“Thank you, baby,” Lilah said, smiling at her daughter.
“Aunt Sia?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“I think Zane is real pretty.”
Sia’s eyes widened. “Do not, under any circumstances, let your papa hear you say that!” I laughed at the worried look on Sia’s and Lilah’s faces.
“Why not? Papa said I shouldn’t ever lie to him. Especially about boys.”
“There are some lies that are necessary,” Sia countered, sitting down on her chair with Grace on her lap. “The ones that stop Zane from being skinned alive are essential.”
“What’s this about Zane?” Ky’s voice came from the doorway. AK and Styx following.
“Err, he was good, you know, getting Gracie-girl some snacks,” Sia uttered, tripping over her words. Ky frowned at his sister, shook his head and then focused on his wife.
My sisters moved so Ky could pick up the babies. He lifted Azrael in his arms. Turning to Styx, he said, “Meet the future VP of the Hangmen.” Styx smirked and picked up Charon, who was wriggling in Mae’s arms. As I watched Ky and Styx holding their sons, then Ky giving Lilah Azrael and taking hold of Talitha, all I saw was Flame holding our baby one day. Smiling as freely as Styx and Ky. Flame did not smile much. I prayed we could one day be just like this.
As though my heart sensed him near, my gaze drifted to the open doorway. Flame stood beyond the door; his attention fixed intently on me. “Flame,” I acknowledged and held out my hand. He saw my offered hand, but then firmly shook his head. His gaze darted to the babies, and I saw raw fear in his stare. He stumbled back a few steps but forced himself stand his ground, keeping me firmly in sight. My heart split in two at the sheer panic on his face. His hands were curled into fists at his side, and I could see his brow glistening with stress. My husband did not like hospitals because of what he endured before AK and Viking found him in a psychiatric hospital. But seeing him like this… it destroyed me.
I moved to Lilah’s side. She held both babies once again. “I need to go home,” I insisted quietly, not wanting to disturb the happy conversations around me. Lilah’s gaze drifted over my shoulder to Flame. She nodded softly and I kissed her goodbye. I ran my finger over each of the twins’ cheeks. “I will be back soon, little ones.”
“It will all work out. Trust in this, sister,” Lilah said with conviction. I left the room and approached Flame. His eyes were wide and fearful, the whites too bright against his midnight irises. Holding out my hand, I said, “Shall we go home?” He nodded vigorously, but when I went to hold his hand, he flinched and pulled it back toward his chest, as if my touch were infectious. My pulse kicked into a frantic, panicked beat. Flame stepped back from me—one single but heavy step. In that moment it felt like we were an ocean apart. Even worse, after he had moved, I caught sight of his wrist. My heart shattered when I saw the drying blood staining his tattooed skin. He had been digging his nails into his skin. Only this time, he had managed to pierce the flesh.
Dread washed through me. He was getting worse.
“Flame… baby…” I whispered and slowly approached him, hands at my sides. Flame’s nostrils flared at my proximity. But he did not move away when I reached his taut and fearful frame. My soul began to cry. What could be causing this? Why did he suddenly fear me, the only person he had ever let in? Fear my touch, the touch that calmed his demons? I felt sick. Not with my pregnancy, but with the loss of my husband’s acceptance. It was the most treasured thing we both had—the freedom to touch and love the other without payment or condition. “Shall we go home?” I prayed my voice was not shaking, even though inside I trembled like a leaf shuddering in a Fall storm. I did not put my hand in his, nor did I attempt to touch him and cause him pain. I needed to get him home, where he felt safe.
Flame turned and walked beside me in silence, into the elevator and then out of the hospital. I hoped that being out of the building would relax him some, but it did not. He kept glancing my way, his dark eyebrows pulled down in worry.
The truck’s engine sounded as loud as cracking thunder as we drove, still without a word, out of downtown Austin and then to the Hangmen compound. The moment we were in the privacy of our home, I turned to face my husband. Holding out my hand, I begged, “Take my hand, baby.”
I watched him. Studied every move he made for answers. As I dangled my hand in the fragile space between us, I saw his eyes flare and his lips grow tight. Flame’s fingers twitched. I knew he wanted me. I could see the longing in his desperate gaze. It broke my heart. Flame’s fears often broke my heart. My husband, part dangerous killer and ultimate protector, part lost and broken soul forever seeking some kind of light. “Please, baby,” I said, this time losing the battle to stop the trembling in my voice. “It is me. Your Maddie. Your wife.”
“My Maddie,” Flame croaked, his face contorted with pain. He shook his head, and before I could comfort him, he brought his hands to the side of his skull and began to hit himself. “Not again. I can’t do this again.”
“Flame!” I jumped forward. Flame rushed out of my way and backed against the kitchen wall until he hit the plaster with a dull thud. “What is happening?” I demanded, fear becoming my leading emotion.
Flame’s muscular neck corded with tension, but with a gentle and lost hopelessness in his voice, said, “I’m hurting you.” He stared at his palms like they were the Antichrist. They were shaking. It destroyed me, eviscerating my heart, which was waiting for his confession, before beating again. Flame looked into my eyes as he began to crumble. “You’re still sick. I can still see it on your face, on your pale lips. You never lie to me. But I know you’re sick. I’m…” I froze as Flame reached out his hand, stopping just a hairsbreadth from my cheek. His gaze shone with unshed tears of agony. “It’s me,” he stated, so quietly I could scarcely hear his deep, broken timbre. “It’s finally happening.” He dropped his hand and ran his fingertips down the pattern of the veins on his wrist. “The flames are growing stronger. They’re getting to you too.” Flame blinked and a tear dropped to his chest, slipping under the collar of his white shirt. “I can’t hurt you. Not my Maddie. I can’t. I won’t …”
My stomach turned, nausea building in my throat. I shook my head since I could not find my voice. “No,” I rasped, realization dawning on me like the sun bursting from behind a gray cloud. “Flame.” I took a few slow steps forward. My husband looked lost, at a loss for what to do. “It is my fault.” The confession slipped easily from my lips. I had kept this from him. All the while, he had believed he was hurting me. He watched me. He always watched me. I loved that he cared for me so profoundly. But seeing me tired and sick … What had I done? He paid too much attention to me to believe there was nothing wrong, even though I told him I was fine.
“I promise I am not sick.” I reached for his hand and clasped mine tightly around it. Flame tried to draw it back, to pull away, but I held on tight. “Your touch does not harm me,” I said sternly. Flame froze in fear. Moving onto my tiptoes, I pressed my free hand to his bearded cheek. “I am not sick, baby.” I brought our hands to my lips and kissed along his tattooed, scarred skin. It bumped at my touch. A quick breath left his slightly parted lips. I watched the inner struggle, the pain I knew plagued him, drain from his body.