Retrieving a bottle from Dom’s trunk, sweat pouring from my forehead after my midnight run, I forgo the house, walking around to the back porch to collapse in the lounger, my heart cracking from the memory I re-live daily.
Staring at the bottle, I know cracking it open won’t erase a single word we exchanged that night or make the heartache any less intense.
It’s the definition of insanity.
Even after an exhausting day of fighting and make-up fucking with Cecelia, even with the knowledge I’ve reclaimed her heart, even with the closeness between us I’ve longed for since returning has sealed some of the hole that’s been there over half a decade—I can’t shake this.
And I knew it would happen.
I knew that no matter how happy I got here with her, that this haunt wasn’t leaving me. The contentment ripped from me because of my long, cruel memory. Thoughts of our fallout the night before Dom died plagued me nonstop tonight, making sleep impossible. I stared up at the ceiling for hours after Cecelia drifted off, sprawled naked over my chest, her thigh hooked around my torso while she dreamed. I let her sleep, no matter how badly I needed the distraction of her body to try and ward the ache away. But it’s not on her to wrestle my demons.
This battle I fight daily, and I’ve never won once.
But I’m still weak with need to go to her now. To rouse her, fuck her, and lose myself in her, basking in the safety of her love, her arms, my sanctuary. I stare at the blue bottle of Bombay, knowing it’s a shitty fucking alternative.
Tonight, all I feel is restless.
Maybe it’s because of the battle I lost today, but even in losing that, I’m a little relieved. I never wanted to leave her, but I didn’t have any other game plan.
Not even the fresh blueprint I managed to conjure up after I lay in bed with her hours later, before shooting off a text to Tyler, brings me any peace.
The night air begins to cool the sweat on my skin and my breaths even just as the back door bursts open and Beau dashes out, licking my knee and darting off a second before Cecelia’s red-rimmed eyes find mine. It’s then I realize just how badly I fucked up.
“I didn’t leave a note.”
A tear slips down her cheek as a sob bursts from her lips, and the sight of it kills me. Reaching out, I grip her hand and pull her into my lap, the relief in her so apparent, it only breaks my heart further.
I press my face into her neck, inhaling her scent. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” For the first time since I got here, she needs consoling due to fear—fear I instilled in her, and it’s on me.
I cup her face as she shakes in my hold, more tears gliding down her cheeks. Stilling her quivering lips with the long press of my own, I use my thumb to stroke away her tears. As strong as she’s become, I managed to scare her in an unforgivable way by being too immersed in my own shit.
I trace the tiny divot in her chin with my thumb. “I’ve lied and broken promises to you one too many fucking times for you to believe me. But I wish you would believe I could never do that to you again. That’s why you won, Trésor. I surrender. My white flag is yours.”
“I f-f-fucking…h-h-ate you, King,” she says through another hitched breath.
“You should. I’m sorry, Trésor. I’m not leaving. This I promise you above all others.”
She blows out an exasperated breath, and I wait until her body relaxes against mine. No words I can say right now are good enough. Over time, I’ll prove myself. I press my face into the side of her neck and inhale. “I’m sorry I can’t stop this. This is my shit. I will get better for you.”
Drinking in her juniper scent, I eye the bottle I discarded on the table. Maybe she’s all I need. She seems to read my thoughts.