That bastard had punched her between the legs. I wanted to kill him myself and was beyond grateful that Amara had slaughtered him like the pig he was on my behalf.
I still wanted to know the details, and not just because I wanted to understand what my daughter had witnessed that day. I wanted to relive his suffering, wanted to know that he’d endured agony for what he’d put her through…
"It’s one of my favorite stories!" Cyan declared with a huff, before she wriggled around to face her dad. "Plleeeasssee," she wheedled.
I didn’t say a word because I knew he’d cave in—he always did.
"The first time I asked your mom to marry me, it wasn’t really romantic, so the second time, I did it with my arms wrapped around her belly, so that you got some love too—"
"I don’t think I felt it," Cyan said with a pout.
"Well, I tried," was his retort. "And she said yes, but she was crying."
"Happy tears?"
"Nervous tears," I inserted because that was my prompt. "Your dad always made me feel jumpy inside." Cyan’s presence in my belly hadn’t helped matters either.
"Like when I need to do three forward saltos in one go?"
Storm laughed. "Something like that."
My lips curved. "You’ll understand when you’re older, sweetheart."
"If you say so."
I didn’t tell her I’d been nervous about being a single, unwed Mom… she didn’t need to know that.
"On the day itself, I made her wear white—"
Harlots didn’t wear white.
That had been our first argument.
"—and we went to this hill where we always used to meet."
"I picked wildflowers for my bouquet," I whispered softly, remembering how the sun beat down on my hair as I gathered them, and I smiled. Much as I’d done back then. Even nervous, even terrified, I’d still had to smile.
"Wild roses and daisies, right?"
I hummed. "Right."
"I want to see them tomorrow."
"I’ll find the Bible. It’s probably in the basement right now with the rest of the unpacked boxes." I’d pressed two of the flowers between its sheets.
"Uncle Digger really married you?"
"He did, and he wasn’t happy about it."
"What’s Digger’s real name?"
"You know that already," I chided.
"Mom! Don’t spoil it."
"He was Jimmy back then," Storm answered her. "Just Jimmy."
"He was a Prospect, wasn’t he?"
"Yep, and that’s why you have to think long and hard about being a Prospect for the Sinners, ladybug, because you get asked to do all kinds of weird jobs."
"I’d do that job. I’ll marry all the Sinners," she chimed in.
He cleared his throat. "Sinners don’t need to get married, baby. Remember?"
She hesitated at that. "Does that mean the Old Ladies are whores?"
I tensed, but I knew where that came from—fucking school. God, I hated kids.
"No, it doesn’t," Storm rumbled. "And if an Old Man ever heard you call their Old Lady that, you know there’d be hell to pay, right?"
"Because Sinners protect their own," she declared, sounding proud as all get out.
My lips curved, my tension abating as she sighed. "I wanna get married like you two."
Christ, I really hoped the circumstances of her marriage were better than ours.
From being tossed out of my parent’s home for good to the day when I’d been stuck in a bed because the pregnancy became high risk, those months had been fraught with tension.
Most of it of my own making.
The memory had me wincing.
I’d given Storm a hard time from the start, and he’d only ever tried to do his best by me.
By us.
As Storm described the weather, what he wore, and how my dress had ruffled in the wind—he was quite good at telling stories that had her transfixed—she heaved a sigh and gradually, I felt her tension lessen until she drifted off to sleep.
"Night, baby girl," Storm rasped as she quieted down, the endearment was mine. One he only used for me.
"Night, Storm," I whispered back, thinking of that day, of how warm it had been, and how I’d puked four times that morning, terrified that he wouldn’t go through with it.
For all that, he’d made it special.
Our place on the hill… Warm and sunny, loaded with memories, with good times before things had soured. Peaceful and tranquil—Cyan wasn’t wrong. It had been an idyllic setting. The perfect place.
Not once, after we were married, had we visited it. A thought that saddened me and made me want to go back the next time we were in West Orange.
Eventually, mind racing, I fell asleep, finding that I rested better than I had in months with both of them at my side. Sure, they took up a ton of room, but it felt good. Like we were united again, bound with secrets that we wouldn’t share outside of this room.
When I woke up, I was well aware that Cyan wasn’t between us, but the faintly tinny sound of the TV at the other end of the house, even with the door closed, told me she was awake and in the family room.
Yawning and stretching, I rolled onto my side and came across the glorious sight of Storm sleeping in a pool of sunlight. It picked out the silver in his hair, making the glossy locks look like a crown around his head, but I could see the fatigue on his face, saw the strain that shouldn’t be there when he was resting, and I felt it in my marrow.
Cyan’s pain was our pain.
God, being a parent never let up. Not when what she endured would probably haunt us more than it did her. There’d come a day when her mind would gloss over things to protect itself, whereas for us, we’d never forget. Ever.
A shaky breath escaped me as the urge to find comfort in his arms hit me.
We hadn’t shared a bed in so long.
Even before I’d tossed him out, we hadn’t. He’d spent more and more time at the clubhouse, and if his word was to be trusted, it hadn’t been him getting laid, he’d been getting high.
In the grand scheme of things, neither was all that great, was it? Still, he was here now. He stacked the dishwasher, did laundry, fixed things, and took care of the yard. He even cooked!
He was trying.
But was it still trying when he’d been here for months?
When he’d done this repeatedly? Over and over so that it became less about impressing me, trying to get into my good graces, and was more of a sign of him as a husband?
For the first time, I was grateful we were away from West Orange.
Our friends and family were there, but I wasn’t sure if the place was good for Storm. I could imagine us rolling back into bad habits swiftly, whereas here, we had to depend on each other for everything. We were alone among strangers, with no port of safety outside of within these walls. That had to make a difference.
Nibbling on my lip, I rolled over to him, and when he stretched, his arms coming around me, I sighed, snuggling into him, loving how right it felt, how good he felt. "Morning."
"Morning," he rumbled.
"Storm?"
He hummed sleepily, and the sound filled me with warmth.