by Evelyn Glass
My hands come to my mouth, a gasp escaping my lips. He tilts his head sideways at me, and it’s hard to tell if his stark azure eyes are glistening with tears or just glistening with life. “Anna Hill, will you marry me?”
With a trembling hand, I reach down and take the ring. The diamond is huge and complex. I look at it for a long time, so long that when I look back down at Samson I can see that he is starting to get nervous, maybe thinking that I’m going to say no.
“Of course I’ll marry you!” I squeal.
I hand him the ring and hold my left hand. He slides it on. It fits snugly on my finger, the metal cool against my skin. And then he leaps to his feet and wraps his arms around me, burying his face in my neck.
“But you know we have to leave New York, don’t you?” he says after a moment.
“I guessed that,” I admit. “So I’ll marry you, Samson Black, but I have on condition. You have to use some of that money of yours to help me finish my studies and build me an animal sanctuary wherever we end up. I don’t care where we are, if I can follow my dreams, if I can be with you.”
“Done,” he says, without having to give it any thought. “Done and done and done.”
I let out another squeal, and then he kisses my neck and his hands roam down my body, to my ass and to my pussy and soon I am lost in the heat of the moment, my fiancé groaning and me moaning, crying out with our passion.
Epilogue
Anna
Three years later
I lie in bed, dreaming about the past.
After some blowing around the States, we ended up in Maine. There wasn’t any specific reason for this other than that was where we happened to be when we wanted to settle down and turn from fiancés into husband and wife. We were there in late autumn, in a small town that has only in recent years appeared on a map, and I turned to Samson and said, “Let’s make this our home.” He agreed instantly. I knew he was thinking exactly what I was thinking, as long as we’re together, it doesn’t matter. And that’s the truth. As long as he and I are together, we could live anywhere on the planet. When you’re married, in love, your home isn’t where you happen to be, it’s the person you’re with. Samson is my home. Our love is my home.
I dream about the studies, finishing up last year and getting my degree. I was, finally, after so much struggling, a qualified vet. I completed my on-site training at a small clinic just outside of town, and then I broached the subject once again of opening my own center. Samson launched into action. He wasn’t bored, but now that his business was ended, he needed a project. He got the planning permission and contracted the builders and sorted all the paper work. He was still Samson, but a different Samson, a Samson with a different set of goals and ideals. He didn’t have to kill anymore. He proved himself capable of so much more than that. The process was long, but not as long as I expected, and the day the plaque went up out the front of our building was one of the happiest days of my life, except for the wedding.
The Black Veterinary Clinic, it reads, and every time I look at it, warmth blooms in my belly.
I’ve made it, I think. And then I amend it: No, we’ve made it.
We have an apartment in the clinic itself. I am surrounded by the yapping of animals. My employees live in town or close by and drive in every morning. It’s a secluded existence, a blissful existence. It’s the sort of existence I couldn’t have guessed at when all this started. A man shows up on my door with a pizza and a bottle of wine, we make love, we give ourselves over to passion, and then—
I wake up, my head groggy. Instinctively, I reach for Samson, meaning to hold his hand tightly until the feeling passes. But he’s not there.
Well, can’t put it off forever, can I?
It’s been two weeks now and I need to do something about it. It’s okay, though. I’ve already bought the kit.
I climb from bed and walk into the en-suite bathroom. From the center, the sounds of a dog yapping sing out into the spring night. As I walk through the dim bedroom, a shaft of moonlight spears into the apartment and glints off the edge of the frame, the frame which holds my long-worked-for diploma. I give it a smile as I pass, and then go into the bathroom, reach into the cabinet, and take out the kit.
I sit on the toilet and clear my mind. I’ve tried to do the test before, but stage fright got the better of me. It was the first time in my life I’ve ever sat on a toilet and not been able to go. But now the stage fright passes. I’m not scared about the outcome. We are secure, safe, and in truth it’s more the fear that I’m not which has made me put it off for so long.
I set the test on the sink and stand up, pacing back and forth. I have to wait two excruciating minutes for the results of the test, for either the smiling face or the sad face to appear. I close my eyes and pray for the smiling face, pray that life can really be that kind, that perfect. Then my mind moves to River and her cronies, all of whom received sentences of life without the possibility of bail. We had just gotten married when we heard the news, two days after our wedding day. When we heard it—Jack called Samson—we just smiled at each other briefly. That was all. We didn’t clap or cheer or lose ourselves in the euphoria of it. We just smiled. After all River had done, all the pain she caused, I couldn’t find it in my heart to hate her. The other men—I hated them easily. It turned out all of them had killed women, two of them had killed children, and three of them were linked to horrible sexual assaults. But River was different. River was twisted and tortured.
And Elle, sweet Elle . . . she recovered and sometimes I see her dancing on TV when Samson watches the games. She’s getting older, but she’s still beautiful and full of life. But like many friends, we’ve drifted apart. She looks happy enough, but cheerleaders always do.
I shake my head, shaking the thoughts away. It doesn’t matter now. None of that matters. They’re whispers from a life long past, a life in which fear and running and danger predominated. Now we are safe, and we do not live in fear.
I open my eyes and glance down at the test.
I have to tell Samson, I think.
###
I walk through the center to the sound of the yelping dog. His name is Patch. We found him at the side of the road, all four of his paws twisted and damaged. I cared for him as I care for all the other animals, without restraint, throwing my love at him. He’s on the mend. Soon, I know, he’ll become one of those dogs that return to me even now in my dreams, one of those turnstile dogs, loping over fields of bright green grass.
I walk down the dark hallways, the sounds of animals all around me, toward Patch’s yelping. As I walk, I think of Dad. He came down here a few months ago with a token that said six months sober. He told me that he’d seen the light and he’d quit his job. He was going to take an early retirement and give himself to volunteer work. I talked to him last week and he told me he was spending his days at a soup kitchen for the homeless. He cried and hugged me, and despite myself, despite everything, I cried and hugged him back.
“I’m sorry,” he said, over and over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
At first, I feared that it was only a façade, a front so that he could get close to me. But he’s almost a year sober now and that doesn’t seem to be changing. He’s more of the man he was before Mom’s death, the man who could smile and laugh, the man who didn’t feel the need to judge me. He knows who Samson is, what Samson used to do, and that I’m married to him, but not once has he made any snide, cruel comments about it. I see now that it was the whisky that turned him mean and dark and hateful. It was the whisky that got deep inside of him and brought out the anger and the pain. Whisky and Mom’s death. But he’s moving on, he’s getting better, and one day soon I’ll invite him down here to stay for a few days. We’re not quite there yet, but we talk on the phone and we’re getting closer.
I turn the corner which leads down to the kennels where the dogs are kept. Sarah, the college girl who works the night shift, watching over the animals and calling
me up if anything goes wrong, smiles to me over the rim of a magazine, sitting behind her desk in the reception area. She’s a bright, black-haired girl, with dark beautiful eyes.
“Hey, Mrs. Black,” she grins. She nods down at the magazine in her hand, open to the celebrity pages. “You’ve caught me.”
I wink at her. “You’re fired, Sarah, sorry to say.”
Her cheeks glow playfully. “I’ll pack my things up straightaway.”
We laugh and I’m about to ask where Samson is, when she shakes her head. “You know where he is,” she says. “You don’t have to ask me. I know dog is Man’s best friend and everything, but your husband is something else. I’ve never seen a man so in love with a dog.”
That’s true, I think. I nod my thanks and leave her, heading toward the kennels.
“See you later, Mrs. Black,” Sarah says as I leave, before turning back to her magazine.
Mrs. Black. When I was married to Eric, I never enjoyed being called by his last name. It was like a brand, thrust unfairly at me without my permission. It was a mark of shame. You are Eric’s now and he can treat you however he likes and you can’t complain because you agreed to it. You put yourself in this prison. When I’m called Mrs. Black, it couldn’t be more different. A mark of shame; a mark of honor. A swelling of pride grips my chest every time somebody addresses me with it. It’s the only reason I haven’t told Sarah to call me Anna yet. I enjoy it too much.
Finally, I reach the kennel door. I push it open softly and creep in without Samson seeing me.
I stand at the door and watch him for a long time. He holds Patch softly in his hands, changing his bandages like I showed him, and stroking the dog over the ears each time it yelps.
“It’s okay, boy,” he says. “It’s all okay.”
He strokes the dog, and then leans down and kisses it between the ears. The dog stops yelping and its eyes lull, as though Samson’s kiss has cast a spell.
Then Samson turns to me. “How long have you been watching me?” he says, without a hint of embarrassment. He stands up and carries Patch to his cage and closes it behind him.
“Long enough to know I love you more than ever,” I say.
He comes to me, wraps his arms around me, and even after all this time, I feel a fresh wave of love wash through me. I’m sure the waves of love will never stop, can never stop.
“Why are you up?” he whispers, his breath warm on my forehead.
“Because of this . . .”
I lift the pregnancy test and show him the smiling face.
He squints at it for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then a smile spreads across his face, the kind of smile he never could’ve given in his old life. It’s the smile of a man who spends his days helping, not hurting, the smile of a man who has left pain behind.
“You mean that I’m . . . I’m . . .”
“Going to be a father,” I finish.
He steps back, mouth falling open, and then punches the air. “Yes!” he howls. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
He flinches as the dogs erupt into barking life around us.
“Damn,” he mutters.
“Never mind damn,” I giggle. “If you don’t kiss me—”
He jumps forward and kisses me passionately on the lips, our love tingling between us, the pregnancy test clutched in my hand, the barking of the dogs like a victory tune.
THE END
Read on for your FREE bonus book – ZEKE’S BABY
To receive a free copy of an exclusive short, join my mailing list by clicking on the banner above or on this link:
https://dl.bookfunnel.com/jk2gd43sep
ZEKE’S BABY: Midnight’s Hounds MC
By Evelyn Glass
ALL HE WANTS IS TO PUT A BABY IN ME.
I saved his life.
In return, he’s planting his seed in me.
I was just trying to do him a favor.
He came in my life with a broken motorcycle.
Little did he know, one more twist of the key might’ve cost him his life.
His enemies had booby-trapped it.
Lucky for Zeke that I was around.
But very, very unlucky for me.
Because once Zeke’s had a glimpse of my body, bent over on all fours…
He becomes determined to make me his.
He wants me dirtier.
Filthier.
Not to mention… pregnant.
The biker’s dragging me into the middle of the world.
And the only way I’m coming is at his touch.
Chapter One
Sophie
Rubbing her greasy hands down her overalls, Sophie smiled. She loved nothing more than the satisfaction of getting under the hood of a car and solving a problem. She looked down at her oil-stained blue coveralls. No wonder her friends mocked her. She held out her hands, palms facing the ground and examined her dirty fingers and short, bare nails. Her roommate Lydia continuously offered to paint them, but what was the point? They’d only get chipped off under the hood of someone’s car, or when she was trying to loosen nuts and valves in an engine.
Sometimes, after a few drinks, she let Lydia and their friend Kristy go to town on her with makeup and dresses, allowing her long golden hair to flow freely like runny honey. She admitted it did feel good. She scrubbed up well. Really damn well. But the attention she attracted when she followed her friends out to the bar like that was enough to make her want to rub grease back onto her skin and hide. Guys, in her experience, were nothing but trouble.
Much to the constant argument of her friends, Sophie was happy with her sooty, grimy, disheveled look. And if it turned guys off her, so what? She was too busy for a boyfriend anyway. At twenty-five, Sophie Goodwin was just focused on her career. She wasn’t just good at fixing cars; she was the best. She’d trained under her boss, Stephan, since she left school at sixteen and loved nothing more than the lingering smell of gasoline and oil mixed together creating eau de vehicle. If she could buy a bottle of that, she would.
Stephan was like a big brother to her, as well as a boss. Her school years were a rollercoaster ride to hell and back. Her mom died when she was three and with no dad or other relatives to turn to, she was put into care and spent the rest of her childhood longing to be adopted. But adoption never came to the grubby little girl who was always head to toe in dirt, thanks to spending most of her time out in the yard fixing things - well, taking radios and furniture apart and putting them back together. Sometimes there were spare screws or springs left at the end, causing little Sophie to scratch her head and wonder where they belonged. And that’s how she developed the mind of a mechanic. She always had to know how things worked. She spent so much of her childhood focused on fixing things because she couldn’t fix her own life, no matter how hard she hoped and prayed and smiled at any adult visitors to the children’s home, hoping they would be the ones to take her home.
When she applied for a part-time job at Stephan’s mechanic shop, her life changed for the better. She always joked that he was her “fairy godmother” which usually resulted in him chasing her around the shop using a spanner as a magic wand. He was always a joker. He might have been fifteen years her senior, with a loving wife and kids, but he understood her. She slept in a trailer in the family’s back garden for a couple of years until she felt ready to rent a room in a small apartment with a friend in town. Stephan gave her guidance, a roof over her head and wages, at a time when no one else cared. She would never forget that.
But she also knew she wanted more from life. As much as she cared for Stephan, his family, and the shop—which she’d helped to make the best, damn mechanics business in town over the nine years she’d worked there—she had big dreams to open her own shop one day. She wanted to be the one that people mentioned as being the best paint job in town. She’d taken a spraying class and perfected her techniques, but never got much opportunity to get creative between all the repair jobs that rolled into Stephan’s on a daily basis. One day, she
vowed, she would be a motor artist, transforming boring bikes and cars into head-turning showstoppers. Sophie Goodwin would be the name to remember on the motoring scene.
Her train of career daydreams was interrupted with a heavy bang on the metal garage door. She put down her wrench and wiped her brow, smearing black oil along her forehead, then went to lift up the rattling door.
A young guy, who couldn’t be more than nineteen, stood in the opening with one hand on a black motorcycle.
Sophie nodded. “Hey,” she said, her eyes on the bike. “Nice Kawasaki. Oh, you’ve got a flat. No problem, I can get that fixed up for you.”
The guy nodded. “Thanks. It’s, er, not mine, it’s my boss’s. I would take it to his garage, but it’s all the way across town. He said just to leave it with you guys, and he’ll come later.”
“OK, no problem. Who’s your boss?” Sophie asked. Always curious.
