d been slapped. His nostrils flared; his ears seemed to flatten as his jaw tightened in fury.
“You know nothing about that. Or about your mother.”
“Only because you wouldn’t give Louisa the information she asked for.”
“It was none of her damn business,” he sneered. “I don’t owe her anything—and now that I’ve seen the woman you’ve become, I don’t owe you anything, either.”
Hallie shook her head, glancing around the pristine kitchen, decorated with the same sunflower decor that her mother had meticulously collected. Her throat ached. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I know enough. I remember enough.”
“Oh?” his smirk gave her chills. He’d finally abandoned all pretense at civility. This was the man she remembered—unquestionable, unyielding, unforgiving. It was warm in the room, but she was cold in her chest and bones.
“I remember enough to know that—” Hallie froze, staring at the kitchen table, where a stack of books sat, titled things like U.S. History and Algebra I. Holding her breath, she rounded the breakfast bar and looked down at the stack of books, at the purple pen and notebook on the table, at the magenta backpack lying on the floor. With another sharp intake of breath, she turned back to her father, who hadn’t moved, whose expression remained impassive.
“Do you have another daughter?”
Her mouth moved, the words spilled from her lips, but they seemed to fall in slow motion. She watched them tumble down, watched them hit the ground. Nothing was real anymore. Nothing made sense.
“Stepdaughter,” he replied briskly, though he sounded far away. “I remarried a few years ago.”
No. No. None of this was right. He was supposed to be living here alone, secluded, crippled by regret. Not remarried with another daughter, another wife, two more women he could threaten and terrorize.
She couldn’t stay there another minute. Wordlessly, she turned toward the living room and headed toward the front door, picking up speed, her bag jostling against her hip as she flung open the front door and hurtled down the sidewalk, toward the driveway, toward—
Warm hands on her shoulders stopped her. “Hey. Hey…”
She pressed her face into Matthew’s chest with a muffled cry, one that threatened to morph into a scream as his arms wrapped around her, so strong and steady, pure and good—all the things she’d never known here, in this house.
“It was awful,” she managed, but then she heard her father’s voice spilling out onto the lawn as he followed her outside. She stiffened, cringing. Then Matthew sucked in a breath, and with a swift, smooth motion, he urged her behind him. Her father approached them, hand outstretched placatingly, reaching for her.
She watched, rooted to the spot, as Matthew shoved his sleeve up to his elbow, cocked his fist, and rammed it hard into her father’s left temple.
Her father reeled, clutching his eye, and when he straightened up, blood trickled down his face. He shook his head, as if clearing it, then lunged for Matthew, who was ready with another punch—this one to his jaw, and then another to his gut. Her father tried to respond but was too slow, too drunk, too lumbering and weak compared to Matthew’s quick-footed fury and unflagging strength.
She still couldn’t breathe. The violence didn’t seem real. But then, when Matthew’s fist collided with her father’s nose in a sickening crunch, her stomach turned; she gasped—and she was finally able to suck in enough air to shriek, “Stop! Matthew!”
She ran forward to grab his arm, which he jerked instinctively, elbowing her shoulder. At her small gasp of pain he froze, then relinquished his grip on her father’s collar. She tugged at his shirt this time, trying to pull him away.
“Let’s go, please. He’s not worth it. I can’t stay here another minute.”
Matthew whirled around and reached for her—his knuckles bloody, his jaw steeled, his whole body coiled tight with suppressed rage—but he moved too fast, and she couldn’t help it; she flinched. The look of instant shock and regret in his eyes flooded her chest with a fresh wave of sorrow, so instead she fled, rounding the bus and climbing behind the steering wheel. She kicked the Westie in gear as Matthew climbed in beside her.
Her hands shook so she gripped the steering wheel harder.
“I don’t know where to go,” she said.
“Just drive,” Matthew replied, his breathing labored. “Just drive.”
And she did.
— —
Ten miles out of her hometown, the highway hugged the beach, winding past coastal town after coastal town with stretches of nothing but sand and fruit stands and gas stations in between. They were still quiet, Hallie still trying to tamp down the panic that kept her heart racing. Matthew held a paper towel filled with ice from the cooler to his swollen knuckles. Every now and then, he glanced at her surreptitiously, but she didn’t acknowledge him.
When the next gas station loomed into sight, Hallie veered onto the exit ramp and ground the van to a halt in the parking lot of the small two-pump station. Wordlessly, she stumbled out of the driver’s seat, ran to a nearby patch of grass, doubled over, and dry heaved—her stomach unwilling to relinquish anything but water and bile and saliva. She spit into the grass. She heard Matthew’s steps in the gravel behind her, and then felt his hand rubbing circles on her back.
“I’m sorry, Hallie,” he said. “I saw you with your hair and clothes all messed up,
and I saw him, and I just… I know I shouldn’t have hit him—“ He broke off, pulling her hair back over her shoulders. “What happened in there?”
She wiped her mouth but didn’t straighten up yet. If she did, if she looked into his eyes, she’d fall apart. He resumed rubbing her back in slow, steady strokes that soothed and steadied her. She tried to match her breathing to his rhythm, and eventually, her chest loosened.
“He has a stepdaughter,” she said, straightening up but refusing to turn toward him. An eighteen-wheeler rushed past them on the highway, and the familiar coastal winds kicked up her hair.
“Shit,” Matthew said. “Shit.”
She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “And he used to hit my mom.”
“What?”
“I don’t know why I didn’t remember it. I only remembered him hitting me. But I think… I think he only did that because she wasn’t around anymore.”
Her mother had been the one thing standing between her father’s temper and Hallie and Maggie. And that morning, all those years ago, she’d paid the price—because she’d been so overwhelmed by taking care of them that she’d fought with her husband. Her husband, who slapped her and then sent her off in the car with two crying daughters.
She remembered, now, all too clearly, the humiliating shock of being slapped for the first time. The hurt that sprouted in your heart and on your cheek, and the angry helplessness, which all coalesced and settled somewhere in your chest where it sat forever, black and rotting, evidence that the people you loved had betrayed you, would hurt you…
Another wave of nausea hit Hallie, and she doubled over again, stomach cramping. When she straightened, she wiped her watering eyes and held her hand out to Matthew, who took it uncertainly. She swallowed hard and shook her head.
“No. I need my phone. Or yours.”
Matthew pulled his phone out of his pocket and handed it to her. She called up the browser and navigated to the county website. Then, when she found the number she was looking for, she hit dial.
“Weston County Police Department, how may I direct your call?”
She took a breath. “Hello. Hi. I need to report a possible case of child abuse.”
The intensity of Matthew’s gaze burned on her face, and when she looked up, she found strength in his deep, sad eyes—and in his soft smile, laced with both encouragement and regret.
He took her hand and squeezed.
Chapter 23
While Hallie cleaned herself up in the restroom behind the tiny gas station, Matthew made two more calls: the first, to a pricey beachside resort in North Coral, about 30 miles north of them, where he booked a suite overlooking the boardwalk; and the second, to a four-star seafood restaurant within walking distance of the hotel.
It was time for a breather. Time to stop and regroup. Time for him to show her that he could love her, take care of her, protect her in ways that didn’t involve his fists. It was time to commit to her, the way she’d committed to him last night, by the pool. When she’d seen even darker parts of him and still hadn’t run.
He leaned against the grill of the Westie and tried to settle his thoughts, to ignore the throbbing in his fist. As wrong as it was, it had felt so good to hit her father. To hit anyone, really, but especially to put bruises on the face of the man who robbed Hallie of her sense of safety and security, who left her sunburnt and dehydrated on the beach. Who taught her that loving was dangerous, that love always hurt.
Still… two fist fights in two days. Part of it was love but part of it, he knew with sick certainty, was his mandate. His curse. They'd made him to protect her, bound him to her in the most fundamental way... And over the years he had forgotten how easily it turned him into an attack dog.
Hallie emerged, wiping her hands on her jeans. When she was within reach, he tugged her close, hands on her hips.
“Are you all right?” He searched her face for signs of distress, for the little worry lines on her brow that grew deeper when she was anxious. They weren’t too deep—nothing a little hot shower, a warm meal, and a night of relaxing couldn’t remedy. He kissed her forehead.
“You need a break, angel.”
Her hands were cool and damp but hesitant where they traveled up his arms, and he fought the urge to shiver under her delicate touch.
“Shouldn’t we keep going?”
Matthew tilted his head. “Did he give you an address?”
Hallie’s face clouded. “No. He didn’t. And I… I don’t know where else to go. I mean, maybe—I know there are a few campsites she always liked, and if I could remember their names…”
But the flush in her neck said that the thought overwhelmed her.
“So let’s stop and take a breather. There’s a hotel and a nice beach just a few miles north of here, where we can rest and shower and eat.” He threaded his fingers in her hair and massaged her temples tenderly. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she tilted her head back, hair spilling over his fingers as he caressed her scalp, down to the nape of her neck. God, she was lovely. Even with the dark circles beneath her eyes, for which he blamed himself… Who else could do what she had today? How many other people would have run, would have given up rather than face that bastard?
A surge of possession rumbled through him.
But when he lowered his lips to her neck, unable to help himself, and began nibbling along the column of her throat, she opened her eyes and stopped him.
“You can’t kiss it away,” she whispered, her voice hollow, and his heart cracked. She saw through him… always.
“I know,” he replied. “But I want—I want to kiss you whole. To make us both whole. So let me try.” He nuzzled his nose in her hair. “Maybe not now… but soon.”
— —
A solemn, radio-filled half hour later, they were checked into a secluded resort suite, on the outskirts of a buzzing beach town. Hallie had gaped as they pulled into the lush, palm-lined drive, and then immediately had begun shaking her head.
“Nope. No way can we afford to stay here.”
“Speak for yourself, won’t you?” he said, winking and parking the Westie in front of the valets.
“We - you can’t afford this, either,” she said helplessly, rounding the front of the Westie to stop him. “Seriously. I’m fine with another crappy motel from the 1950s.” But he shook his head, smiling in what he hoped was a benevolent, enigmatic sort of way, grabbed her hand, and led her inside to check in.
Their room was everything he hoped it would be: big and white and luxuriously modern, with silken bed linens and slick amenities, a bottle of wine chilling in the refrigerator, red roses in a vase on the desk, and great sliding doors overlooking the beach, with its gently rolling waves. Light from the late afternoon sun filled the bedroom, but the room-darkening curtains would be perfect for their pre-dinner nap and, he thought with a surge of pleasure, for sleeping in late after a long night.
There was no question that he wanted her. Needed her, even. But he had promised to do things right this time, to give her the attention she deserved. And that meant more than fooling around the backseat of the Westie or fumbling orgasms while they were drunk.
Hallie couldn’t contain her delight, though she gave a half-hearted attempt at indignation at the excess before sinking into the half dozen plush pillows on the bed and falling asleep, her Keds still on her feet. Matthew drew the curtains almost entirely shut, until only a sliver of sunlight drifted over her curled form. Even in her sleep, she was guarded. Closed off. Protecting her heart.
But then he gently unlaced her shoes, pulled them off, and climbed in beside her, and she unfurled slightly, reaching for him. He reached back and held her.
— —
They slept until his alarm woke them, when they broke apart, groaning, to get ready for dinner. She dragged herself to the shower first, grumbling about nice restaurants and just having a cheeseburger, but he chuckled.
“Nope. I’m taking you out. No more cheeseburgers. No more apple
pie or stale coffee or anything else you can get at a truck stop diner.”
“You’re a monster, you know that?”
More than you realize, he almost retorted, but it felt too true to say aloud.
After his shower, Matthew stood in front of the floor-length mirror hanging in the dresser. It was strange, to be so clean after spending so much of the last couple of days cooped up in the Westie. It was hard to believe that it had only been a couple of days. He sniffed under his arms and inspected his clothes, from the loose white button-down to the dark slacks he’d managed to steam most of the wrinkles out of during his shower. He smelled all right, like soap and some laundry freshener spray Hallie had loaned him.
As he folded and fastened his cuffs, the door to the bathroom opened, Hallie stepped out—and he froze.
She was gorgeous. Like sunshine, in a peach-colored sundress, her dark hair falling in big long waves around her face, around gently blushing cheeks and pouty pink lips that looked sort of shiny, like they’d taste of something sweet—
“How do I look?”
He couldn’t even bring himself to laugh or tease. Instead, he crossed the room and slid his hand into her hair, seized her waist, and pressed a full kiss to her lips.
Strawberry. Of course.
She gasped, then sagged, clutching his forearm and responding to him, her lips and tongue moving gently beneath his.
He kissed his way up her jaw and traced his tongue along the shell of her ear.
“You look lovely,” he murmured. “And you taste lovely. Sweet. Do you taste that sweet everywhere, angel?”
She gasped sharply, face flaming, but the gasp caught in her throat and she started coughing. Matthew bit back laughter, but couldn’t find it in him to suppress a devilish grin.
“Ready?”
She bit her lip and glared at him. “Ready, fiend.”
The restaurant on the pier overlooked the ocean, which is why Matthew had chosen it. Well, that and the four-star rating, which he rapidly began to doubt as they approached the loud, pulsing building that held the Sea Glass Seafood Grill and Bar. When they stopped in front of the main doors, where dozens of people milled about, waiting to be seated, Matthew flung his hand out to stop Hallie from approaching the hostess.
