Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(71)

“Of course.”

Closing the door after Aspen, I locked the latch and returned to the window, throwing it open and facing my fears head-on.

A pair of familiar knuckles gripped the window sill.

“Porter, what are you doing?” I shrieked, pulling on his forearm, helping him into the room.

He was a mess. His hair, his skin, his clothing—all soaked from the rain. But not only that, something was off. Something was horribly wrong.

“What’s going on?” I asked as he hoisted himself over the window and crouched on my floor, wrapping his arms around his knees. But he didn’t answer, didn’t speak a word. Instead, he pulled me down to the floor, his hands gripping my wrists like a vice.

“Porter, you’re scaring me.”

Still, he said nothing. His body slumped until his head rested in my lap, his arms wrapped around my waist. And then it happened.

Porter Hammond cried.

He hiccupped and he sobbed, soaking my dress with his tears. Again and again, I pleaded with him as I stroked his sopping wet hair.

“Porter, please . . . tell me what happened.”

But he didn’t respond and each time I asked, he simply tightened his grip on my waist. I was terrified for him, for us. I didn’t know how to help him, didn’t know how to care for the man I loved. Not unless he told me what was the matter.

Something had ripped him apart. Something or someone had done this to him.

Finally, he let out an agonized whisper. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“About what?” I asked, trying desperately to understand.

“I shouldn’t have done it.” He choked on his sobs. “I should’ve known better.”

“I don’t understand. What did you do?”

Was he referring to me? His love for me? I was completely bewildered by his behavior. And I had no clue how to support him.

“Never,” he said between sobs, “never again.” His fingers dug into my waist and I flinched at the throbbing pain. But I welcomed the pain. The pain told me that his regrets had nothing to do with me, with us.

No, this was something bigger. Something much bigger.

My mind was a whirlwind. Even though I was confident that his devastation had nothing to do with me, I still had no idea what he was talking about. I’d never seen him like this, so unglued; even when he was coming down from the meth, he wasn’t like this. This was an emotional response, not a physical one.

But from what?

“Porter, I can’t help you unless you talk to me. I can’t make anything better.”

“You can’t,” he whispered. “No one can. It’s done. I’m done.”

“What?”

He sat up with a start, his eyes wild as they bored into mine. He spoke so quickly and urgently, I almost couldn’t process his words.

“You have to leave this place, Brin. You have to go before it destroys you. Stay here any longer and it will. I know it.”

I nodded. “I know.”

If only he knew just how ready I was. But not like this. I couldn’t leave with him like this. This Porter scared me. And as much as I loved him, I couldn’t go anywhere just yet. I could hold him, support him, nurse him, and love him. But I couldn’t leave with him. Not yet.

“You have to let me in.” I stroked his cheek. “You have to tell me what’s going on. Tell me, Porter, please.”

He stared at me. His eyes were thoroughly bloodshot; tears and rain combined to soak his cheeks. He pressed his eyes shut and shook his head violently before sinking back down to rest his head in my lap. Shivers took over his body from the cold wetness that permeated his clothing.

“I need to warm you up,” I whispered before shifting to retrieve the quilt folded at the foot of my bed. Porter moved with me, his arms still wrapped around my waist. Spreading the blanket around him, I rubbed his limbs and back, hoping to spread warmth throughout his body. Within minutes, his shivering had subsided and his breathing had evened out.

He was asleep.

I leaned back against the wall, thinking. I couldn’t wake him, yet I couldn’t leave him alone on the floor of my room. So instead, I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep with Porte’s head in my lap.

When I woke the next morning, the damp blanket was draped on my legs, but the weight of his body was no longer pressed against mine.

Porter was gone.



Chapter 26

Two days. And still no word from Porter.

I’d sent countless text messages with no reply.

Perhaps he was finished with me after all? His words echoed in my head . . . I’m done, I’m finished. Perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to say good-bye?

I had no idea what to think. Leandra and the other sister wives were filling my days with endless chores, making it impossible for me to sneak away. During my time with Jorjina, I was still wary and cautious to sneak away to see him. And if I were being honest with myself, I was too afraid to go regardless of my situation.

Perhaps he was sending a very clear message, one I was unable or unwilling to see. Perhaps he wanted to be left alone . . . for good. That thought made my stomach churn. The idea of life without Porter was unbearable in and of itself. But life stuck in the Cluff household? Stuck, just like Jorjina had predicted? That would be unbearable.

I couldn’t let that happen.