by Kati Wilde
Relief passes over his face but he doesn’t try to reach for me. Instead he stares at me, his chest heaving. My posture must tell him that despite my belief, I’m still on the edge of breaking.
Utter desolation flattens his voice. “But I still made you feel like shit.”
“You didn’t. You didn’t do anything wrong.” And that’s why I’m on the verge of breaking. Cole doesn’t deserve any of this. Yet because of me... “He’ll try to ruin you.”
“He’ll try, but he won’t.” Conviction rings through that reply. “I told the chief a month ago that I was with you. He’ll have my back.”
“You think my father will stop at Chief Jackson if he doesn’t get his way? That’s just where he’ll start.”
Jaw set, Cole shakes his head. “He can’t touch me.”
“You really think that’s true?”
He knows it isn’t. Because he doesn’t try to keep telling me it is. Instead he says, “I’ll weather it.”
Tears burn my eyes. He’ll weather it. A hurricane created by my father, simply because I refused to fall in line. A hurricane that will threaten everything Cole has fought for his entire life.
“Angel.” It’s soft, despite the gravel in his voice. Slowly he approaches me, as if I’m a wounded animal he fears will flee. And he’s not all wrong. “When Bennet showed up that day, told me he had a daughter he wanted me to watch, I thought to myself that girl could never be worth the trouble that having her would bring down on me. But you are, Mia. You’re worth all the trouble in the world.”
“I don’t want to be trouble.” I can barely speak past the constriction in my throat. “And I know how hard you’ve worked to get where you are. I can’t bear the thought of him taking it from you.”
“Maybe he won’t.” Gently his warm palms cup my face. “He might find that the chief and everyone in City Hall aren’t so willing to kiss his ass if he tries to burn mine. But even if they did, I’d fight back. Do I seem like the type to give up?”
“No.” I know he’s not. He’ll go down fighting. But it’s the thought of him going down at all that is killing me. My breath hitches, and the swelling burn of emotion in my chest rises up, clogging my throat. “But it’s because of me. I can’t bear that he’s hurting you because of me.”
“I don’t care,” Cole says fiercely. “I’ll take anything for you.”
“But I care. Because you shouldn’t have to take anything! Not for me. Not because of him.” And I’m so close to breaking down and crying hysterically. Right in front of him, and he’d not only have to worry about his own future but worry about me, too. Frantically I shake my head, pulling away from the comfort of his hands. “I can’t do this right now. I need to think.”
“About what?” His expression hardens as his gaze sweeps my face. “Are you going to give up? Run back to your mansion and make a deal to save me?”
“I don’t know!” I don’t want to. But I would. I would. “I hadn’t even thought of it yet!”
Lips drawn back over clenched teeth, he orders savagely, “Don’t you fucking dare save me like that, Mia.”
My tears spill over. “Then give me time to think!”
“Alone?” he challenges, and before I can draw a breath, all of the savagery leaves his expression and he says bleakly, “All right, angel. I’ll give you the space you need. Just tell me you’re not giving up on us.”
“I’m…not…giving up.” Chest hitching painfully, I try to hold it together. Just a second longer. “I’m not.”
“I’ll take that.” Though he sounds as if my reply offers only the barest thread of hope. “And I’ll hold you to it. Because I intend to make it as hard for you to let me go as I can, Mia. And maybe one of these days, your first instinct when you’re scared and hurting won’t be to slam the door in my face.”
Is that what he thinks I’m doing? Shattered by the thought, I suck in a ragged breath. “I’m not. I’m just—”
“Isolating yourself so you can’t be hurt or hurt anyone else. But I’m not dead, angel. And nothing hurts more than being shut out.” His voice is gruff but his hands are gentle when he draws me close and presses a warm kiss to my tearstained cheek before turning toward the door. “But I understand it’s what you need to do. So I’m here if you need me. And I’m here if you don’t.”
Cole’s generosity and kindness in the face of his own pain utterly destroys me. The moment the door latches shut behind him, I crumple to the floor, tears streaming down my face, wracked by sobs so deep it feels as if they’re tearing me apart. All I wanted was a future that was different from everything I’d known. That possibility always lay ahead of me, the knowledge that if I just waited a little longer, I’d be free. But I didn’t wait. Instead Lowery’s bullet snapped all those chains. I broke away, tried to leave them behind—and because of that, now Cole’s future is being threatened, too. And those chains are closing around me again. In a few years, I’ll be free…but by then it might all be too late.
Because I want to break patterns, but my parents never will. And even if I went back home tonight on the condition that they let Cole alone, they’d still try to destroy him. Because they’d know I would eventually go back to him. And because hurting him will hurt me.
And I’ll never let my parents hurt him.
Never.
That resolution echoes through me as my sobs slowly subside. Spent, I lay on the floor, feeling completely hollow, as if everything inside me has been scraped out.
Now I have to choose what to put back in.
I know what I want. It’s all around me right now. Twinkling lights, the scent of pine, tinsel. Not Christmas—that will be over soon enough—but everything I felt while Cole and I put all of these decorations up. I will have a future that isn’t dictated by my parents. It will be different from what I’ve known. I’ll break that pattern.
But I have to break a few more. Because I’ve pushed back quietly against my parents for years now, but it’s always been by simply ignoring them. By not obeying them. Or by doing what I did when I moved into this apartment—ran away from them, avoiding any confrontation. Telling myself that there was no rush. That I would finally break those chains soon enough.
And in some parts of my life, there is no rush. Not in my career. And with Cole…I want everything with him, but some parts of that will come quickly and some we’ll have to let grow.
But one thing that absolutely can’t wait? Confronting this threat my father has made.
There might be a solution to it. It would require me to break another pattern—my resolution to never be like my parents. To never take advantage of my name. To never use it like a weapon. Maybe it’s time, though. Because I’ve been waiting so long for armor to form around my heart, but it’s never been thick enough to protect me—and it won’t protect Cole. So maybe it’s time to stop hiding behind a flimsy shield and start swinging a sword.
Less like a guardian angel. More like an avenging one.
But first, there’s a different pattern that needs breaking. The one I didn’t even realize was there.
Despite all of the resolutions that give me direction and purpose, I still feel hollow as I silently make my way across the hall—and utterly wrung out. My eyes are swollen from crying, my nose won’t stop dripping, but I don’t care if I’m a horrible mess. And Cole looks as wrecked as I feel. When he opens the door, his eyes are haunted, his face drawn and pale, as if he’d spent this time suffering through hell—and his angel had abandoned him.
Never again. I can’t promise heaven. But I won’t ever put him through this again.
“I need you to hold me tonight,” I tell him hoarsely.
He doesn’t hesitate, sweeping me up to cradle me against his chest before carrying me inside. Instantly everything within me fills up, so full, all of the hollow places disappearing as my entire future slides into place. With a shuddering sigh, I bury my face in the strong warmth of his neck. “I’m not giving up. But I don’t know if I can give much e
lse until tomorrow.”
In a thick voice, he says, “I don’t need anything else, Mia.”
Maybe not. But I’ll still give him everything I can.
13
Cole
On Christmas morning, I don’t greet the day with my face between Mia’s legs. There’s no Mia to greet at all. Just a handwritten note beside my pillow.
Merry Christmas!
Should be back around noon.
xoxoxo
The Avenging Angel
P.S. There are cranberry-orange muffins over at my place. My extra key is on the counter.
I get the feeling she left that message so I wouldn’t worry. But I don’t know what the hell it means. Does that mean she’s heading out to confront her father? Why wouldn’t she take me with her? I’d have held her through it if she needed me to. Or beat the shit out of him if necessary. And the ‘avenging’ part makes me real fucking uneasy. Maybe it’s the job putting the worry into my head, but if Chief Jackson called me right now to say that John Bennet had just been found dead with a knife in his chest, I wouldn’t be wholly surprised.
But if Mia has gone out to murder her father, she’s probably already had time to do it. I don’t have a clue when she left. Last night, I carried her to my bed and she was out within minutes, as if the emotional turmoil had sucked her dry. I was feeling pretty fucking drained myself. But I held her all night with my head racing and my chest aching, and it was around five in the morning before I finally slept.
Which must be why I didn’t wake up when she slipped out of bed. That could have been any time between five and eleven, which was when I began stirring. And the only good thing about sleeping that late is it gives me less time to go out of my goddamn mind.
I send her a text. The message never gets marked ‘delivered.’ As if her battery is dead again. Or she’s turned off her phone. Maybe because she doesn’t want anyone tracking her device.
If she killed her dad…fuck, I’ll help her cover it up. I’ll say I was screwing her all morning. And spent the entire night filling her up with my cum. Though I probably won’t need to say anything. After a jury hears what sort of man John Bennet is, she’ll be acquitted. God knows real murderers have been let go for flimsier reasons. And with the kind of lawyer she could afford, shit. Opinion will spin so far in her direction that the city will be throwing her a parade afterward.
And maybe if I tell Mia the kind of bullshit that goes on in my head when I don’t know where she is, she’ll never forget to charge her phone again. But that’s all part of hooking up with a cop.
So is this. After a shower, I drag on a T-shirt and jeans, then grab her key off the counter. I let myself into her apartment, find the muffins—and ‘just science’ my ass, this woman can bake—and wander my way into her bedroom. The leggings and sweatshirt she was wearing are in her hamper. So is a damp towel, but the tile in the shower is already completely dry. So she changed and bathed pretty damn early. Her long winter coat is gone—the classy trench, not the puffy one—and I’m pretty damn sure her tall black boots are gone, too.
So she dressed up before heading out real early on Christmas morning. Aside from the Bennet mansion, there’s not many places I can imagine her going to. At least no knives are missing from the block in her kitchen. Because she obviously had a purpose. But stabbing her dad wasn’t it.
I’m working on my third muffin and feeling a bit more at ease when I head back to my apartment at eleven forty-five. Around noon could be any time now. And it is.
My phone buzzes when I’m still in the hallway. A text from Mia.
Sorry! I turned off my phone. I’m almost there.
Thank fucking Christ. But she turned off her phone? Do you need an alibi?
How about Paul Espinoza?
The mayor? That could only be about one thing: John Bennet’s promise to ruin me.
How’d that go?
Easier to explain when I get there.
Which looks like it might be right about now. The elevator dings and opens, then for a moment I think my eyes are completely fucked, like maybe the bullet that grazed my skull finally started to mess up some shit in my brain. Then I realize who I’m seeing.
Your mom’s here.
Oh god. Run for your life. And don’t listen to anything she says.
Yeah, I’m not running. I tuck the phone into my back pocket.
Patricia Bennet is a few inches shorter and a bit thinner than Mia, but there’s no doubt where her daughter got her looks. God knows where Mia got her warmth, though. Her mother smiles when she sees me, a curve of lips so similar to Mia’s, but the pale blue of her eyes remains sheer ice. Her black hair is smoothed back into an elegant roll, and she wears a long coat in winter cream. Her black heels don’t show off her legs as much as they just scream class and ‘no one’s good enough to touch this shit.’ She carries a black leather handbag in a firm grip, and her hands are covered in kidskin gloves the same creamy color as her coat.
Her piercing gaze sizes me up as she comes down the hall, and there’s a moment—probably around the time when she realizes that I really am this damn big—when there’s the same flicker of unease in her eyes that I’ve seen flicker in other women’s. It’s the flicker that makes them veer over to the edge of the sidewalk, carrying their keys with the pointed ends sticking out between their fingers. A flicker that says my size isn’t a sexy turn-on, like it is for Mia. It’s just intimidating in a certain, terrifying way.
And I’ll use my size to deliberately intimidate a lot of people. But women? Especially if I’ve seen that flicker? Fuck no.
Not that Patricia veers anywhere. Instead her chin comes up a bit—and that smile never falters. Her voice is smooth as glass, without Mia’s rusty edge. “You must be Detective Matthews!”
“That’s me.” I gesture to Mia’s door. “I’m afraid your daughter isn’t home.”
And even though I have the key, there’s no damn way I’m letting her in there to lie in wait.
“That’s all right.” She reaches out a gloved hand. “It is you who I’ve come to see, detective. I’ve heard about you from my husband, of course.”
I grasp her surprisingly warm hand—there’s life beneath those soft kidskin gloves—and say dryly, “So it’s your turn to tag-team me, then?”
She probably doesn’t know a thing about wrestling but has no trouble parsing my meaning. Chuckling softly, she shakes her head, and reaches into her handbag for a square of thick white cardstock. “I’m afraid that my reaction to the news of our daughter’s interest in you wasn’t exactly the same as his. Instead I have come to extend a personal invitation to the New Years’ gala.”
“That’s kind of you. But Mia already invited me.” I open the door to my apartment. “You’re welcome to wait for her here.”
“Thank you, detective.” She sweeps past me on a subtle wave of perfume, her heels tapping on the hardwood floor. “As for the invitation, I would like to make it an official one. In hindsight, I can’t believe it was overlooked, regardless of your relationship with Mia. Our little city might have been the site of yet another mass shooting, its name synonymous with tragedy. You prevented that.”
“Just doing my job, ma’am.” I take a few steps into my living room and stand with my hands tucked into my jeans’ pockets—and where I’m still easily visible from the hallway. I leave my apartment door wide open, because there’s no fucking way I’ll let this visit turn into a smear on my name.
Though that’s probably not Patricia Bennet’s style. A false accusation would be more up her husband’s alley, I bet. Because Mia said her mother doesn’t like to be humiliated, and suggesting a big brute like me touched her would likely qualify as humiliating.
“Well, the foundation would like to officially recognize you for doing that job.” In the middle of the living room, Patricia swings around to face me again, her gaze assessing as it runs down my length. “Have you had the opportunity to be fitted for a proper suit or tuxedo? A man of your
size, I imagine it’s not easy to find one that you can borrow.”
Was that a jab at my bank account? That’s amateur hour. “I’ll manage.”
I’ve already managed. Back when Huertas got married and I stood up as his best man, I had a formal suit made then. That was eight years ago but my size is pretty much the same. So after Mia invited me to this thing, I dug it out of the closet and sent it to the cleaners.
Apparently intending to stay for a few minutes, she begins pulling off her gloves, tugging at the tip of each finger to loosen them from the close-fitting leather. The only gleam of color I’ve seen so far glitters in the huge sapphire gracing the middle finger of her right hand, and the matching stones dangling from her ears.
“I understand you are still on restricted duty, detective?” Her gaze sweeps the apartment the same way it swept over me—assessing it all without any visible reaction yet still giving off an air of faint distaste.
So it’s not a mansion. But it’s not a leaking shack. And it’s clean. Considering what I came from, there’s no chance I’ll ever feel ashamed of my home now. “I am.”
“You seemed to have healed well thus far.” She’s wearing a sympathetic expression when her gaze returns to me. “But it must be worrisome, not knowing your future, or being certain you will ever fully recover.”
Is she talking about my health or her husband’s threats? Either way, it’s still nothing. “I know my future pretty well.”
And that future is coming up right behind me.
“Mother?”
Flushed and panting a little, as if she ran up the three flights of stairs and down the hall, Mia comes straight in, her pale eyes running over me as if she’s looking for signs of blood. And she’s so damn beautiful, her hair in a thick wave down her back, that coat as sexy as fuck. When she sees that I’m unscathed, she shakes her head and turns toward her mother—and walks past her toward the kitchen, where she sets a bag full of takeout boxes on the counter.