Yeah, I get it.
But each time, I look over my shoulder. I expect to lock eyes with his heated coffee-colored ones. To be paralyzed in fear as he descends upon me like the beast from hell devouring his next dark soul—to make me pay for those in my destructive wake. Brandon’s blood on my hands plagues me worst of all. I helped shape him into the dragon that annihilated the sweet boy from my past. And when I had a hand in slaying him, I became the biggest player in Gabe’s twisted mindfuck game.
A game where there were no winners.
Just death and blood and loss.
I’m simply surviving one day at a time with my broken king at my side. Together we fight the dark demons of our past by focusing on the blonde angels in our future.
A rumble of thunder in the distance makes me jump and I squint to see where the storm is coming from. Dark clouds are forming further on down the coast which means it won’t be long before the bad weather makes it here.
War’s laugh cuts right through my sullen haze and wraps itself around my heart. Whenever I let these guilty thoughts infect me, he always finds a way to push them back out and instead fills me with his love.
It’s enough.
It’s more than enough.
And it works.
I can let down my guard and enjoy the moment. As the wind picks up and blows my hair into my face, I close my eyes and let out a small breath. Life is good. This is love, like he said. Fate may be the evil bitch but it’s Love who’s the stubborn one. Love doesn’t care if you think you’re underserving or unworthy. Love doesn’t give a rat’s ass about your past or who you’ve hurt along the way. Love doesn’t care if you have blood on your hands.
Love is selfish and she always gets what she wants.
And Love is the one who’s teamed up with Fate. They, for some crazy-ass reason, think I deserve this beautiful life.
The war in my heart still wages on.
But this?
My gaze flits from my daughter’s blonde curls to War’s joyous grin as he watches us from beside his father. I rub my belly and smile back at them. This is peace, baby.
If you love someone, set them free.
Whoever made up that crock of shit line should be shot in the head. If you love someone, you should protect them. Watch over them. Make sure they’re happy. You should do whatever it takes to see their breathtaking smile over and over again.
You most certainly don’t set them free.
That would be stupid and unsatisfying.
I know love and it grows each day with every grin on her pretty face—smiles I can’t seem to get enough of.
“A storm’s rolling in,” a sexy, husky voice says behind me, distracting me from my thoughts.
I groan in pleasure when she wraps her arms around my waist and lays her cheek on my bare back. Alejandra is my angel. My miracle. And I owe her my life.
“The beach is still busy,” I muse as my eyes zero in on the little girl playing in the sand farther up the beach. “What do you think? Another thirty minutes and it’ll be pouring down rain?”
She pulls away and then finds my hand. I squeeze her soft palm before bringing it to my lips and pressing a kiss to the back of it. Alejandra has the hands of an angel. My wife is a surgeon and a damn good one at that. She’s always babbling after a few days’ worth of rounds about the many lives she’s either improved or saved. I listen with rapt attention because I owe it to her. Because at one time, she saved me.
Her long, almost black hair whips around her in the wind. I remember the first time I saw her. The day I stumbled onto the deck of her old house farther up the coast, soaking wet, pushed through her back door, and collapsed on her kitchen floor. She’d been shocked at first but when she crouched next to me to take my pulse, I’d stared straight into her honey-colored eyes and said, “I’m not ready to die.”
Her shocked features turned sad for a moment before a look of sheer determination took over. Alejandra saved me that day on her kitchen floor. She performed what I call a miracle and nursed me back to health in her home.
My wife never asked questions.
She never probed into my past.
Alejandra protected me when I was unable to protect myself.
“God sent you to me,” she’d said with utmost certainty.
And I never argued.
Maybe it was divine intervention. God must have been playing in our lives because when I’d seen the wedding photos on her mantle later after I’d healed, I saw her kissing a man with dark, wavy hair and deep brown eyes. I learned it was her late husband. Alejandra was a widow. And her previous husband resembled me. Little did she know, she’d traded in her good guy with one of the bad. But maybe, just maybe, God didn’t care. He knew deep down I deserved a second chance at happiness. I’d always be a bad guy, but bad guys deserve love too, right?
Long before she moved from Venezuela to California, she’d been married to Johan Cruz-Diez. He’d been the love of her life before a sudden and massive heart attack stole him from the stunning doctor.