No Quick Fix (Torus Intercession 1)

He was supposed to be mine.

It was why he came home. He knew that he was supposed to be home with me and his girls. Me and his girls. Not Lydia and the girls. Me and the girls.

And suddenly all I could do was show him.

Show him where he belonged… and to whom.

I stepped into his space, took his face in my hands, and kissed him.

His lips were soft, and I parted them with my tongue, wanting to taste him, needing him to realize something important… that I was there for the long run. He tasted so good, like brandy and chocolate, and I kissed him hard and deep, taking what I wanted, but even more than that, needing him to know I was serious and solid and I could be his foundation. I could be what he built the rest of his life on.

It took longer than it should have for me to realize he wasn’t kissing me back.

In the rush of adrenaline and heat and lust, I missed that I’d knocked him up against the wall and held him there while I mauled his mouth. When I finally registered him pushing me away instead of pulling me in, I stepped back as he scrambled off the wall.

“What the hell are you doing?” he rasped angrily, his face a riot of emotion—shame and anger were what I saw first, and what seared into my brain.

Oh God no.

“Why would you—how could you—what are you doing?” he yelled, and I heard the revulsion, saw the disgust on his twisted features.

“Fuck me,” I barely got out, horrified I’d pushed myself on him, forgetting my own strength. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to force—”

“I’m not—how could you think I—”

“I’ll get outta here, and Torus can send—”

“The girls,” he whispered harshly, and then darted from the room. I heard the door to his bedroom bang shut seconds later.

His words were crystal clear.

He certainly didn’t want me, was appalled over what I’d done, but for his daughters… I could stay. He’d suffer with my continued presence for them. They couldn’t have even one more change, one more disruption, or one more goodbye. He wouldn’t allow that.

Rushing to my room, I went in, closed the door behind me, and climbed onto the bed. And though I was exhausted, I couldn’t sleep at all.

Twelve

I waited as long as I could before I got up the next morning. It was still just after seven when I woke up Olivia and asked her to help me make breakfast.

“You never get up this early on Sunday,” she said, smiling sleepily, rubbing her eyes. “Where’s the fire?” she asked, using an expression she’d picked up from me.

I didn’t explain to her that it was because, when I’d finally drifted off from exhaustion, I’d still woken up several times in the early hours of the morning, my brain running through everything I’d done, over and over again.

The look on Emery’s face, his horror and humiliation, wouldn’t get out of my head. Every instinct I had said to run, but what kept me there, rooted, planted in the house even though I was filled with shame… was the girls.

The girls needed me.

The girls were counting on me.

The girls trusted me to remain.

If I focused every drop of my attention on them and then left clean, cutting the cord the moment the wedding was over, I could still be of service to Emery. I’d irreparably damaged our—whatever it was, not relationship—but the girls were another story.

All I wanted was to erase what I’d done, and if I was there, steady, strong, an absolute rock of dependability, then perhaps he’d stop seeing me as someone who’d disappointed him, or worse, accosted him.

When he finally stumbled into the kitchen an hour later and saw both girls eating biscuits and gravy, he came around the table and stood beside me after pouring himself a cup of coffee.

I couldn’t look him in the eye.

“Brann,” he said, his voice low, rusty, as though he hadn’t spoken in years. “We need to talk about—”

“It’s okay,” I assured him, sad but resigned, knowing it was actually for the best. “I figured you’d change your mind and you’d want me out this morn—”

“No,” he snapped under his breath, taking the last step forward, into my space, so we were shoulder to shoulder. “I don’t want you to go anywhere.”

I had no idea what I was supposed to say.

“Last night,” he began under his breath. “That wasn’t what you—”

“I didn’t mean to force my—”

“You didn’t,” he made clear, the stress on his words, in his tone, changing things for me in an instant. “You’re not like that, and that’s not what happened.”

I finally turned my head and met his chocolate-brown gaze. His eyes were so soft and deep, and every instinct I had said to claim him, to turn and kiss him again because he was supposed to be mine. And that made zero sense, as what he wanted had been made abundantly clear—it was, decidedly, not me. So instead of saying another word, I clenched my jaw tight so nothing stupid came out of my mouth.