Maybe she would start a new tradition with Mattie.
Smiling to herself, she pulled up in front of her house, starting to think about what pictures she would display at the booth this year. There were none that she wanted to display. They all felt wrong for where she was right now.
She needed new ones. She hadn't painted much in the last weeks, so busy with the fair, but suddenly, she needed to. Desperately. She needed to sit out on her dock, and pour her emotions onto the canvas. Pour her feelings about Harlan into her art.
Grabbing her purse off the front seat, she ran up the steps to her cabin, the image she wanted to paint already forming in her mind. A carousel on a cloudy day. Empty, except for a half of a cupcake on the edge. The shadow of a man, just his shoulders, darkening the flank of a white horse—
A shadow moved on her couch, and she screamed, jumping backward.
As she stumbled back, Harlan sat up on her sofa, his broad shoulders hunched, his face ashen and hollow.
Shock rippled through her and she grabbed the door frame. "Harlan?" she whispered. Was she dreaming? There was no way that Harlan could be sitting on her couch in the middle of the afternoon. "You're alive?"
"Yeah." His voice was low and rough, and it sent chills tumbling through her. Chills of fear. Of relief. Of a thousand different emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted to burst into tears, race across the room, and throw herself into his arms. At the same time, her instincts were shouting at her to back out of the room, away from this man that she had bound herself to in one dangerous night, who had been haunting her since the day he'd walked out.
He lifted his head to look at her, and her heart seemed to shatter at the haunting shadows in his eyes. Suddenly, all the connection they had shared that night came flooding back, and her fear left. This man was not like Preston. He was not like all the others who had betrayed her. She had been right to trust him. "You came back," she whispered, putting her hand over her chest as if she could ease the hammering of her heart. He'd come back to her, just like Clare had predicted.
"Not for long," he said quietly. "Don't worry."
"You're leaving again?" Disappointment flooded her, anguish beyond what was reasonable. "Another mission?" She was going to have to wait for him to die again? Suddenly, it just felt like too much. She couldn’t do that again—
"Not for a while." He shifted, and a flash of pain shot across his face. "I'm sidelined for a bit."
Her heart jumped, and she instinctively reached out to help him. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine. Just my hip. It's better now." He blocked her hand, redirecting it away from him, rejecting her touch.
Embarrassment flooded her, and Emma hugged herself. "Sorry."
"No, it's fine." Something flickered across his face. Not pain. Something else. But then he raised his gaze to hers, gripping her with the intensity of his stare. "Emma, I came back for one reason."
Her mouth went dry, and suddenly she couldn't speak as hope leapt through her. Hope and terror. Was this it? Was this when he said he wanted more than a paper marriage? That he wanted her? "Why?" she whispered. "Why did you come back?"
He met her gaze. "To get a divorce."
* * *
She was more than he'd remembered. More than he'd hoped. More than he could handle.
Harlan hadn't been prepared for the shock of seeing Emma again. He'd convinced himself that his memory of their deep, intense connection had been a fabrication, or at best, an aberration that was a result of a dark night, death, and a whole host of other shit.
He had not been prepared to feel like he'd been sucker-punched in the gut when she'd walked through that door, her hair up in an adorably innocent ponytail, her forehead scrunched in thought, her light blue tank top revealing skin so soft he wanted to trail his lips over it.
The moment he'd seen her, every thought had been swept from his head except for a raw, burning need for her. To touch her. To hold her. To kiss her. To claim her as his wife. He'd gone utterly still, like a predator, every fiber of his being screaming for her. It had taken every last ounce of willpower to speak the words he'd come there to say.
At his announcement, Emma's eyes widened in shock. The pain that flashed over her face was so brutal that he felt as if she'd jammed a knife into his chest. "What? You want a divorce?"
He had to close his eyes for a split second to cut himself off from the betrayal in her eyes. Why the hell was she looking at him like that? He was freeing her, not betraying her. "Yeah," he said, opening his eyes again, unable to cut himself off from the sight of her.
She had retreated to the far side of the room now, her arms folded over her chest, and her chin raised as she stood beside the picture window that looked out onto the lake. Gone was the look of vulnerability in her eyes, the stark anguish on her face. She was cool and collected, and he fucking hated seeing her like that. He liked her soft and vulnerable. He liked her raw and real, not throwing up shields against him.
"Why?" she asked, her voice trembling ever so slightly, her voice barely audible over the roar of a Jet Ski passing by the cottage.
Damned if he didn't like the shakiness of her voice. He didn't want her to let him go. He didn't want her to not care. Which made him an even bigger shit than he already knew he was. With a sigh, he ran his hand through his hair, trying to remember the arguments he'd been primed to make. "Because it was crap." Poetic? Not so much. He didn't know how to say it nicely, because he could barely grit out the words he didn't mean. Every thought he had of Emma and their night together was magical. Connection. A life worth living for. But he couldn’t say that. He couldn't trap her like that. He had to set her free. He leveraged himself to his feet, but he had to grab the edge of the couch when his hip tried to buckle.
"Crap?" she echoed in disbelief. "Our marriage? Or the lovemaking? Or the promises? What was 'crap' exactly, Harlan, because I actually meant everything I said to you, including my promise to be married to you until death do us part."
He swore under his breath, searching for words. He owed her. This woman who had married him and agreed to cry for him when he died. She deserved the truth, not superficial sentiments that didn't matter. He was too old and too damn tired for superficiality anyway. "I was lying there in the rain," he said. "I thought I was going to die. I thought it was over." He grimaced, trying to articulate shit he had no words for.
"I wrote you emails," she said softly. "Every day."
He blinked, distracted by her words. "What?"
"Emails. To the address you left on my phone. To the email address Astrid had. I started writing them after that woman called and said you were missing. I didn't forget you. You weren't alone. Did you see them?"
"No, I didn't. But…thank you for that." Weirdly, his throat tightened and he had to look away. He'd shut down that email address after he'd sent the information to himself, but it didn't matter. The thought that she'd actually been sending him emails while he'd been lying on that cliff. That she'd been thinking of him? It was too much to deal with. Almost overwhelming. She'd really been thinking of him?
He flexed his jaw, and looked back at her. She looked small again, vulnerable, not tough like the façade she'd put on a few minutes ago. "I'm a stranger to you, Emma, and I asked you to cry for me. What kind of bastard does that?"
She sighed, and her face softened. "The kind who doesn't want to die alone."
Shit. How was she not judging him for what he'd done? "No, Em." He walked over to her, needing her to understand. "The kind of supreme bastard who thinks it's okay to manipulate others just so he can get off."
Her eyes widened, and she started to laugh, a tension-relieving kind of laughter. "I had no idea you thought so highly of yourself, Harlan."
He was startled by her laughter. He didn't understand it. There was no humor in his life. In his choices. In their choices. "I need to free you," he said softly, barely resisting the urge to grasp one of the stray locks dangling around her face and slide it through
his hand. He knew how soft her hair was, and he still wanted it as badly as he ever had. "I'm not a man that anyone should marry, especially you."
She cocked her head, and he had a sense that she was seeing right into his soul, stripping all his secrets bare and raw. It made him uncomfortable, but at the same time, it felt good. He liked it. He liked knowing that she wanted to learn the things about him that he didn't show to anyone. "Why me, especially?" she asked.
"Because you're specia—" He suddenly noticed a small scar on the corner of her mouth, and he tensed as he touched it with his fingers. "Did your ex do that to you?"
Emma brushed her finger over it. "Yes."
He ground his jaw and dropped his hand. Did he need more evidence that this life wasn't for him? That he had no business forcing Emma into his world? "I'm going to talk to Ned and see what we need to do—"
Emma grabbed his hand as he turned away. Electricity leapt through him, and he stopped, unable to pull himself out of her grasp. But he didn't look at her. "I need to go," he said softly. "If I don't go now, I'm not going to walk away ever, but I have to."
"Why?" It was a whisper, as if she didn't even want to say it, as if she were afraid to hear the answer.
He looked back at her, but didn't turn away from the door. He couldn't take his gaze off the scar on her lip. "Your ex hit you."
She frowned, her brow furrowing. "And that makes me tainted?" She released his hand, retreating. "Sorry about that," she bit out. "I didn't mean to bring you down."
"Tainted? Shit no, you're not the one who's tainted. You're…you're like…" Hell, he had no words, no poetry to describe what she brought into his life. He turned back to her, unable to stay away, knowing he had to say something to make them both realize that it had to stop between them, but somehow he had to do it without hurting her, without making her think that she was anything but the most beautiful treasure he could ever be offered. "I told you my father got injured and collapsed in the woods, and he lay out there until he died, right? Then rotted for a few more months after that?"
She grimaced, nodding slightly. "Yes, but—"
"I didn't tell you why he collapsed or how he got injured." Harlan ground his jaw, refusing to let his emotions revisit the memories of that night. He kept his mind rigidly focused, struggling not to relive that moment that he never allowed himself to think about.
She cocked her head, studying him. "What happened?"
He met her gaze and let her see the truth in his eyes. "I tried to kill him with a chair," he said neutrally. "I didn't completely succeed and he got away, only to die alone in the woods from the wounds I had inflicted upon him. I was fifteen."
Emma's mouth dropped open. "What?"
"My father was a bastard, Emma. He beat my stepmother. He did the same to me." He grimaced and told her the whole truth, needing her to understand who he was. "And I'm the same way. I'm his son in all ways. Getting married to you and then leaving was the only safe way for me to do it. I thought it would work." He shook his head, brushing his fingers over her cheek, needing to touch her, to feel the softness of her skin one last time. "But it was a lie," he said quietly. "A complete lie. I'm not that guy, and I can't do that. I can't be married to you and leave you alone. I dream about you every single night. I dream about our night together, and I wake up feeling your skin against mine, hearing your laughter, and craving you so much that it actually fucking hurts." He dropped his hand from her face. "As long as you're mine, it's not going to stop, and I'm not strong enough to fight it off forever. I need to go find Ned and free you, before I become the husband and father my old man was."
Her mouth was still open in wordless shock, and he didn't give her a chance to respond. He simply turned and walked out, almost hoping she would call him back and announce that he was wrong, that there was a chance for a guy like him...but she didn't.
Of course she didn't. Emma had seen darkness before, and she was too smart to go back there again.
Which was a relief.
She was not going to allow him to destroy one more life.
Victory.
A victory that felt like shit.
* * *
As Harlan walked out of her cabin, Emma's heart felt like it was being crushed. An icy cold terror crept down her arms like a slow, insidious poison. Fear so deep it seemed to freeze her very soul pulsed through her. Not just of Harlan, but of the fact that she hadn't seen that violent, dangerous side of him. Not even a tiny bit. She'd misjudged him, just like she'd misjudged Preston. Wrong again. Wrong again. So very, very wrong.
The screen door slammed shut and she slid down the wall, her entire body starting to tremble. Her mouth began to throb, the old wound from where Preston had struck her burning as if he'd just done it. The same fear rippled over her, that terror she'd felt as she'd scrambled back from him, not understanding who this man was coming at her, like she was in some alternate world. She'd never thought of Preston as a large man, not until he'd shoved her against the bookshelf with such force, not until the back of his hand had opened her lip, not until she'd been in that corner, with nowhere to go, with nowhere to hide as he approached her with such menace.
But Harlan was big. He was thick with corded muscles and broad shoulders. His whole being was physical, exuding such tremendous strength. It was his power that had attracted her to him, the sense of safety when she was with him. He was stronger than all the bad stuff in life. He made her feel like there was a great protective shield around her, like she could actually breathe deeply when he was holding her.
She didn't understand how that same strength that had drawn her to him, was actually something he would use against her? He used it to shield her from nightmares. He used it to rescue people who were kidnapped. He used it to do good things.
But what did he do to actually free those victims? She knew without words the world he inhabited. Of course he did violent, deadly things. No man could perform the job he did and be afraid to do what was necessary. She recalled too vividly his statement that he wanted to kill Preston. He wasn't lying about his violent side. It had been there all along. She'd just chosen not to see it. "Oh, God." She pressed her palms to her head. What had she done? Who had she married? She'd seen the absolute conviction in Harlan's eyes that he spoke the truth, that he was the man his father had been.
He'd married her so he wouldn't repeat his father's life by dying alone. But really, was a lonely death the part of his father he wanted to leave behind, or was it the other part? The part that had beaten his son and his wife? Was his father's violence actually the legacy that trapped him, not dying alone? "I can't do this," she whispered. "I just can't." But even as she said the words, cutting herself off from him, another part of her, a deeper part, cried for the loss of the man she'd believed he was.
Chapter 9
Harlan braced his palms on the warm hood of Emma's car, head down, fighting for control. He could still see the stark horror on Emma's face when he'd told her who he really was.
She'd trusted him, and he'd betrayed her. He could see it in every emotion on her face. The woman who had barely clawed her way back to life after a marriage from hell had put herself out there for him, believing him to be the good guy, and he'd ripped everything out from under her.
He'd broken his promise by coming back.
He'd taken the marriage away from her by declaring he was getting a divorce.
He'd cast filth on her dreams that she'd married a decent guy, telling her he was worse than the man who had nearly destroyed her. He'd made her realize that she'd married the very thing she feared most.
Why hadn't he been honest on the boat that night? Why hadn't he told her what he was really like? Why had he pretended that a midnight wedding and a quick departure would actually be a good idea?
Digging his fingers into the hood of her car, he raised his head and looked back at the little cabin. She hadn't come after him. Of course she hadn't. He'd betrayed her. How many ways would he be like his father? More and m
ore—
The sound of tires crunching on the dirt road caught his attention, and he swung around, instantly alert. Who was coming back into her private area? As he waited for the approaching car to emerge from the trees, he became grimly aware of how isolated her cabin was. What if her ex decided to come after her? Who would hear her cry for help? Who would come to her aid? Even as he thought it, a ski boat cruised by. On board were seven shirtless guys, shouting too loudly, with a few beer cans visible in their hands.
Harlan went still, watching them, his gut going cold. What if Emma was out on her dock one evening when they went by? There was nothing out here except for woods and lakefront. The lake was host to a bunch of rowdy summer residents, including testosterone junkies who might down a few too many beers and decide to cause trouble for a single woman living by herself.
A cold sweat broke out on his arms, and he whipped around as an antique Volkswagen lumbered into sight and parked in front of Emma's house. Harlan instinctively moved between the car and her front door as the driver's side opened and a young woman emerged. Maybe in her mid-twenties, she was wearing a loose white blouse and a pair of jeans. Her hair was tucked up in a loose bun. She looked casual, but there was an air to her that made Harlan think that a bullet would bounce right off her chest if someone tried to take her down. "Can I help you?" he said smoothly, intercepting her as she stepped out of the car.
She eyed him suspiciously. "You must be Harlan Shea."
He almost blinked in surprise. How in the hell did she know who he was? "I am," he said, not giving away anything. "And you are?"
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