Chained (Caged #2)(44)

I reached up and gently pressed my lips to her forehead, and I closed my eyes.

“I love you, my little wolf. I love you.”



My beautiful Kloe died three minutes later. And my soul died alongside her.





THE SMELL HIT ME AS soon as I pushed the door open, and I grimaced. Mail littered the front door mat and I bent to pick it up, tossing it onto the small table.

The house was dark, all the curtains drawn, and Anderson’s grief making even the shadows conceal themselves.

I didn’t want to do this, but I had to. It had been four days. Four days of hell that I never wanted to relive again.

Red whined and lifted her head from Anderson’s lap as I slowly walked into the lounge. Her tail wagged once and then she went back to supervising her master.

Numerous whisky bottles were laid about, a couple smashed and the shards of glass crunching under my feet. The ashtray was overflowing and I looked around for any signs of food.

Anderson never acknowledged me. I wasn’t sure if he was comatose or not but he didn’t move.

Anger and grief was a dangerous combination, and I stopped a short distance from him. He was laid out on the sofa, his eyes open but unfocussed. He wore sweatpants and a vest. Days of dirt and vomit clung to the material like a second layer of clothing.

Pulling in a breath, I slowly released it and braced myself. “You need to get up.”

He didn’t move.

“Your little boy needs you, Anderson. He hasn’t even set his eyes on you yet.”

Silence.

So I fisted my hands, steadied myself, and said the one line guaranteed to get a reaction. “What would Kloe think of you?”

My back hit the wall so hard that I swore he had fractured my spine. My lungs squealed in shock when his grip on my throat restricted their deep pull of air. I jumped when his other hand punched a hole through the wall beside my head.

“Kloe – isn’t – here!” he spat. I’d never seen so much rage and hostility in him before. It poured from him like he sweated pure hate, disgust leaking from his pores in abundance.

“No, she isn’t,” I choked around his hold. “But she’s in that little boy who really needs his daddy right now.”

Anderson blinked, rearing back slightly with the shock of my words.

“She lives with you in that little package of love, Anderson. She died to give him life. That isn’t his fault. It isn’t yours either. But it is. And it f*cking stinks. But it is!”

His teeth snapped together and he shook his head. “But… she’s dead because he’s alive.”

Expecting exactly that, I nodded. “Yeah. But then, you could also say Kloe’s dead because you’re alive.”

The sharp words from my tongue hurt me as much as they did my best friend. His eyes widened in horror.

“Ivan would have killed you all those months ago, Anderson. Kloe fixed it. You would have imploded in terror if she hadn’t taken your hand when you left the Dawson’s farmhouse. Kloe fixed you. After Terry took her, Kloe fought with everything to keep your son alive. You created that little boy as much as she did. She didn’t get pregnant alone, Anderson. He was in her womb because you put him there!”

My own anger was boiling over and I thrust my face into his, my spit making him blink.

“HE’S YOUR SON! YOUR BABY!”

His head shook as tears fell from him.

“And he’s Kloe’s baby. He holds her soul, her spirit, her blood and her f*cking strength. And now it’s about time you found yours!”

I pushed at him, moving his sagging body from mine.

And I walked away.





I OPENED THE WARDROBE DOORS and inhaled. Her scent hit the core of my heart and I closed my eyes, relishing in the small hit.

My eyes drifted over her clothes, my fingers barely touching but feeling so much.

I missed her so much. So very much.

I physically ached everywhere and the crushing pain in my chest refused to go away, tormenting me in its grief.

Red sat beside the bed and whined. She missed her too.

I frowned and turned to see what she was doing when another whimper came from her. She had her nose stuck under the bed, her front paws trying desperately to dig at something.

Bending beside her, I pushed my hand under and retrieved a large brown envelope.

My heart started to gallop when, in Kloe’s handwriting, I saw ‘Samantha Rowan’ was written on the front.

I pulled out the contents and piled them on the bed beside me.

Her birth certificate. Her name change document. Samantha’s christening certificate. A few documents concerning social services administration.

Picking up another item, my breath left me in one single rush.

A photograph. It was tatty and old, the corners bent and dog-eared.

A little boy and a little girl stood against a wall hand in hand. She wore a floaty summer dress full of pretty pink flowers, and the boy wore shorts and a Star Wars t-shirt. The girl beamed with a huge smile and the little boy’s face was turned straight at the camera, a large smile of his own dominant.

A five-year-old ginger-haired girl. And a three-year-old little blonde boy.

Samantha and Judd.

“Oh my God.”

My thumb stroked over their happy smiles and I smiled with them. To say their childhood had been corrupt, they still took comfort in each other and smiled. Their love even then, was prominent and blinding.