Every Tear You Cry (Redeeming Love Book 4)

by J. E. Parker

  I won't let him hurt my sons.

  I'll kill him first.

  My body trembled as I pivoted on shaky legs to face the man who'd abused me since the day we wed. His sadistic gaze locked with my determined one, and for the first time in five years, the blinding fear that normally consumed me when looking up at him was absent.

  "The only person who will scream, Colin… Is you."

  Before he had a chance to react, I struck.

  The heel of my hand slammed into his nose. A crunching sound followed.

  The first drop of blood fell as I lifted my knee and shoved it into his groin.

  Colin buckled.

  His knees hit the hard floor, and his face contorted in pain.

  I could only imagine what he thought since it was the first time I'd fought back.

  The prey has become the predator…

  Before I could strike out again, Colin lunged for me.

  An enraged yell escaped him as I evaded his grab.

  I turned and ran toward the kitchen while I prayed that the boys would stay hidden.

  Colin’s heavy footsteps followed.

  Move faster! The voice in my head screamed.

  When I reached the kitchen, I snatched a butcher knife from the wood block sitting next to the stove and spun around. I raised my arm above my head, prepared to kill the man whose ring I wore on my left hand.

  The scream that tore from my throat was a battle cry.

  Before I could sink the blade into his chest, he knocked it out my hand.

  The knife tumbled to the floor and slid across the room.

  A second later Colin’s fist connected with my jaw. My head snapped to the right, and I fell. Bone cracked, and pain exploded down my forearm and into my wrist as I landed on my right side.

  I knew a fracture when I felt one.

  Colin followed me down to the floor. Straddling my hips, he wrapped both of his hands around my neck. Then he squeezed. Hard. For the second time that night, I lost the ability to breathe. Pressure built in my chest and my lungs screamed in agony.

  "You stupid fucking bitch!" He shouted. "After everything I've done for you, after everything I've given you!"

  My vision tunneled.

  My hearing dulled.

  Strength waning, I fought him with all my might.

  But no matter what I did, nothing worked.

  His grip remained unwavering and strong.

  My head felt like it would explode at any moment, and my limbs grew numb.

  The end of my life was barreling down on me, and I could do nothing to stop it.

  And because of my failure to save myself, I was leaving my sons vulnerable.

  I'm weak. I failed and now—

  Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream rang out, cutting off my thoughts.

  Liam.

  Stunned by the sound, Colin released my neck.

  I turned to my side and clawed at the tile, sucking in breath after breath.

  Color bled back into my field of vision, my hearing returned.

  A new wave of horror crashed through me when I looked up and saw Liam launch himself at the spot where I was lying on the floor, Colin crouched above me.

  No, baby, no!

  He latched onto Colin’s back and pounded his fists against his father's shoulders. "Get off my Mommy!" He screeched, red-faced. "Get. Off!"

  Evil flashed in Colin's eyes as he reached over his shoulder and grabbed the front of my baby's pajama top with one hand, bunching the material in his fingers. He ripped Liam from his back and swung him around to his side, out of my reach. "You're just like your mother." His voice dripped with malice. "And now you'll be punished like her."

  No way in hell.

  I pushed to my elbows and kicked Colin in the gut as hard as I could.

  He lost his balance, falling, but the kick came a second too late.

  With a hard shove, Colin had flung Liam across the room.

  I wailed in outrage as my little boy’s body slammed into the cabinet below the sink. Upon impact, his cheek split—just like mine—and blood oozed from the wound.

  In a rage, I climbed to my feet and using my non-broken arm, I picked up the first object I saw.

  That object? A cast-iron skillet.

  I lifted the skillet into the air, hell-bent on vanquishing the monster before me.

  At that moment, nothing could've stopped me from ending his life.

  After hurting my son, he deserved nothing less than death.

  I was about to slam the heavy pan down onto Colin's head when a deep voice I'd never heard before, shouted, "Put the weapon down, Mrs. O'Bannon!"

  I froze and looked up.

  When I saw two uniformed police officers making their way down the hall toward us, their guns raised, confusion set in. Then I saw Declan standing behind them, my cell phone clutched in his fingers, and it began to make sense.

  One of the boys had called the police.

  Momentary fear consumed me as the officers moved closer. That fear, however, evaporated when I saw that neither officer had their gun trained on me.

  Instead, both were aimed at Colin's back.

  All it had taken was one glance at my busted face for them to know who the real criminal was. I may have been close to committing murder, but it would've been in self-defense.

  That truth was obvious to everyone standing in that room.

  Knowing we were finally safe, I dropped the pan to the floor and rushed to Liam. "Mommy," he cried as I pulled him close with my good arm. His body shook, and the front of his pants was wet with urine.

  "I’m here, baby," I said, running my hand over his body, checking for injuries. "Tell me where it hurts." He whimpered and touched the cut on his cheek. Heartbreak and a lot of anger flooded my system at his pain-filled expression.

  "Does anything else hurt?" I asked, fighting back fresh tears.

  He shook his head. "Need to get Declan. He's scared."

  I nodded and winced as bolts of pain streaked through my head. My adrenaline was tanking, the pain returning. I needed to reach Declan before I lost the ability to move. "Hold on, sweet boy. I'll get him."

  I held Liam tight against me and looked over my shoulder at the first officer. He was crouched over Colin, his knee pressed into his lower back as the second officer placed handcuffs around his wrists.

  Instant relief.

  He couldn’t hurt us. Not anymore.

  "Sir, my son, Declan…" He looked up, meeting my gaze. "He’s in the hall. I need him..."

  The officer nodded in understanding. His eyes flicked to his partner. "You have this under control?"

  "10-4, bossman. Grab the kid. I'll take this piece of s—" The second officer stopped speaking and inhaled. "I'll take Mr. O'Bannon to the squad car and let EMS know the scene is secure."

  He stood, dragging a silent Colin with him.

  As the first officer left to retrieve Declan, Colin's hate-filled eyes locked on me.

  "This isn't over," he mouthed, dropping his gaze to a trembling Liam. I pushed Liam behind me, blocking him from Colin's view. My soon-to-be-incarcerated husband's cheeks reddened in anger as he jerked his gaze back to me. "Not even close."

  My knees shook, my legs grew weak.

  By some miracle, I kept myself upright until the officer dragged Colin from the kitchen via the patio door. Once he was gone, I collapsed to the floor, falling hard.

  Panicked, Liam grabbed the front of my dress. "Mommy!"

  Hearing his scream, the first officer rounded the corner in a rush, pulling a terrified-looking Declan behind him. He dropped to his knees in front of me and grabbed my shoulders, holding me steady. I stared at Declan, my eyes full of tears. "Declan, baby..."

  His chin wobbled. "Liam stopped him, Mommy. He stopped him this time."

  My heart shattered.

  Neither of my boys had started school yet, but they’d already learned first-hand how cruel humans could be. Because of my weakness, they’d seen things no child shoul
d ever see.

  I'd let them both down.

  The only thing I'd ever wanted was to be a good mother, but I'd failed. It didn't matter if we escaped now or not, both my sons would forever bear scars because of what they'd been forced to live through.

  And it was all my fault.

  I'd never forgive myself.

  "I'm sorry," I choked around a sob, growing dizzier with each passing second. "I'm so sorry, little guys."

  Declan's eyes widened, and Liam wrapped his arm around my broken one. It should have hurt, but I felt no pain. The only pain I felt radiated from the center of my chest, the place where my broken heart rested.

  The officer's hands tightened on my shoulders, but it didn't matter. There was nothing he could do to keep me from floating away. Not even the guilt and sorrow invading every cell in my body could keep me conscious.

  I failed. I failed. I failed.

  With the last of my strength, I reached for Declan and pulled him to me.

  Then, holding both of my crying sons against me, I slipped away.

  The silence was deafening.

  Inside the secure walls of the Toluca Battered Women's Shelter, I sat on a stiff cot, my back pressed against the cinder block wall behind me. Liam and Declan both slept to the left of me, their shared cot butted up next to mine.

  It had been three days since we'd escaped Colin and two days since we'd arrived at the shelter. In that time, the fear that he would find us had become paralyzing.

  I couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep.

  Half the time I couldn't even think.

  It was both exhausting and terrifying, and I wasn't sure how much more I could take. I was already walking a fine line between sanity and insanity before Colin was released from county lockup a day after he’d been arrested.

  Now that he was free, I was close to losing it.

  It didn't matter that I'd been granted a temporary restraining order against him, nor did it matter that we were in hiding. There wasn’t a single thing he wouldn't do to find us, and once he did, he would do anything to get us back.

  He would never stop looking. Never stop searching.

  Lost in the fear that gnawed at my gut, I didn’t see someone stop next to my cot. Nor did I hear them whisper my name. But I sure as hell felt their hand touch mine.

  My fight-or-flight instincts kicked in at the slight touch.

  Startled, I jerked my hand away and lifted my arm, prepared to strike out.

  Right or wrong, I was running on pure instinct and ready to attack whoever had touched me. Conditioned by years of abuse, my mind screamed that whoever was there meant me harm.

  Fortunately, that wasn't the case.

  When my eyes landed on Hope Peterson, one of the social workers who'd bent over backward to help the boys and me since our arrival at the shelter, I sighed in relief.

  "I'm so sorry," she said, her hazel eyes swimming with regret. "I didn't mean to scare you. I shouldn't have touched you. I know better. I just—"

  "It's okay," I said, interrupting her.

  I dropped my hand and relaxed against the wall.

  She blew out a relieved breath. "Can’t sleep?"

  I shook my head.

  "Yeah," she whispered. "I doubt I’d be able to either." Her gaze slid from me to Liam and Declan. A small smile graced her lips. "They’re so beautiful. Such handsome and polite little guys. You should be proud." Before I could reply, she continued, "But I know you are. I see the way your eyes light up when you look at them."

  She was right. I was proud of them.

  Immensely so.

  "Alright, Miss Clara," Hope said, stepping back. "I’ll let you get some rest, but if you need anything you let me know, okay?"

  When she started to walk away, I grabbed her hand, stopping her.

  "Wait," I said in a rush. "Don’t go. Not yet. I mean"—I swallowed—"You can stay."

  There was something about Hope's presence that comforted me. Out of the all the workers at the shelter, she was the one who I’d gravitated toward since day one.

  Goodness radiated from her like a beacon.

  It was unmistakable, undeniable, and right then, I needed a whole lot of goodness in my life.

  Without hesitating, Hope sat down on the hard floor next to my cot. "I'll stay as long as you need me too. Do you want to talk? Or would you like me to keep watch while you get some sleep? I'm okay with either."

  I wasn't sure what I wanted.

  My silence was proof of that.

  "Alright," she said, smiling. "How about I give you the 4-1-1 on all the shelter employees? I may be sweeter than a peach pie, but I can gossip as good as the next woman."

  An unexpected chuckle spilled from my lips. I had a feeling the only gossiping Hope did was the harmless kind. I’d only just met her, but I was certain she didn’t have a malicious bone in her body.

  There’s something special about her…

  "Okay," I replied, quietly. "Let’s hear it.”

  "Alright, so," she began, scooting closer. "I guess I should start with myself. One, I'm addicted to muffins, any kind really, though I prefer chocolate chip or blueberry. Two, I'm a vegetarian, and the thought of eating something that was once alive makes me want to puke."

  She shuddered, and I smiled.

  "Three"—she paused—"I'm in love with my brother's best friend." The smile on her face became forced. Even though she tried to hide it, I still saw the pain that danced in her eyes. "Unfortunately, he doesn't love me back, so I’m currently single."

  My heart clenched at her words.

  Seeing pain flash in her eyes unsettled me.

  "What's his name?"

  "Evan." She glanced over her shoulder toward the front of the shelter. "Evan Morgan."

  My mouth gaped. "The security guy?" I asked, stunned. "The big scary dude?”

  I'd met Evan, the shelter’s head of security the night of our arrival. One look at his taller than average height, muscular build, and stern face had terrified me. Since then, I’d avoided him the best I could.

  "That would be him," she said, picking at the tongue of her sneaker.

  "The man is a gigantic idiot then," I mumbled, rolling my eyes. "How could someone not love you? You’re beautiful and sweet and kind. Seriously, the man is either blind or just plain stupid."

  Despite the shock etched across her face, Hope beamed a smile my way.

  “What?” I asked, feeling a lightness come over me. “I'm serious here.”

  Eyes twinkling, Hope climbed to her knees and leaned forward. "Want to know something, Clara?" I nodded in reply. "I have a feeling you and I will become the best of friends."

  Turns out, she was right.

  Clara

  Two and a Half Years Later

  What was that noise?

  Panicked, I jerked upright on the sofa where I’d fallen asleep the night before, and looked around the room, searching for the source of the small sound—a floorboard creaking maybe?—that I’d just heard.

  “Is someone in here?”

  My pounding heart leapt into my throat when someone tapped me on the shoulder in response, scaring the daylights out of me. I yelped and yanked the quilt that covered my legs up to my chest as if that would protect me from whoever stood behind the sofa, their body hidden from my wide-eyed view.

  A laugh shattered the silence of the room.

  “Declan Michael O’Bannon,” I fussed, the fear rooted in my chest easing. “You almost gave me a heart attack, you little delinquent.” I tossed the blanket to the floor, bounced to my knees on the worn cushion and peered over the back of the second-hand sofa I’d bought at a yard sale for twenty bucks.

  My youngest son stood from where he’d been squatting and smiled. “Sorry, Mama,” he replied, laughing. “I was getting the control.” He waved the cracked-yet-still-functional TV remote around in the air for emphasis. “It was under the sofa again.”

  I smiled, running my fingers through his messy hair. “How long have you been a
wake?” I glanced around the room, searching for Liam. He was the first to wake up every morning. “And where’s your brother?”

  Declan pointed to the kitchen. “Fixing toast.” He scrunched his little nose up. “I wanted cereal, but we’re outta milk.”

  A frustrated groan slipped from my lips.

  We were out of milk along with just about everything else.

  Broker than broke, I’d stuck to the basics during our last grocery trip. Peanut butter, eggs, bread, soup. Milk had been too expensive, and so had a new box of cereal. The one that sat in our pantry above the bags of dry beans had to be a month old.

  “Soon as I find a new job and get my first paycheck, we’ll go food shopping, sweet boy. Promise.”

  “It’s okay, Mama,” Declan replied with a shrug. “I like toast.”

  It was a fib. He didn’t like toast. Not at all. However, he would say he did to keep from upsetting me. Even at six years old, he was protective of my feelings.

  Both my boys were.

  Liam walked into the room, a plate of untoasted, jelly-covered bread in his hands. His eyes met mine. “I can’t get the toaster to work, and the microwave sparked again when I tried to make Dec oatmeal, so I unplugged it.”

  I bit back a slew of curse words.

  Everything in my stupid decrepit apartment was broken or in the process of breaking. The water heater was on the fritz, the stove only worked when it wanted to, the microwave liked to spit sparks at us, and the fridge didn’t stay cold half the time.

  We needed to move.

  Only problem was, I didn’t have the money to move.

  After having my hours at work slashed due to budget cuts, I couldn’t afford to pay my rent, much less moving expenses.

  Though, I may not have a choice soon.

  A month behind on all the bills, the boys and I were facing eviction if I didn’t figure something out quickly. With no savings to speak of and nothing of value to sell, I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. And that hard place? It was about to get a whole lot harder if I didn’t find new employment.

  Frustrated, I stood, running my palms down the sides of my face.

  Keep it together, I told myself. The boys are watching.

  “How about this?” I forced a smile and hid the worry that gnawed at my gut. “How about I toast the bread in the oven and make you guys oatmeal on the stove? I think we have leftover chocolate chips I can add to the oatmeal if you want.”