by Shandi Boyes
That was his first downfall. I know from experience, only men who have something to hide shield themselves. My security team’s prime focus that night was Dexter. Their attention was only diverted because a facial recognition scan of the area received a positive match to a man the FBI had been searching for the prior two weeks: Richard.
Richard was trying to help Cleo, but more often than not, his assistance had the opposite effect, because instead of looking at the main players, the FBI was constantly chasing a ghost. Their focus was sidetracked from the man they should have been watching.
Dexter is obsessed with Cleo, there is no doubt about that. The only thing we can't work out is why. The FBI profiler said there is usually some deep-seated connection that triggers stalking cases of this caliber. Although it's still early, no credible link has been found as to why Dexter is so obsessed with Cleo.
I get his fascination—any red-blooded male would. Cleo is a beautiful woman with a heart of gold, but what makes a man hurt someone he claims to love? What drives him to such a brink of insanity that he believes it's acceptable to stab a knife into a pregnant woman’s stomach without fear of prosecution? What society do we live in that a story is worth more than a life?
Exhausted from throwing chairs across the room as if they are tennis balls, I crouch down on the floor and suck in ragged breaths. My body is slicked with sweat, successfully concealing the two tears my brimming eyes couldn’t contain. The little flutter my heart makes every time Cleo is in my presence has been doused, leaving a hollow, empty space in its place.
My eyes raise from the ground when a familiar scent lingers in the air. Same brown eyes, same straight nose, and same angelically beautiful face meet my curious glance. Cleo and Lexi are so similar; the only thing that separates them is their scent. Cleo’s smell is refreshing and clean, where Lexi’s is wild and carefree—much like their personalities.
“Jackson said we can go and see Cleo if we want. I think you should go first,” Lexi murmurs, her usually smooth voice choked by tears. “Do you want to see her?”
Not trusting my voice not to break, I nod, then stand. I tug Lexi to my side before placing a quick peck on her hairline. When I first arrived on scene at Cleo's attack, Lexi was standing at the end of the hall with a loaded gun uncontrollably shaking in her hands. Her need to protect her sister and unborn nephew was revealed when I saw how poorly the door she was standing in front of was splintered. Lexi is tiny, a little smaller than Cleo, but the adrenaline surging through her body saw her kicking open a thick wooden door before firing at the man assaulting her sister.
Her first shot missed, but her second hit of Dexter’s shoulder was a through and through. If Shian and I hadn’t arrived when we did, I have no doubt Lexi would have killed Dexter. She had a fire in her eyes that mimicked mine to a T. She wanted him dead as much as I did. The only thing that stopped both of us was when Cleo suddenly gasped in a wheezy breath, exposing she was still alive. That led us to where we are right now—to the hospital where Jackson works.
No matter how much my heart is breaking, I know Jackson did everything in his power to help Cleo. He loves Cleo as much as he loves Lexi, so I was sure he would take care of her when Lexi suggested him as the surgeon to operate on Cleo. He did everything in his power. I know this, and I will continue telling myself this as I face my darkest day.
“I’ll be back soon,” I assure Lexi, knowing how difficult it's for her to let me see Cleo first.
I follow Jackson into the hallway of operating rooms, my heart rate lowering with every stride I take. They have Cleo in a private suite in the west wing. She is lying in a large hospital bed that makes her appear much younger than her twenty-six years. Her hair has been brushed straight, stopping just below the swell of her breasts. She looks peaceful and rested, even with only sleeping a few hours every night the past three weeks. Although Cleo isn’t aware, I was with her every night the past month. Maybe not in the capacity she needed, but in spirit I was with her every night.
“I’ll be in the hall if you need anything,” Jackson advises before exiting Cleo’s room, leaving me alone with her.
I stand at the side of her bed with my hands, which are itching to touch her, balled at my side. She has been through enough today I don't want to risk hurting her anymore.
"I'm so sorry, baby," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the beeping of machines. "I was trying to protect you when I should have been protecting us. All of us." I peer down at her flat stomach, sending a flood of moisture back to my eyes.
Unable to withstand the desire to touch her, I run my index finger down her exposed forearm—the one without tubes and wires. When the hairs on her arms bristle from my touch, my heart stops beating. I lift my eyes to her face, then take a step back, stunned. Cleo’s eyes are open and peering straight at me.
“Hey. How are you?” It's a stupid question to ask, but I’m too shocked to articulate more.
As Cleo’s hand slowly creeps down to her stomach, her eyes silently question the results of her surgery. Cleo was assaulted by Dexter fifteen days ago; since that day, our baby has been hanging on by a thread. The knife wound Cleo sustained during her attack did significant damage to her uterus. Although our baby was unharmed, the wound still threatened its life. Doctors were adamant Cleo would eventually miscarry. Today was our last ditch effort to save our baby. We knew the odds were against us, but both Cleo and I agreed to try was better than sitting by and doing nothing. Unfortunately, our hopes were dashed, leaving us both devastated.
Although the tears streaming down Cleo’s face tells me she read the answer from my eyes, I murmur, “I’m sorry, baby; Jackson did everything he could, but the damage was too much. Our baby didn’t make it.”
Cleo's entire body quakes as fresh tears roll down her cheeks unchecked. Although Jackson was upfront about the chances of our baby surviving, we were both optimistic that life couldn't be so cruel to one person. How wrong were we?
Careful not to agitate her still-healing body, I slide into the bed next to Cleo and gather her in my arms. She nuzzles her head into the groove of my chest, using my shirt to catch her tears. For every tear she sheds, I issue her a silent promise that it will be one of her last. I’ve seen her cry more the past two months than I ever wanted to witness. If I see her cry again in this lifetime, it will be too soon.
After the shudders wracking her tiny frame have eased, I gently pull her back by her shoulders. Balls of moisture are beaded on the top of her extremely thick lashes, and her cheeks are white. I kiss away her tears before scooting down the bed to meet her eye to eye.
“Heaven may have held our baby before us, but it's just keeping him safe until we meet him again.”
Her brief nod sends more tears trickling down her face. I let these stay, knowing they are a part of her grieving process. We all grieve in our own way. Cleo shows her grief on the outside, in the tears she sheds and the pain etched on her beautiful face, where my pain is felt on the inside. No matter which way you show it, it doesn’t make it any less significant. Grief is grief.
I pull Cleo in close to my chest, careful not to cause her any more harm. “Every tragedy has a lesson equal in significance to its heartbreak. We will work through this, and hopefully find the reason behind it in the near future.”
Cleo draws her head off my chest so her eyes can bounce between mine. She looks both confused and horrified. I slant my head to the side, silently reading her soul-baring eyes. I come up stumped as to why she looks so panicked.
“What's it?” I ask, deciding a more direct approach is needed.
Her lips quiver as she begins to speak, “That saying you just said, have you heard that before?”
“Yes,” I reply, smiling softly. My heart thwacks my chest as I prepare to share a snippet of my life I don’t often tell. “My grandmother regularly said it after events in my childhood. Why? Have you heard it before?”
“Yes.” She gently nods. “Dexter said it to me after I told him abo
ut my parents’ accident. He said the exact same quote.”
Her admission mystifies me. Although I’ve heard similar quotes before, I’ve never heard it quoted in the exact manner my grandmother used to say it.
As I sit in silence with Cleo safely wrapped in my arms, my mind drifts back to the first day we met. The beautiful brunette who stole my attention with one glance of her angelic face wasn’t the only person I comforted that day. When I was leaving the hospital, I spotted a man in the parking lot, mumbling and cursing to himself. Although he was angry, his grief was also clearly visible. I shared that quote with him that afternoon, hoping the words I failed to say to Cleo could help another.
That couldn’t have been Dexter—surely.
Cleo has often quoted how intermingled our lives have been the past four years, but it wouldn’t extend this far.
Would it?
30
Two years later….
* * *
Cleo
Resolute silence falls over the large gathering of people surrounding me when I step out of the alcove I’m standing in. Although I’d like to say their gaped-mouth expressions are due to the one-of-a-kind J Holt creation I’m wearing, that isn’t the case. It's the soulful voice of Marcus breaking through the hum of chatter. Our guests sit in silence, marveled by a voice that can make me swoon and scream in ecstasy at the same time. My smile beams as I glance at the two men standing on each side of me, both silenced in awe by Marcus’s acoustic serenade. When he proposed, Marcus said he would sing at our wedding. I just had no clue he would do it in front of a hundred of our closest family and friends.
Abel's eyes twinkle with moisture as he walks me down the white rose petal aisle with another man I've always seen as family. Miguel dips his chin at his wife’s appreciative ogle of his suit-covered body. Although two years ago the world proved how cruel it can be to one person, I'm glad that logic hasn't come true for Miguel and Janice. Her tumor hasn't just stopped growing; it's shrinking in size as well. Doctors still caution Miguel not to get his hopes up, but optimism has always been his strong point.
As we continue slowly pacing down the aisle, my ears drink in every perfect syllable of Marcus's beautiful voice as my eyes absorb our guests. Shian, forever the rebel, is sitting in the very back row. Although her tailored pantsuit gives her a tough exterior, the glistening moisture in her eyes softens her not-to-be-messed-with persona.
I arch a brow at Richard, who is sitting a few spots up from Shian. His cocky attitude is beaming out of him as brightly as ever. Even two bullet wounds within a month couldn't squash his peacock demeanor. Although it took the FBI several months to solve the riddle of a man as psychotic as Dexter, when they did, they also discovered that Richard, although arrogant, isn't a murderer nor a stalker. I don’t even believe he is a Dom who doesn't understand he needs to stop when being given a sub’s safeword.
When Marcus confronted Richard about any prior exchanges with Keira, Richard never denied his interaction with Keira the night of Keira’s alleged assault. He agreed they did act out a scene that night at Chains, but he refuted not stopping when she safeworded. He’s adamant she never spoke a word, much less something as important as a safeword.
Although new to Chains, Richard had been in the BDSM lifestyle three years before his exchange with Keira. He openly expressed an eagerness to gag his subs, but assured Marcus he never muzzled a sub until he had extensive knowledge of her limitations. Trust is a significant factor in the BDSM lifestyle, so casual playmates rarely perform scenes that require an immense amount of trust.
When Richard's account of events is stacked with Keira's desire to be Marcus's sub, doubt of Keira's accusations surfaced several months ago. Although Keira could have been assaulted by another Dom that same night, I highly doubt it. I don’t believe Keira was the victim of wrongdoing at all. I believe her entire ruse was solely devised to get her close to Marcus. She knew how important a safe, sane and consensual environment was for him, so guilt hit him hard when she was allegedly assaulted in his club. It's just lucky Marcus is a shrewd man who saw past the ruse—albeit a little later than I would have liked.
Considering Richard is an invited guest of both Marcus and me, I'd say I'm not the only one who doubts Keira's claims. Marcus must believe Richard is innocent, or he wouldn't be here. Admitting he was wrong is a massive step for a man as dominant as Marcus, but just like the FBI, he is discovering not everything is always as it seems.
After going to such lengths to protect me, the FBI looked further into Richard’s alleged stalking and murder charges. They soon realized all the evidence they had on Richard was planted by Dexter. Even the image of Richard and Stephen together in the elevator was discovered to be fraudulent.
Although Richard went about it in the wrong way, he was trying to help me the morning he arrived at Florida. His impressive hacking skills that he remarkably kept under wraps had him unearthing Dexter's ruse faster than Shian’s skilled team. Unfortunately for all involved, Dexter was always a few steps ahead of everyone.
The quote Marcus said to me the day we lost our baby was the final piece of the puzzle to understanding Dexter’s obsession with me.
Overwhelmed with grief, I never considered the consequences for anyone else involved in my parents' car accident. From the police report, I knew when my dad hit a section of black ice, he veered into oncoming traffic. What I didn't know was that his car struck another, killing a twenty-three-year-old San Francisco native who had recently moved to New York. After further investigation, it was discovered that Shelly Christian had moved to New York to escape the clutches of her manic stalker. She did everything the police had requested—doctoring any contact they had, filing for a restraining order, changing her phone number and address. When nothing worked, Shelly became so desperate, she drove to the other side of the country. Her stalker was just as determined as she was. He never gave up. His name was Dexter Elias.
Dexter—believing he'd lost the love of his life—took vengeance on the person he felt responsible: my dad. The desire to get back what he lost made him move to New York and seek employment at the same company of the person he sought vengeance on: me. His plans to make my life miserable stayed on track the first few months. . . until we met in person. The FBI believes that's when Dexter's revenge shifted to obsession. Shelly and I have a lot of similarities. We were both of Latin heritage, both orphans, and we were both looking for a break in life. Shelly never got hers—I found mine in Marcus.
Some believe if I’d just denied Mr. Carson’s request to go undercover at Chains all our heartache would have been avoided. I don’t believe that's true. If I hadn’t gone to Chains, I would have never met Marcus again. He would have never paid for my sister’s inclusion in the Kalydeco program, and I would have never felt as loved as I do right now having him serenade me in front of our guests.
Marcus’s grandmother’s quote is true: every tragedy has a lesson equal in significance to its heartbreak. I’d give anything to lessen the pain I endured losing my family and our unborn baby, but I’d also give anything to keep Marcus in my life. He is my reward for years of unhappiness, as I am his.
When I reach the end of the aisle, the crowd breaks into rapturous applause, as appreciative of Marcus's singing talent as I was the first time I heard him sing. Miguel and Abel place a kiss on my cheek before handing me to the groom, who is waiting next to his long line of groomsmen. Unsurprisingly, Marcus’s bandmates all have a prime spot at the end of the aisle, just as their wives—my very dear friends—have a place on my side of the church.
There are also two extra inclusions on Marcus’s side that wholeheartedly deserve to be there. The man who saved me when I nearly bled out on the floor of my living room, and soon-to-be husband of my baby sister, surgeon extraordinaire, Jackson Collard. And Brodie, the man who took three bullets for me when Dexter lured him out of the safety of his patrol car by telling him Richard had broken into my home. I knew Brodie’s love of his job was more dee
p-seated than a standard bodyguard. I just had no clue he was an undercover FBI agent. I shouldn’t be surprised—his acting skills are the best I’ve seen.
“Hi,” I greet Marcus when I stop to stand in front of him.
His eyes dance between mine as the back of his fingers run down my cheek before faintly hovering over the scar in my top lip only he can see. After the loss of our baby two years ago, Marcus pledged me a lifetime of happiness. He has strived to achieve that every day since. The rollercoaster ride we endured the first two months of our relationship has been just as thrilling the past two years, but instead of having soaring highs and devastating lows, we are on a ride that never stops gliding.
The past two years have been magical, unlike anything I could have imagined. The death of our unborn child was a horrible experience I’d give anything to change, but our loss also brought us closer together, bonding us in the same way I’m sure our son would have if he had survived our attack. Although our baby never had the chance to take his first breath, he will always be a part of our lives. Marcus and I even have his date of conception and due date tattooed on our wrists.
Sensing where my thoughts have drifted to, Marcus runs his index finger over the Roman numerals etched on my wrist, drawing my eyes to his.
"Hi," he greets me.
He only says one word, but he doesn't need to say more. His eyes express everything his mouth fails to articulate. As Marcus quoted the day we lost our baby, heaven may have held our baby before we did, but they are keeping him safe until we meet again.
Marcus's lips curve when a loud squeal breaks the silence encompassing us. I giggle before following his amused gaze to our six-month-old daughter Tatum, wooing the crowd with her adorable black ringlet curls and unique hazel eyes. Although Tatum’s pregnancy was an unexpected surprise, even more so considering the significant damage Dexter did to my uterus, news of her impending arrival was handled more pleasantly than our unborn baby.