Savior (The Kingwood Duet #2)

“Yes. Madeline.”

The woman kneels down, and the light finally hits her face. A soft smile appears and she says, “I’ve waited a long time to meet you, Sara Jane.”

An officer walks up behind her, his flashlight reveals her beauty and poise, both remaining, even under pressure, just like her son. He asks, “Is anyone hurt? Do we need to call another ambulance?”

Alexander’s weight leaves mine, his body lying in the grass next to mine. “We’re good. My gun is over there.”

Gun?

Gun.

His mother is talking to the officer I recognize as Brown. Certain words catch my attention—April Dorset. Drugs. Hostage. Dead.

My attention isn’t caught for long. Not when I have Alexander next to me. When I turn to look at him, he’s already staring at me. Our hands find each other’s in between and our fingers fold together. “Tell me you missed me, baby.”

I roll my eyes as that smirk that won me over four plus years ago on a tree-lined street just north of the city wins me over again. He’s lost weight—his face and his body looks thinner, remnants of the time he was away. But he’s still the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. “What’s a queen without her king?”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement, but he answers anyway, “Very, very lonely. I owe you something.”

I cup his cheeks and ask, “What do you owe me, Alexander?”

“My life. Remembering I had you to live for saved me. I always knew you’d be my savior.” He shakes his head and glances down quickly with a hard gulp. When he looks up again, he says, “You’re just so goddamn beautiful. My little Firefly is all grown up.”

I kiss him, smothering his cheeks and lips as he sings my praises in a melodic chant of my name, “Sara Jane, my sweet Firefly.”

“I missed you,” fills a sob as I drop my head down to his shoulder.

“God, I’ve missed you.”

“I love you so much. Thank God, you’re alive.” At the height of a gasp, I look into his eyes. “Don’t you ever leave me again!”

Chuckling, he says, “Never by choice, my love.”

Just as my fingertips leave his stubbly chin he says, “I love you.”

Langley is yelling for Brown to tend the victim. Alexander mumbles, “Fucking victim?”

Afraid of what I’ll find, I sit up hesitantly. I have to know for my own peace of mind she’s gone. April has rolled to her back and Langley kneels beside her on his phone, calling for backup and for paramedics.

“She wanted me dead,” I whisper, the gravity of the situation hitting me all at once.

Brown mutters under his breath while walking down to join his partner, “The rich are really fucked up.”

“Yeah, they are.” With his attention back on me, Alexander asks, “Are you okay, really okay?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

He helps me to my feet and dusts the grass from my robe. “I’m never letting you leave again.”

“Like you said, I don’t have the strength to, and I don’t want to. Hold me, Alexander.”

His arms wrap around me as sirens blare their approach, and paramedics run from the side of the manor toward us.

Langley comes back to Alexander and says, “Your mother . . . she wants to talk to you.” Alexander looks past him to the spot where April lies. Her shirt’s ripped open as the paramedics try to treat her injuries. Langley adds, “She’s not going to make it to the hospital.”

Alexander kisses the top of my head and continues to hold me. “I’m good.”

Respectively, he nods. No love remains between son and birth mother any longer, if it ever did.

Stepping back, I tighten the belt of my robe. “Where’s Jason? I think he’s hurt.”

Confusion overtakes Alexander’s face. “Was he here?”

“He was. He was trying to help me, but then I heard a gunshot. He yelled and then nothing.”

“What do you mean nothing?” He looks around as if he’ll find him. “Do you think he was shot?”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid to tell the police, because I don’t want him in trouble.”

“Stay here.” He walks to his mother just as Brown heads over to April. I can see them whispering and both searching the grounds. Madeline pulls her phone from her pocket and types. They wait until the screen lights up, and they look satisfied. When he returns to me, he says, “He’s fine.”

“You’re sure?”

His arm covers my shoulder. “Positive, babe. C’mon. Let’s get you checked out.” We start walking, but he stops me, and a wide smile graces his fine-featured face. “Look.”

Holding his hand, he captures a firefly. His palm opens and the light goes dim along with his smile. I scoop up the little bug and hold my palm flat in the air. The insect lifts slowly, the light bright as he flies away. I lift up on my toes, and kiss him gently. “Magic.”





36





Sara Jane



Alexander’s lawyer, Quincy, arrives quickly. The lawn is littered with police and paramedics. There’s no saving April Dorset. No one seemed particularly sad, and that makes me sad.

I overhear Brown telling his captain about Langley receiving my message and how when they arrived, he saw April aim her gun at my back, so he shot her first. He. Shot. Her. First.

First. The word sticks with me throughout the night as we are questioned separately and then together. While a paramedic examines me, I realize Alexander must have shot her as well.

He had more than enough reason to shoot her, to even kill her, especially after being held hostage and starved like he was. But I don’t want him to be a killer. I don’t want it to become second nature to him. Maybe I don’t want him to lose what I’ve fought so hard to keep—the good that he can be, the light to his dark.

Although we don’t talk about the day I was shot and how he reacted, we’re both aware of what happened. I would have reacted the same. The rest is muddled in emotions that come into play.

April was a horrible person, but even though she was willing to kill me, I don’t know if she deserved to die. She should have suffered more. Nothing tastes as sweet as revenge.

Love does.

The response comes without my permission.

Love is a feeling, a weakness.

I should know better, but some lessons are harder to learn than others, especially when you’re in love with a Kingwood.

I have post-traumatic stress disorder, so I’m told. I’ve been working through my thoughts, my fears, and my anger in therapy. There’s too much weighing on me day to day to not discuss it with an impartial party.

Lying on the therapist’s couch, I’m exposed in ways that make me feel uncomfortable, like some secrets should stay buried. Maybe that night is one of those. Maybe the depth of my love for Alexander is another.

In a lowered voice, deep with neutrality, my therapist asks, “Is this an addictive relationship? Do you need help, Sara Jane?”

I laugh, sitting up. “Of course it’s addictive. Love is an addiction. Passion is an addiction. Alexander is an addiction.”

“Addiction to anything or anyone is not healthy. I also understand that it’s hard to end a relationship that is bad for you.”

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