Slay (Storm MC 4)

“I’ll always worry about you.”

I reached my hand out to lightly trace his cheek. “You’re an amazing man, Donovan Brookes,” I murmured.

He stared at me. “I’m amazed you’re still here. I thought you’d be long gone.”

I frowned. “What?”

He moved so he was propped up on the bed, looking down at me. “I killed my father today. It wasn’t pretty, and yet, here you are, still watching over me. Still making sure I’m okay. That’s not something I’d expect from any woman.”

“I’m not just any woman, Donovan. I’m your woman, and I don’t desert the ones I care about in their hour of need.”

His eyes searched mine, and then he muttered, “Fuck, I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

I held his face. “You’re a good man. Don’t ever underestimate that or doubt it, okay?”

He didn’t answer me, so I reiterated it. “Okay?”

“Okay, sweetheart,” he said softly.

“Good. Now, come back here and let me hold you. You need more sleep,” I said, bossing him around. And, for once, he let me.

My strong man needed me. He needed to know he was accepted for who he was, no matter what he did. And I was determined to give him that.

***

The next morning, I woke to find Donovan pacing the room while talking on his phone. I didn’t want to eavesdrop on his conversation so I got out of bed and headed into the kitchen to make coffee. He came out just as I’d finished, and I slid his mug across the counter to him.

Eyeing his clothes, I said, “It’s a good thing I like to buy you clothes.”

He smirked. “Yeah, baby.”

Donovan had once made fun of my clothes shopping addiction. It was pretty much my only girly trait and I’d bought him quite a few pieces, which he’d left here. Thank god, because they came in handy now.

We drank our coffee in silence until he murmured, “I don’t understand where Sharon got the gun from.”

“She came back into the bar while you were outside with Marcus. I was busy with customers, but managed to get out of her that you and he were fighting. I got distracted and didn’t realise she’d gotten the gun out of her bag.”

“Fuck, after all those years, she finally got rid of him. Mind you, he may not have died from the gunshot wound.”

“Probably a good thing you finished the job then,” I mused.

“Why?”

“Would he have retaliated against her if he’d lived?”

He thought about that and slowly nodded. “Yeah, I reckon he would have.”

I sipped my coffee and kept quiet. It was up to Donovan now to decide if he wanted to talk about it or not.

He surprised me when he did speak. “I don’t know what I feel.”

“Maybe it’s too soon, too fresh for you to know.”

“I’ve thought about doing this for a long time, and I thought I’d feel a sense of immense satisfaction.”

“And you don’t?”

“It’s odd. I don’t regret it for a minute, and I would do it again, but it’s not this overwhelming feeling of anything. It’s like I feel . . . nothing about it.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Fuck, that doesn’t even make fucking sense.” He paused for a moment, and then added, “After I did it, I felt a sense of justice . . . relief that he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again, but now, there’s just nothing.”