Broken: Boxed Set

by Wilde, Leah

  “Okay,” I choked. “Okay, you bastard. Let go of me. I’ll do it.”

  Chapter 13

  Paris

  Two Weeks Later

  “I can’t do it,” I whispered. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “It’s gonna be okay, Paris,” Katy whispered. She carefully reached up a hand and brushed back a loose strand of hair that had fallen from the complex bun wound around the back of my head. Smoothing the veil into place, she kept repeating that. “It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.”

  I didn’t want to cry. It felt like that was all I’d been doing for the last two weeks, the last few months, even the last few years. Every day seemed worse than the last. But this had to be the bottom. Rock bottom. The tear trickled down my face, carving a tiny little path through my make-up.

  Katy grabbed a tissue and dabbed it away. I didn’t move. I sat still and stared at the ground, not really seeing anything. “Maybe things will work out,” she offered hopefully.

  I looked up at her. “How could things possibly work out?”

  She looked back, her eyes soft and sympathetic, trying to find the right combination of words to soothe my fears and make me feel like maybe, just maybe, the last few good things in my life weren’t totally crumbling to pieces around me. “I don’t know,” she admitted finally. “But they might.”

  I turned my eyes to the bouquet in my hand. It was filled with while lilies. Their petals were smooth and creamy. I extended a finger and stroked one, but as soon as I touched it, the petal detached itself from the flower and fell fluttering to the ground. What a perfect metaphor for the way today was going.

  “He is handsome,” she said. “At least there’s that.”

  It was true; Micah was handsome. He was every bit as rugged and dark as I remembered him being, even though I’d only seen glimpses of him in the two weeks that had gone by since my father had come home and informed me that I would be marrying him as soon as it was possible to arrange the ceremony.

  I didn’t believe him at first. No father could be so casually cruel.

  “Daddy, you’re not serious.”

  No reply. Just that stare.

  “No, Daddy, wait. That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Still nothing.

  “Don’t I have a choice in this? It’s my life you’re ruining!”

  “You made your choice when you let that animal empty his seed into you.”

  What could I possibly say to that? What kind of father said something like that to his only daughter? There was nothing that could have prepared me for that kind of conversation. I was out of my depth by miles.

  I wondered where the father I used to know had gone. Before my mother died, he was the best dad a girl could ask for. I remembered laughing when he sat me in front of him on his motorcycle and let me use two hands to twist the throttle. I remembered all those little memories of him and me, the ones that every daughter shares with her father: painting his nails, forcing him to indulge in my tea time fantasies, him tossing me in the air. Those were the bread and butter.

  We had our own special moments, too. The motorcycle, the day he taught me how to flick out a switchblade knife, the time he kept me out of school for a week for no other reason than to ride down to Mexico and play in the surf. Just the three of us—my father, my mother, and me—all alone on a white sand beach, splashing in the water without a care in the world.

  But a few months before my mother’s murder, something had changed. I remembered the day perfectly.

  I was fifteen years old. It was a half day at school, and I’d finished my homework quickly so I could lay out in the backyard and tan. I was stretched out on a towel, basking in the sun and on the verge of drifting off to sleep, when I heard a huge crash from inside. I sat upright and whipped off my sunglasses. I couldn’t see anything from where I was sitting, so I got up and walked over to the window that looked in on the living room. Pressing my face against it, I saw that the coffee table had been upended. The glass vase that usually sat in the center, the one my mother loved to fill with fresh cut flowers from our garden, was now shattered into a million pieces spread out across the floor. My mother was cowering in one corner as my father loomed over them. Their voices were muffled through the window, and I could only make out a few things they were saying.

  “Tell me who it was!” he roared.

  “Nothing happened, Tristan,” she begged. “Nothing, I swear.”

  “Tell me!”

  “Tristan, you have to believe me.”

  He raised a hand high in the air as if he were about to hit her. I found my voice then and screamed. They looked at me simultaneously, saw me standing on the other side of the glass, tears running down my face. I’d never so much as seen them argue before. My dad was always the picture of calm reserve. Always in control, always smooth. But when he looked at me, I saw his face wrinkled in purple rage. My mother’s eyes were round and teary. She mouthed, “Please go away,” but I couldn’t seem to make my feet work.

  The second Daddy saw me, though, his hand fell to his side and the anger drained from his features. He became the Daddy I knew again, the calm one, the normal one. The one who loved us. Without another word, he bent over and started to pick up the pieces of broken glass.

  I ran to Katy’s. I cried as I explained the scene to her, and she calmed me down until I fell asleep in her bed, curled up with a teddy bear between my arms. She woke me up a little while later and told me my dad was outside.

  I was so tentative walking out front where he was waiting on the back of his bike. I didn’t know what father would be there: the one who had raised me, or the one who’d screamed at my mother and looked at her with so much hate. He smiled sadly as I walked up. “Climb on, Paris. Let’s go home.”

  I was scared to touch him at first. But I climbed on like he asked and we wheeled quietly down the road, back to the house. Once we were inside and I’d showered and changed into pajamas, he tucked me into bed. It had been a long time since he’d done that. I was fifteen, after all. Not his little girl anymore, but almost a woman. In this moment, though, I needed my daddy to comfort me.

  The lights in my bedroom were dark. “I’m sorry that happened today,” he whispered from where he sat next to me. “I lost my temper. I just want you to know that I love you and your mother very much and I’d never do anything to hurt either of you.”

  “It’s okay, Daddy,” I squeaked. I felt too tired to hold onto my fear or my suspicion. Besides, he seemed so normal. Like everything in the world was right again.

  “Goodnight, princess.” He kissed me on the forehead and left the room.

  For the few months between that incident and the day I was pulled out of class by an urgently whispering school secretary, I almost forgot about the fight and the broken vase. But when the secretary put a gentle hand on my lower back and guided me to the front foyer of the school, I saw Daddy standing there and I knew things weren’t right at all. They weren’t fixed. They were more broken than ever.

  “Paris,” Katy whispered. I looked up. I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting without moving while I reminisced. My leg had gone numb, circulation cut off by the edge of the chair I sat in. I stared at Katy dumbly. She jerked her head towards the door.

  My father stood in the doorway, as massive and snowy as ever. He wore a trim navy suit and a white shirt, pressed crisply until it was completely free of wrinkles. “Katy, could you give me a moment with my daughter,” he said. It wasn’t really a question.

  Katy murmured something and quickly left the room through another door. I swallowed. He walked slowly across the room to sit in the chair that Katy had just vacated.

  When his smell hit me—that familiar, fatherly smell, the clean scent of shaving cream and cologne and just a hint of oily steel that set him apart from almost every other man I knew—I felt the tears well up again.

  “I can’t go through with this, Daddy. You can’t make me.”

  It was hard to ex
plain why I was so afraid. Hadn’t my night with Micah been otherworldly? I’d played it back so many times in my head, while falling asleep, or relived it in my dreams. Every time he’d texted or called me, I’d wanted so badly just to pick up the phone and hear his sexy rumble again.

  Maybe it was because I started to associate Micah with my father’s wrath. The night I came home from the party was like the day of the vase all over again, except this time, I was in my mother’s shoes. I’d cowered against a wall. Begged. Sobbed. When he raised his hand above his head, I wanted so desperately for someone, anyone, to intervene.

  But there was no one. Nothing to stop that hand from hurtling down from far above and striking me bluntly across the cheek. Nothing to stem the flow of blood from my split lip. It was just me and him. Not the Daddy I remembered, but the one I feared.

  So yeah, maybe Micah was an angel in my memories. A dark angel with a tongue between my legs and a hand in my hair. But my father had been an angel, too. Until he wasn’t anymore.

  “You’re going to do it, Paris.” His voice was soft and hard at the same time, like velvet wrapped around steel. “I refuse to take care of some bastard grandchild. You made the mistake, and now you will do what it takes to fix it.”

  “Can’t I do something else? Anything?”

  “There is nothing else you can do.”

  “But, Daddy, please.” The tears were thick now.

  He stood up. “It’s almost time. Finish getting ready.”

  Then he left.

  Chapter 14

  Micah

  I felt like a goddamn clown standing on the altar with this monkey suit on. Never in a million years did I imagine that this would be one of the stops in my life. I figured at worst I’d have an outlaw’s wedding, where I took the broad to the tattoo shop and got my name inked on her skin. Not this officiated bullshit. For God’s sake, there was a priest here and everything. This would be as legitimate a thing as it could possibly be, valid in the eyes of the Lord and the benevolent state of New Mexico.

  Bolt and Zeke sat in the front pew, with a few of the other brothers scattered throughout the remaining rows on the left side of the church. Most hadn’t come, which was just fine with me. I wanted to get this shit over and done with, so I could go back to figuring out just how the hell to get out of this mess without risking the lives of my men by tempting Tristan to declare an all-out war.

  The right side of the aisle was barren. Not a single person was here for Paris. I wondered what kept them away, if there was even anyone to come in the first place. Was it shame? Or fear of Tristan? Both options were equally likely.

  I shifted back and forth. I couldn’t find a comfortable position to stand in. The shiny loafers on my feet were stiff, the starched shirt collar scraped at the back of my neck, and no matter where I put my hands, I felt ridiculous.

  Finally, at long last, the organist started playing and the double doors at the far end of the room opened. All eyes shifted towards them to see Paris standing there, arm in arm with her father.

  My jaw dropped. Thoughts disappeared. For one long second, all I could do was gape. She was motherfucking gorgeous. The dress she was wearing was long and flowing, its hem sliding across the floor as she and Tristan began their slow canter towards the front. From the wide skirt, it rose up into a corset that hugged her ribs and accentuated her slim waist. Her bare shoulders shone pale and flawless. I couldn’t make out her face behind the veil, but the blonde tresses of her hair were coiled into an intricate heap on the top of her head.

  It looked like she was glowing. I rubbed a knuckle in my eyes. They had to be deceiving me. No, they weren’t. The light pouring in through the stained glass windows set high in the walls was lighting up her skin and the dress in rich reds and blues. Where it came through clear, it set off an ethereal radiance.

  They paced up the aisle and then, before I could properly process everything that was happening, they were there. Tristan stared at me for a long moment as he released Paris’s arm. She stepped gracefully up onto the altar and pivoted to face me.

  That skin—it was so perfect. Just like Anton’s kid. Just like I’d done in Val’s apartment, I looked down at my own hands. What I saw disgusted me. Scars etched deep into my skin where I’d taken knife blades or smashed my knuckles into another man’s face until my own skin split. Tattoos, crude, dark. Oil stains that no amount of scrubbing could get rid of.

  I couldn’t bring myself to touch her. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I was a filthy, dark bastard. I’d seen and done too much shit. Just being near me would spread it. I couldn’t do that. Not to her. I needed to keep my distance and find the nearest exit as soon as I was able.

  I looked up at Paris, but she refused to meet my gaze. She kept her eyes fixed at the floor between us. I couldn’t read her expression behind the veil. Her features were blurred, impossible to distinguish. What was she thinking? Hell, what was I thinking?

  The priest began to speak, but I barely heard a word. When he told me to repeat after him, I did so numbly, through thick lips that fought against cooperating. I’d never felt so clumsy and hollow before. But at the same time, I’d never wanted a girl so badly. Those shoulders were screaming to be touched. To be claimed. Made mine.

  No. I stamped a mental foot down. I wouldn’t entertain those thoughts for a goddamn second. I’d made my decision and I wasn’t the type of man who went back on a promise to himself. I wasn’t going to lay a finger on this girl. Icy, foreboding distance, that was what the situation called for.

  “Micah, you must say the words,” the priest said. I realized I’d zoned out, too deep in my own thoughts to keep up with the proceedings.

  “Which ones?”

  “I do.”

  The question was, did I? Did I promise to protect this girl, take care of her, be a companion to her? Hell no. I promised to stay the fuck away. That was the nicest thing I could offer. But I’d sworn to Tristan that I would do as he asked. I hated kowtowing to him, but I didn’t have a choice. On with the show.

  “I do,” I said.

  The priest nodded and turned to Paris. “And do you, Paris Jenison, take Micah Youngblood as your lawfully wedded husband?”

  She looked up at me for the first time since the ceremony had begun. I saw that her eyes were filled with tears. “I do.”

  “Then I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

  I stared at her. She looked back at me, and I could see that she was trembling, but she refused to break eye contact. I didn’t know what was in her eyes. Was that hate? Fear? Some combination of the two? Whatever it was, I didn’t think that it boded well for our lovely little matrimony. Tristan was a fool. This couldn’t possibly be the way to handle things.

  My gaze fell to her stomach. Had he told the truth? It occurred to me with a jolt that he could have been lying to me the whole damn time. Maybe this was all some sick ruse and he was using his own daughter to pull the wool over my eyes, to butter me up before roasting me for breakfast. Was that a tiny bump I saw? Or was I imagining it? Shit, I didn’t know the first thing about pregnancy. That shit was voodoo as far as I was concerned.

  Better get learning quickly, said an unwanted voice in the back of my head. If Tristan’s right, you’re gonna be a daddy real soon. Jesus, I felt sick. I was the last person on this planet who should be procreating right now. I was a wild man; I did what I wanted when I wanted and if someone didn’t like how I did things, then I was as liable to punch them in the mouth as anything else. Some parental role model. My kid would be in juvie before he could walk.

  I heard an awkward murmuring and shuffling from the men and realized I’d been standing there for an awfully long time, just staring at Paris and not doing a goddamn thing. I’d have to take Tristan at his word. For the time being at least, this was my reality—life with a wife. An innocent, hot-as-fuck wife, one with a body that I wanted to claim over and over again.

  But I wasn’t going to let that happen. I wouldn’
t let myself do that. Distance, Micah, distance. I reached out a hand and lifted the veil over Paris’s head. She was frozen. I couldn’t read what was going on in her eyes, but they looked stormy as hell. I was sure her thoughts were just as fubar as mine. Hell, the thought of what this all looked like from her perspective was almost amusing to me. I bet I looked like one crazy motherfucker. A grizzled, inked, brooding bastard who could rip her clothes off without even trying. She must be scared for her fucking life.

  I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t find the heart even to appreciate that kind of gallows humors. Poor girl. She hadn’t asked for this. She deserved better than me. Or different from me at the very least.

  I saw her flinch when the back of my knuckles accidentally grazed her face as I tucked the veil behind her head. She was like a china doll, all fragile porcelain. Would she break if I touched her? Would she shatter in my hands?