The Road to Redemption: Finding Grace, Book 1

by DM Davis

  His eyes scan my face as his warm hand cups my cheek and neck. “You need coddling more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “What? No,” I protest, knowing full well I’d like nothing more than to be fussed over by him. “I’m not weak. I can take care of myself.”

  He pulls me farther into the apartment where he silently removes our coats, his suit jacket with his tie tucked into the pocket, and hangs them in the hall closet.

  Does that mean he’s not leaving as soon as he can? Maybe I didn’t embarrass him.

  Turning, he strides back to me. “Come ‘ere.” Sweeping me off my feet, he’s undeterred by my half-hearted protests. “Shh.” His arms grip me tightly. “I need to hold you.” He settles on the couch with me on his lap. “As much as you need me to.”

  “I don’t.”

  He chuckles. “Ah, my Lauren, you do.” He peppers my face with slow kisses before landing on my mouth. His hands grip my thigh and the back of my head as his tender lips have me sinking into his embrace and gripping his shirt.

  “Any anger you felt from me earlier was not directed at you.” His lips graze my ear. “You are not a burden.” He leans back, his piercing eyes tugging at my resolve. “You did not cause any trouble. You did not rock the boat—except where it needed to be rocked.” His hands tighten their grip. “You. Did. Not. Embarrass. Me.”

  “Theo.” Tears threaten to break free.

  “I don’t know what daft fucks you’ve known in your life, but the fact that they’ve made you feel lesser than pisses me the hell off.”

  A tear skates down my cheek, and before I can swipe it away, he pulls me into a hug, his head buried in my neck. “I’m going to coddle the fuck out of you,” he rasps. “You need to get right with that. The way you feel about your place in the world is not okay with me.”

  Oh, my god. This man.

  He’s going to break me, then put the pieces back together again.

  HER STOMACH RUMBLES FOR THE THIRD time. “You need to eat.” We got completely sidetracked and only had a few bites of food at the party. Even if she did eat something while we were apart, she’s obviously hungry.

  “I’m fine.”

  I’m really starting to dislike that word—fine. “I can order food.”

  She starts to protest again, and I silence her with a kiss. I press my forehead to hers, breathing in her sweet scent. “I’m hungry. You’re hungry. We need to eat.”

  “I can make something. Do you like eggs?”

  The idea of her cooking for me sends blood surging south. “I love eggs. I’m not a picky eater. I love most everything.”

  She slides off my lap, fixing her hemline. “You’ll have to tell me what you don’t like so I can avoid making those foods.”

  I clasp her hand, keeping her close. “What if it’s food you like?”

  Her lips pucker. “I guess it depends on what it is you don’t like. If it’s a simple side dish, then it’s no biggie, but if I cook steak, and you don’t like steak, it would be better to know that upfront… Then I’ll make you dry piece of boneless, skinless chicken while I have a big, juicy ribeye.”

  She’s teasing me. I like it.

  I stand, pressing my body against hers. “I like my steak just as big and juicy as any Texan.” My hand travels down her back, over her plump arse, and I squeeze, pulling her closer.

  With a gasp, her hands land on my chest, her lips part, but before I can devour them, her stomach growls again. A pink blush crawls up her skin. And when my stomach growls in response, we both start laughing.

  Moment broken…for now.

  “Food.” I turn her towards her bedroom. “Go change. I’ll grab my gym bag from my car to change as well.”

  “Okay.” She points in the other direction. “The guest bath and bedroom are that way. Make yourself at home.”

  “See you in a minute.” I grab her keys from the bar and glance back. She hasn’t moved. Her eyes are glued to the keys in my hand. I hold them up. “To unlock the door when I come back.”

  “You’ll only be gone a minute or two. You don’t have to lock it.” The words come out of her mouth with such hesitancy it’s impossible to take them as genuine.

  I step back to her and gently lift her face to mine. “It would make you feel safer if I lock the door while I’m gone.” Not a question. It’s written all over her demeanor.

  She plants a smile on her face. “That would be silly.” She swallows. “You’re only going to your car.” Her blue eyes glisten, betraying her forced bravado.

  I press my forehead to hers, closing my eyes, trying to keep the rage at bay by not thinking about why she’s so fearful. “Will it make you feel safe?” I push, needing her to be honest.

  A single nod is her only response.

  “Done.” I pull her into a quick hug. “Now go change.”

  I wait while she retreats into her room, closing the door. The first click of her bedroom door lock is no surprise, but it’s the second click—as she locks herself in the bathroom—that guts me.

  There are three locks and an alarm system between her and the outside world. But truth be told, a man my size could easily kick through all of them in a matter of seconds. That thought does nothing to ease the breaking of my heart.

  I need to protect her.

  But most importantly, I need to teach her to protect herself.

  If I looked up resilient in the dictionary, it would have Lauren’s name tied to it somehow, somewhere. She’s bounced back to her shy yet confident, teasing self in the short time it took for us to change clothes and cook breakfast for dinner. Binner as she calls it. My girl’s clever and a bit of a dork, and I love it.

  I need to know about her attack. The result of it is ever-present, but if I’m to help her move past it—more than she already has—she needs to open up and offer those details. I could ask, and I may, if she doesn’t open up and tell me soon.

  I’m invested—I’m in deep—and I need her in the thick of it with me. It’s her information to share, if she wants to, but she needs to know that there’s nothing in her past that could make me look at her differently.

  I may not know the details of her life. But I know her. I know the curve of her face, the smell of hair, the twinkle in her eyes when she’s feeling mischievous or laughing, and the sadness in them when I say something that touches her deeply, in places left empty and bruised from her past. I know the kindness in her, the selflessness of her, the goodness of her. I know her soul. Her need to be seen, to be heard, to be loved and desired.

  I know her, and I want to spend the rest of my life getting to know every detail.

  “Everything okay?” Her soft voice pulls me from my thoughts.

  She bites a piece of bacon while pushing scrambled egg around her plate.

  “Yes, just thinking.” I take another bite and compliment her on a wonderful meal.

  “I’ll have to make you my banana pancakes. Or waffles.” She smiles on the last words.

  “Are waffles your favourite?”

  “I like pancakes, but it’s something about the texture of waffles. The crunchy outside with the soft insides. But I don’t like Belgian waffles. It’s plain, standard waffles for me.”

  Her insistence makes me laugh. “Standard waffles. Got it.”

  I’d like to stay the night. Let her make me waffles for breakfast—the way she likes them. The idea of sleeping next to her, holding her all night, keeping her safe, has heat radiating in my chest. I check the clock. It’s barely after ten. Maybe if I keep her talking, she’ll be too tired to send me home and will invite me to stay.

  Or you could ask.

  “You relax. I’ll clean up.” Before she can protest, I stand with my plate in hand, kiss her on the head, and whisk our plates away.

  I set the dishes in the sink, turning the hot water on. She enters behind me and refills our water glasses. “Thank you for cleaning.”

  “You’re welcome.” I thought for sure she’d fight me on it. “Thank you
for cooking.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She grabs something from the freezer and steps into the living room with our drinks. Setting that something on the sofa, she pulls a blanket from the hall closet.

  “How old are you, Theo?”

  Twenty questions. Seeing her all cozy on the sofa quickens my pace. “I’m twenty-eight. And you’re twenty-six.”

  “How’d…oh, the self-defense form?”

  I nod, noting the wrinkle in her brow. “And your text.”

  “Did you read the whole form?”

  “I did.”

  “Oh.” Her face downcast, she fiddles with the blanket lying across her lap.

  Oh? Is she truly surprised, or did she hope I hadn’t read it? Which I have—quite thoroughly—a few times.

  “I suppose you want to talk about it.”

  The resignation in her voice has me turning off the water and drying my hands. This last pan can soak. I slowly make my way to her side, not wanting to spook her. I slide my hand into hers. “Not if you’re not ready.”

  “But you want to know…” She ventures a glance my way. “…the details?”

  I pull her under my arm with her head resting on my chest and her hand warming my abdomen. The feel of her pressed against my body is still an unexpected comfort. I want to comfort her—give her peace—and here she is doing the same for me. “I won’t lie. The self-defense instructor in me needs to know so I can help you move on with the skills you need—desire—to know. The protector in me wants to know so I can beat the shit out of those who hurt you, but mostly, to keep you safe from future threats. The man in me—your man—wants to know so I can hold you close, make you feel safe, and help you cope in ways I fear you haven’t but need to.”

  She clutches my t-shirt—clearly uncomfortable with the idea.

  I run my hand up her arm, kissing her forehead. “When you’re ready, Lauren. No pressure.”

  “How about some easier topics first?” She smiles up at me, her wide eyes hopeful.

  I nod, already planning my first question. “You first.”

  “Last girlfriend.”

  I’m surprised she went right there. I figured she’d wait for me to ask about her dating history. “I’ve seen women since moving here four years ago, but nothing serious. No girlfriends.”

  “And back home?”

  “I was engaged.”

  “What?” She sits up, pulling away but then stops. “What happened?”

  “She left me for her ex-boyfriend a week before our wedding.”

  “She what?” Her shock and indignation have me smiling. “Is she crazy?”

  I laugh. “No, not crazy and apparently not the one.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry. Anyone who would cheat on you isn’t worth your time or effort.” She settles back into my arms. “Did you pine for her much?”

  I like her word choices, a bit old-fashioned, talking beyond her years. “She did quite a number on me. Messed me up. It’s the reason I moved. I couldn’t stand to be close to her or chance meeting. I tried dating, but no one interested me. Eventually, I stopped looking, stopped trying, and only focused on work.”

  “Is that why you were so standoffish in the coffee shop to that girl trying to get your attention?”

  “Yes.” Guilty.

  “Your alter ego was on full display.”

  “He didn’t scare you off.” I tip her chin to me.

  “I wasn’t looking for you.” She wasn’t looking for a connection, so my fuck-off demeanor didn’t scare her. My girl is brave.

  “And I wasn’t looking for you, yet here we are. Quite soundly found.” I press my lips to hers, no rush, no agenda, a simple kiss of thanks for seeing past my disguise and infusing life back into my soul, air into my lungs, and shattering the wall around my heart.

  I break our kiss, not wanting to sidetrack our game. “My turn.” I should ask about boyfriends, but I have a more pressing question. “What did you pull out of the freezer?”

  “The ice for our drinks? Oh! You mean the icepack?”

  It was large enough to be an icepack, but she tucked it under her arm so quickly, the thought never crossed my mind. “You’re sitting on an icepack?” That can’t be comfortable.

  Her laugh fills the air and has me smiling. “No.” She swats me. “It’s on my back.”

  “Why?”

  “I fell at work a few years ago. Injured my back. Ended up having surgery. But I have permanent damage, so I use ice to minimize the discomfort.”

  “What happened? What kind of surgery?” A hundred questions inundate my thoughts, but I manage to only spew two. I’m relieved it’s not related to the attack, but wonder if it exacerbated her injury—serving as another reminder of what haunts her.

  “It’s a really drawn out ordeal, more than I’m sure you want to know.”

  She has no idea—I want to know it all.

  “I’ll just say this: I slipped on an uneven marble floor at work, landed on my butt, and slid across the floor, hitting a floor-to-ceiling window, shattering it. Thankfully, it was double-paned or I could have fallen approximately thirty feet to the ravine below.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  She smiles as I grab her hand and pull her back into my arms. “You could have died.”

  “No…well…maybe. I don’t know.” She’s flustered by the thought but dismisses it quickly. “I didn’t, and that’s the important thing.”

  My hand continues to move up and down her arm, soothing her, but really trying to stop my growing unease, thinking of what could have happened, much less what actually did happen.

  “…multiple doctors, years of therapy and treatments. In the end, surgery was my best option.”

  I pulled a Lauren and totally checked out, more in my head than in the conversation, and missed most of her explanation. “But you’re better now?”

  “Better is a relative term. I’m better than I was after the accident, but I’m not better as in all healed. I’ll never be one hundred percent. I’ll always have pain and discomfort.” She shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “It’s my new normal.”

  Fuck. I hate that for her.

  “Show me.”

  “Show you what?” She sits up. “My scar?” She scrunches her face like I’m crazy. So cute.

  “Yes.” I need to see it, touch it.

  “Uh, no.” She stands with such grace you’d never know she was in any discomfort.

  I pull her between my legs, my hands resting on her hips, looking up into the eyes of a woman who is more resilient than I fathomed.

  “Show me.” My fingers graze up her sides, sliding under the hem of her black t-shirt, over the waist of her yoga pants to find her silky skin. She gasps at the contact.

  I itch to explore every inch of her. “Show. Me.” The gravel in my voice reflects my need.

  “It’s an ugly Frankenstein’s monster kind of scar. You don’t want to see it.” Her protest is real. She’s embarrassed by her scar—the scar that signifies she survived.

  “The hell I don’t.” I pull her shirt up, revealing the strip of skin above her pants. I lay a kiss right in the centre.

  She curls into me, her hands capturing my head. “Theo,” she fucking groans my name, her need ever-present and equal to my own.

  Let’s get naked. The idea runs on repeat, short-circuiting my intent to only see her scar.

  My hands run up her back, caressing strong muscles covered in the softest skin I’ve ever felt. “God, you feel good,” I murmur against her abdomen, kissing from one side to the other. Running one hand up her back, over her bra—tempted to release her breasts from their confinement—I reach the back of her neck and squeeze gently, bringing her lips to mine in a slow, sultry kiss, parting her lips with my tongue, diving in. Tasting what’s mine. Letting her moans ground me to the here and now where she is safe. Uninjured.

  Fuck, not entirely uninjured.

  I release her. “Did I hurt you?” What the hell was I thinkin
g having her bend over like that to kiss me?

  Her heavy-lidded eyes blink a few times. “No.” Her shining innocence has me smiling and wicked thoughts tempting me beyond my control.

  “Good.” I turn her around. “Now. Show. Me,” I command, sounding more like a dick than the throbbing one in my pants. I raise her t-shirt enough to land a single kiss on her back in restitution. “Please.” My breath skates across her skin.

  She growls her discontent but raises her shirt, holding it under her arms as she tentatively lowers her pants to reveal what is approximately an eight-inch scar running from her waist to just above her tantalizing bum.

  I run a finger down the length of the scar, ignoring her arching back—not in pain—in pleasure. “It’s not bad, especially not Frankenstein’s monster-worthy.”

  She likens herself to a monster?

  Leaning forward, I press kisses along her scar. Her body trembles, and I grip her hips, holding her steady. I lave the puckered part at the top with my tongue. She murmurs something about it not healing properly there. I do it again, deeper. Small hands land on mine, her head falling back as she gasps my name.

  Her skin is cool and red from the icepack, but deliciously soft under my tongue and heats me to my core.

  One more pass of my lips has me groaning into her skin as her legs start to quake, and when I dip my tongue into her warm crack that’s teasing the edge of her pants, her legs give way.

  “So beautiful.” I catch her in my lap, turning her. Pushing back into the sofa, our mouths collide.

  This moment. My entire life has been building to this moment to capture the woman who has been my vision for as long as I can remember, at her most vulnerable, sharing her scars with me, both internal and external.

  I was made for this moment—for this woman.

  HIS TONGUE DOES NOT ASK FOR admittance, and I don’t even think of denying him entry. He holds me as if I’m a precious gift—a savored treat—he cannot wait to unwrap. His hands—his mouth—caress, entice, and implore, pulling at my resolve, my sanity, my very soul.

  He is my undoing, my remaking, my freedom, my glory. He represents all that I have never known—desired—but feared to seek, to believe, to dare hope existed for me.