Until You (The Redemption, #1)(35)
I have to brace myself when the bed dips. I steel myself not to jerk away when he reaches for me. When those hands of his that just killed seek to touch me.
His lips feel like poison on mine as I squeeze back the tears burning behind my closed eyes. As I try to turn my mind off and pretend I didn’t just see him murder three people in cold blood. As I try to reconcile the fact that my husband is a drug lord probably using his shipping company to launder the profits.
And if my brain couldn’t betray me anymore, my body does. Pleasure is a traitorous bitch even when it’s for self-preservation.
That only makes me hate myself more.
“Tessa,” he breathes out my name as he seats himself inside me as deep as he can. “Tessa,” he repeats, forcing me to open my eyes and look at him.
But he has to see it. He has to know.
The look he gives me says it all. This is who I am. This is who you married. This is who you love. And if you didn’t see it sooner, then you were only fooling yourself.
He knows I saw. He knows I know.
The little dip of his chin and those dark eyes boring into mine tell me so.
“Just us, Ku’uipo. Always. Just. Us.”
“Always, Kaleo.” The expected response falls from my lips while my heart shatters.
And then he begins to move, and the fairy tale I thought I lived in? The happily ever after I never dreamt of until I met him?
The fairy tale comes crashing down all around me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tennyson
“Look at you,” Millie Buckman says as she moves behind the counter of Redemption Falls’ only postal store. Her hands may be busy, but her attention and knowing smile is focused directly on me.
“I feel like I should know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t be so coy.” She waves a hand my way. “Everyone is talking about how great it is—that new man of yours has finally gotten you out and about. Lived here two whole years, ferreting away in that cottage while you tippety-typed on that keyboard, and then that handsome fellow comes into town, and all of a sudden you come alive. Volunteering with Bobbi Jo. Coming out—”
“I hate to disappoint the local rumor mill,” I say, glancing around at the other patrons near the sundries who are probably listening in, “but there isn’t a man, and I volunteered to help Bobbi Jo because for the first time in forever, I have a break in my schedule.”
She eyes me over her bifocals and pushes a gray curl off her forehead. “You mean to tell me there’s nothing there? No ice cream dates after shopping or buying more than usual when grocery shopping?”
“Nothing,” I say with a straight face.
Nothing except a bone-melting kiss three nights ago that I haven’t stopped thinking about.
She slides the books of stamps I’m here for across the counter. “It’s okay,” she whispers and winks. “Your secret’s safe with me, but just know that everyone’s talking about how you bought gifts for his girls the other day—”
“Well, it’s not a crime to buy birthday presents for your neighbor’s daughters.” I finish my payment on the credit card machine.
“True. True. Those two sweethearts deserve a strong woman in their life such as yourself. That’s what everyone is saying.”
Well, everyone has lost their ever-loving—too nice, too nosy, too assuming—minds in this town, that’s for sure.
I’m not strong.
I’m not who you all think I am.
I have blood on my hands that I’ll never be able to wash away.
My smile is anything but genuine as I wait for my receipt and prepare to make my getaway. If she’s glad I’m out and about in the town, then she might want to cool it on the pushy suppositions.
“Thank you. Have a great—”
“Speaking of that,” Millie says when I’ve already taken two steps toward the door, freedom just beyond its hinges. I simply look over my shoulder and raise my eyebrows in question. “It’s going to be such a struggle for Miss Junie, don’t you think?”
My head spins at the whiplash as I try to follow her train of thought. A gift card for Addy to dance lessons. Miss Junie is the owner of the dance studio. Okay . . . what in the hell is she talking about?
Luckily, she likes to hear herself talk so much that she continues on without a response from me. “Forced to make a decision between going to her daughters to help take care of her grandbabies and leaving the place and business she’s created over the last ten years. Just think . . .”
But I don’t hear another word because I notice the screen of my phone.
Missed Call. Uncle Peter.
Twice.
I stare at the screen again and uncertainty washes through me. Missed calls are no big deal. In fact, I purposely miss a lot of calls because it’s so much easier to text.
But not from “Uncle Peter.”
Not unless I’m in danger.
I mutter a distracted thank you and hurry out of the Annex. No message was left—not that I expect there to be—but that makes it even worse. Within seconds, I’m behind the wheel of my car, doors locked, and calling the number back with trembling fingers.
But no one picks up the call.
Not the first time I dial.