Prince Charming Can Wait (Ever After)

by Stephanie Rowe

  His gaze shot to the foot she was favoring. Anguished guilt flooded his features, turning him back into the man she knew. Swearing violently, he strode toward her and scooped her off the ground, not even noticing when Preston started shouting at him, daring him to come back and finish. Harlan's entire focus was on her, his arms so tight around her. "I didn't even notice," he said, his face tormented. "How bad is it?"

  "It's fine." She pushed at his chest, frantic, needing space. "Let me down."

  "No. I'll take you to the hospital." He didn't even turn back to look at the crowd. He just strode across the field toward his truck, not even hearing her protests.

  "Harlan!" She hit his chest in frustration just as he reached the truck. "Let me go!" Tears were streaming down her face now, and she couldn't stop them.

  He looked down at her, and his face went ashen. "Am I hurting you?"

  "Just leave me alone," she whispered, too exhausted to fight. "I just want to go home."

  He yanked open the door to the truck and eased her onto the seat. "I'll take you to the hospital—"

  "No!" She grabbed his shirt. "For God's sake, just once, just this one time, will someone please listen to what I want? I just want to go home."

  He stared at her for a long moment, and then he nodded. "Home, it is."

  She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, relief cascading through her. "Thank you," she whispered.

  He said nothing, but she heard the gentle click of him closing her door softly. She didn't open her eyes when he got in the truck. She simply wanted it all to go away. And by "all" she meant all the men who she'd ever married for any reason.

  They just needed to go away. Forever.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Harlan felt like shit, which was appropriate, because that was all he was worth.

  There was no mistaking the way Emma tensed in resistance when he carried her up the steps to her cabin and across the living room to her bed. She hadn't spoken the whole ride home. She hadn't even made eye contact with him.

  He deserved it. He knew he did. But hell, after having seen Emma smile at him earlier in the night, losing that affection felt like someone had taken a sharp dagger and carved out his damned heart. Her silence felt like hell.

  Harlan set her down on the bed. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure what to do, but then quickly stepped back when she groaned and rolled onto her side, burying herself under the blankets. The faded quilt wrapped around her, its colored patterns mocking the blackness pulsing through him.

  He should leave her. Go sleep on the couch. Give her privacy.

  But he couldn't.

  She was hurting. He'd seen her face. He couldn't walk away from her. "Em?"

  No response.

  "Emma."

  No response.

  Harlan ran his hand through his hair. "Did I hurt your ankle?" he finally asked. "When I grabbed Preston? Did I somehow hurt you?" The thought made him sick, literally sick, and he sat down in the middle of the floor, pressing his palms to his forehead. He'd been mad, so unbelievably angry when he'd seen Preston with his hands on Emma. The sight of Emma's stricken face had undone him, and he'd snapped, just completely fucking snapped. Jesus. Jesus. He dug his hand into his hair. What the fuck had he done? What—

  "No." Emma's soft voice broke through his torment, and he jerked his head up.

  She was on her side, the pillow tucked under her head as she looked at him. Her face looked pale and vulnerable against the faded yellow of her sheets, her blond hair strewn carelessly across the cotton. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, and the blanket was tucked up to her chin, but her head was uncovered now. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and her eyes were rimmed with red.

  "No, what?" he asked. He had no idea what she was responding to. All he could do was look at her, and fight the desperate, unforgivable urge to crawl under those covers and pull her into his arms, to hold her until nothing could ever hurt her again. But he was the danger to her. Him. So how could holding her protect her from him?

  "No, you didn't hurt my ankle," she said quietly. "I hurt it trying to get away from Preston."

  The air seemed to stand still inside his chest, as if oxygen were circling so close, almost close enough to breathe again. "You mean it? I didn't hurt you?"

  The smallest furrow appeared between her eyebrows. "How would you have hurt me? You didn't even touch me."

  "I didn't?" He tried to remember, to replay the scene, but all he could think of was how much he'd wanted to attack Preston, how he'd thought of nothing else but getting over there and stopping him from touching Emma. "I can't remember what happened."

  She frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

  "I don't know." He pressed his fingers to his head, trying to ease the pounding inside his brain. "When my father would go into a rage, no one around him was safe. He broke my stepmother's nose twice, and he threw me into a glass door when I was ten."

  Emma's face blanched. "Harlan," she whispered. "How could you live like that? I'm so sorry for you."

  "No, don't feel sorry for me. It was fine. I survived it." He couldn't take his eyes off her face, off the beautiful delicate visage of this woman who was allowing him into the sanctity of her bedroom, even after she had seen a flash of the beast within him. "But he taught me how to react to situations. My instinct is to do what he did, and to react first and think later. I lost my shit when I saw Preston touching you, when I saw the look of fear on your face." He met her gaze, not hiding from her anymore. "I don't know what I did in that moment. All I remember is the fury, and then charging at him."

  Her face paled slightly in the moonlight, but she shook her head. "You didn't hit anyone, Harlan."

  "I didn't?" When she shook her head, there was a moment of raw, stark relief ripping through him, stripping away his strength, but then it was quickly replaced by the grim truth. "But I wanted to." Swearing, he stood up, lacing his hands on top of his head as he paced the room. "I wanted to kill him, just like I told you that night in the boat. I was so pissed. I—" He broke off as he swung to face her. "I've never hated anyone like I did in that moment, when I saw the look of terror that he'd put on your face. I lost it, Em. I absolutely fucking lost it, just like my father."

  Slowly, she held out her hand. It was steady now, not shaking, an invitation so beautiful he wanted to fall to his knees in disbelief that she could offer him her trust again. "Come here."

  "No." He backed up, fighting off the instincts howling through him to reach out to her, to touch her, to bury himself in all that she was. "No, I'm not getting close to you—"

  "I need you to come here," she said softly. "Please."

  Please. There was no chance for him to resist that. Reluctantly, he walked over to the bed and crouched beside her, so his face was level with hers. "What?"

  She held out her hand again in silent appeal.

  Gritting his jaw, he shook his head. "I can't hold your hand and give you comfort. I'm not that guy, Emma. We both saw it tonight."

  "You didn't hit him. You were angry, but you didn't hit him, or me, or anyone else."

  "You saw my anger. I know you did. I scared you." And as God was his witness, that had nearly broken him when he'd seen the fear in her eyes when she'd looked at him. Not at Preston. At him. He'd seen his stepmother terrified of his father. He'd seen kidnap victims recoiling in horror from even their rescuers. He'd always known he had the capacity to put that look on a woman's face, but he'd always, always promised himself he'd never get close enough to actually do it.

  He'd broken his promise.

  Silently, he took her hand and pressed his forehead to the back of it. Her hand was cool and soft, a respite from the emotions pouring through him. "Forgive me, Emma, for thinking that I could be someone that I'm not," he whispered, his throat aching with the words. "I don't belong here, in this house, with someone like you. With a child."

  "Harlan—"

  "No." He raised his head to look at her. "I do my job
easily," he said. "I go in, I do what I need to do, and I get out. It's business to me, so when I see kidnap victims who have been mistreated, I can keep my focus and do what I need to do. Tonight was different. Tonight, I couldn't think. All I could do was feel. Hate for him. Terror for your safety. Fear that I'd lose you, that somehow he'd win you over again and you'd walk away from me forever, back into hell." He tightened his grip on her hand, willing her to understand. "I can't afford to feel," he said. "Don't you understand? I can't control it when I feel. It makes me dangerous. And you make me feel. I can't look at you and stay emotionally detached. I'm so far past that, Emma. So far."

  She smiled faintly and curled her fingers around his, holding on. "Have you ever hit anyone in anger?"

  "Yeah." He thought back to the incident that had prompted him to leave town almost a year ago. "When I heard that Jason had gotten my sister pregnant, I walked over to his store, and the minute he opened the door, I laid him out." He rubbed his knuckles, as if he could still feel Jason's jaw against them.

  Emma laughed softly. "Any good brother would do that, Harlan. As far as we knew, Jason had abandoned her. Clare and I were actually debating ways to sabotage the opening of his store, and Eppie actually did it. None of us are saints, Harlan. We will all protect those we care about."

  "It's not the same thing." He looked at her. "When I lost it with Jason, I realized I was caring too much about Astrid. I got scared of what I might do to keep her safe, and I left before I could turn into my dad." He met her gaze. "And you," he said softly, almost desperate to touch her cheek, to feel her beneath his tainted hand. "You already suffered with Preston. You don't need the shit that I bring, and I won't do it to you."

  But still, the stubborn woman would not look away, and would not accept his refusal. "Have you ever hurt a woman? Even by accident? Even on all those rescue missions?"

  Harlan's answer was instant. "No, but that was business. I wasn't invested emotionally. It's different with Astrid." He met her gaze. "And with you. When I saw Preston's hand on your shoulder, and the expression on your face, I finally understood the power of emotions, how they could drive my father to such extremes. I truly believe he loved my stepmother, but his love for her is what made him so dangerous. I'm like him, Emma. I'm exactly like him. I'm not the good guy."

  "No?" Emma's eyes were glistening, and the damn woman actually looked happy, like he'd said something beautiful. "Do you realize that good men don't always come in perfectly wrapped packages with beautiful bows? Sometimes, they are dirty and rough, and unable to survive polite company unscathed, while the beautiful, polished packages are the scum who really hurt people."

  He swore under his breath, hating that she wouldn't believe his true nature, but at the same time, he clung to her every word, desperately needing the way she looked at him like he wasn't a monster. "Emma—"

  "When I was ten years old, my parents took me to the town beach," she said quietly, absently stroking the back of his hand with her thumb. "They brought their wine and cocktails, and I went off with my friends. My friends went home at dinner, but my parents kept on with their drinking. I played by myself, and then I went swimming too far out. I couldn't make it back to shore, and I started to drown. It was so fast, so sudden, the way I went down. I didn't even have time to scream. I just started sinking down. I tried to get air, but sucked in water. I couldn't keep my head up. I knew I was drowning, but I couldn't even call for help. My parents didn't notice, but a fifteen-year-old summer boy saw me. He swam out and got me just as I went under for the last time. An ambulance came, and the whole beach converged. My parents were the last ones down to the shore. They hadn't even bothered to find out who had almost drowned until someone told them it was me. When we finally got home that night, my parents told me that I was rude and selfish to try to get their attention by pretending to drown, and that I was banned from the lake for the rest of the summer."

  Harlan stared at her, trying to fathom a parent being angry at a child who had almost drowned. "Were they serious?"

  "They didn't want me," she said. "They liked their life the way it was, and having me dragged them down. I did everything I could to get them to notice they had a daughter, and they never cared. When I was drowning, I remember thinking, 'well, at least I don't have to try to impress them anymore.'"

  Harlan stared at her, stunned. A ten year old being relieved to die? His life had been shit with his father, but he'd never thought about giving up. He'd just wanted out. Dark anger swirled inside him, a fierce protectiveness for this woman before him, a need to keep her safe. She deserved to be honored and loved, to have someone who would walk ahead of her with a machete and kick the shit out of anything life tried to throw at her to hurt her.

  "All I wanted, Harlan," she said, drawing his attention back to her, "the only thing that I wanted was to have someone actually notice me. I wanted someone to care when I drowned. To love me. I used to be so jealous of Clare and her mom, doing their stuff together, that it would actually make my chest hurt." She met his gaze. "Tonight, I was scared when Preston had me cornered. It was like I was drowning again, only this time, someone was there for me. You. When you went after Preston, I mattered to you. I saw it in your eyes. I mattered."

  Harlan's throat tightened. "Sweet Emma," he said softly, brushing the hair out of her eyes. "Of course you matter to me, but that's not enough. You need to raise your standards higher than what you got from me tonight. I saw your face when I went over the edge. You were terrified of me, and you were right to be scared. Your instincts know who I am." He thumbed the corner of her mouth, the tiny scar. "He hit you."

  Emma made a noise of irritation. "On purpose, Harlan. He hit me on purpose. For God's sake, can't you understand the difference? Are you so determined to hate yourself that you can't even register basic facts?"

  "He hit you." Harlan gritted his teeth as that same anger rose within him, that same need to destroy that bastard.

  "Yes, he did, but you—" Her voice softened, and her fingers drifted gently across his skin. "You would never hurt me on purpose, would you?"

  "Fuck no." He couldn't keep the shock out of his voice. "Jesus, Emma, never."

  "See?" Triumph gleamed in her eyes. "You're different than he is."

  "I'm not—"

  "Stop it." She put her fingers over his lips. "I need you to be different." Her voice was strong, but her eyes were haunted with shadows. "I was so wrong about him, Harlan. I believed in love and magic and fairytales, but he was so evil. I see goodness in you, and I need to be right this time. I am well aware that you're not perfect. You did scare me for a minute, but I also know you would do everything in your power to protect me, even from yourself. That's the sign of a good man. I need you to let me see that side of you. I need to be right, that there is one person in this world with a good heart who cares." She gripped his hand. "I tried everything to win my parents over, and in the end, I meant nothing to them. They're in Italy and I haven't spoken to them in eleven years. I keep choosing the wrong people to believe in, and I have to be right for once. I need you to be the man I think you are."

  Harlan's heart seemed to crack for her. "Your soul is so beautiful," he whispered. "Never stop believing that there is goodness in the world. It's a beautiful trait."

  "Let me be right about you," she said again, ignoring his compliment.

  Harlan closed his eyes against the urge to draw her into his arms and to bury himself in the fantasy that Emma held about him. He'd never cared that he was his father's son, not until this moment. Not until tonight. With Emma snuggled in her bed, her hand clenched in his, he suddenly wanted to be the guy who didn't sleep alone anymore. "Emma," he said in a strangled voice. "I'll hurt you."

  "I already know you're going to leave me."

  He opened his eyes. "Not that kind of hurt—"

  She met his gaze, and there was a shrewd gleam in her eyes. "What if I told you that when Preston said he still loved me, I knew that on some naïve, foolish, desperate l
evel, I still loved him? What if when he told me that he had changed and wanted another chance, that a part of me wanted to give it to him?"

  Harlan felt like a hunting knife had been jammed into his chest. His breath seemed to slice through his chest, and his body went cold. He couldn't breathe, and his fingers seemed to go numb, slipping out of her grasp. "You...want...him?"

  She met his gaze, a challenge in her voice. "What if I told you I would go back to him if he agreed to counseling, and I could make sure it was safe for me to go back to him?"

  Harlan lurched to his feet, stumbling backwards, his mind reeling. A thousand thoughts were rushing through his mind, and the one most vivid, most clear was an image of Preston rearing back to hit her. "You'll get hurt," he managed to say. "Don't take me, but don't go to him. He'll hurt you." Searing pains seemed to cascade through his chest, as he went back on his knees before her. He grabbed her hand, barely able to find the words for his urgency. "Don't do it, Em. Just don't."

  Through his desperate haze, a smile filled Emma's face, the most beautiful, most genuine smile he'd ever seen. She scooted over to the edge of the bed and kissed him lightly.

  Stunned, Harlan pulled back. "What are you doing?"

  "Jealousy is a terrible thing for a man," she said. "That was why Preston hit me, because one of his friends made a move on me. And yet, when I presented you with a reason to be jealous, your only thought was for my safety." She locked her arms behind his neck, smiling broadly.

  He still didn't understand. "You aren't going back to him?"

  "No." She ran her fingers through his hair, a touch so gentle and tender that it shook him right down to his core. "I just wanted to know who you really were. I offered you the worst scenario I could think of to expose the darkest side of you, and it simply wasn't there. I was right." She locked her fingers behind his neck, a satisfied look on her face. "Kiss me, Harlan. Kiss me as if you were going to stay with me forever."

  He wasn't a good enough man to walk away from what Emma offered him. Not just the kiss, but her belief in who he was. She was wrong, he knew that, but right now, in that moment, he couldn't tear himself away from the feeling of having someone believe in him.