When he finally looks at me, I wish he hadn’t. I don’t see the man I love in his blue-green eyes. A deadness has crept in that worries me. His mouth forms the words my son, and no sooner than they’re off his lips is his fist flying at me. I brace myself for the hit that doesn’t come, but my relief is short-lived. Wyatt’s giant fist lands in the wall behind my head with a powerful blow that cracks through the paint and plaster. He leans in, pulls his fist out, pulling sheetrock with it, and does it again. I squeeze my eyes shut and count my breaths. One. Two. Three. I know all too well that it doesn’t matter how well you know someone, how much you love them. Violence is a part of this world—something I accepted a damn long time ago. It never gets old, though—the awful pain that comes from a set of knuckles to the face.
A guttural scream erupts from him, just inches from my ear, causing me to flinch and try to blend in with the wall behind me, but it’s no use. His fist is still punishing the wall, and I’m stuck between that and the closed door. My chest hurts. Every breath is more difficult than the last, and a thin sheen of sweat forms on my skin. I know better than to grab him and try to calm him down. With how charged he is, he’ll take a swing without realizing I’m not the wall. If I could take a few hits to get out of the emotional turmoil the situation I’ve created has caused, I would. But all that would get me is a broken nose to go with my broken heart.
A whimper sounds from my lips. I sound so weak and pathetic that it makes me sick. My man is smart, and he pays attention even when you think he isn’t. The whimper and flinching doesn’t get past him. He slides his eyes over my face for a long, confused moment before he’s back to shaking his head and raging about how awful I am.
Still. I’m not that woman who cowers in fear from anything or anyone. I don’t fear men. Not even ones twice my size. And I certainly don’t cry or whimper or let myself bitch out. I’m Forsaken. I’m stronger than that. I take my hits as they come just like any brother does, and when it’s over, I wipe away the blood and move on.
But this isn’t like every other time, is it? This is Wyatt, and he’s unpredictable. Naturally I’m afraid of him and what he’s capable of.
Another lie.
I’m not afraid of him or of being hit. I’m afraid that they represent what I’ve lost. Fourteen years, a couple thousand months, even more weeks, endless days, and countless hours since we’ve been us. And it hurts more than any broken bone ever could.
“Fourteen years!” He’s moved on from processing the news and has careened right into the psychotic anger that I knew would come. “Fourteen fucking years.”
When I don’t respond, he screams again. Lunging for me, he grabs me by my shoulders and holds me in place like I’m a rag doll he’s about to shake. His touch is gentler than I expect. He’s holding back now. I should be grateful that he’s going easy on me, but all I can feel is a deep sorrow that I’ve done this to him. The pain in his eyes, the gut-wrenching sound of his voice—that’s all on me.
Roaring out a frustrated, “Fuck,” he lets me go a little harder than necessary, and I stumble into the door behind me. I open my mouth to tell him to calm down, but I don’t have the chance to. Wyatt stomps to the other side of the room, picks up the lamp on the bedside table, and throws it at the same wall he mutilated with his fist. The lamp cracks and bursts into a thousand pieces just a foot from my head. I squeeze my eyes closed. If I’m not watching, I won’t have to see him destroy his own stuff. I have the space to run now, just in case something flies at me, or he lunges at me again, but I don’t. Instead, I open my eyes and watch the fallout. I let myself watch his pain and frustration. I don’t give myself the luxury of turning away when I catch sight of the wetness in his eyes. He wanted our son so much. Having grown up without a dad and doing a dime in foster care as a small child means my man knows how important family is and what it’s like to be without one. He asked me for a family before we knew I was already carrying our boy. Never once did I doubt that he wanted to be a father. I just wish he’d been ready back then. As much as he wants to be a dad—and I know he does—Zander wants a father.
So I force myself to watch his destruction. The consequences of my choices unfold around me, tearing at what little bit of my heart I’d thought I’d protected a long time ago.
Unsatisfied with a broken lamp, Wyatt moves on to picking up the bedside table like it weighs nothing and throws it at the cement floor. It cracks and splinters to the point of disrepair, but it’s still not enough. His heavy boots stomp the damn thing into the hard floor until all that’s left is an unrecognizable pile of broken wood. And this continues with the few items in the room until the mattress has been pulled off the box spring and is tossed against the wall, and the bed frame is so mangled that it looks like it was the victim of a twister. And still, through it all, I don’t run.
I’m done running and leaving my man behind.