I still can't believe he did it. Looked straight at Stephanie, then closed the door and told me, “Come on.”
He kissed me hard on the mouth, grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out of the hotel room to the parking lot where he announced to the rest of the bikers that it was just me. He told them that Stephanie had already left on a bus but didn’t tell me where she was going.
After that, there came a long ride on the back of a bike he’d borrowed to meet up with Hades at the roadhouse.
Waylon locked me in this room, saying in a low voice that he wasn't sure if he could control the situation if Hades laid eyes on me.
And now he’s standing over me, pissed off at me for doing this. Probably pissed off at himself for falling in love with me in the first place.
So, it feels like an act of courage when I stand up and wrap my arms around the pissed-off predator to tell him, “I know. Especially now. I love you too. I love you so much. Thank you.”
“Don't thank me,” he says, tipping up my chin. “There's a price to pay for this kind of loyalty. I want babies—at least three like Colin and Kyra. And you having a choice about saying you belong to me on official paper? That’s off the table, angel. I'm taking you to the first courthouse we see in Iowa.”
I couldn’t be more thrilled about his announcement, but I have to point out, “I don't think that's how marriage papers work since women aren’t chattel.”
He glowers down at me after his very long day, and I rush to add, “But, yes. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I meant everything I said in that hotel room.”
He looks at me, and finally, his expression softens. “I know you did, angel. Or we wouldn't be here. Now strip.”
Five minutes later, my head is pushed into the pillow, and he’s taking me from behind with rough strokes while promising all sorts of punishments for what I did here today.
Occasionally he stops to whisper growl in my ear, “I love you. I love you so fucking much.”
What we have…it's crazy. It's not right. It's wicked laced through with bad, bad, bad.
But I whisper back, “I love you so fucking much, too.”
My punishment for crossing Waylon is life. The rest of my years will be spent in Angel Pond with him administering the life sentence I deserve.
And I am very okay with my punishment. I thank everyone and every event that brought us together.
Then I moan and ask for more, more, more.
I want everything.
With him.
EPILOGUE
ALMOST TWO YEARS LATER
“I hate you,” I tell Waylon, my voice laced through with venom. “I hate you so much!”
“Don't say that, angel.”
“You sick bastard….” I gasp out. “Why would you do this to me?”
Waylon's voice becomes a little growly when he answers, “We had a discussion about this, angel. Several. You agreed.”
He’s right…tears of regret pool in my eyes as I rue the day I agreed to become his wife—to make a life with him in Angel Pond. “I will never forgive you for this. Don't you ever try to touch me again.”
Waylon lets out an aggrieved sigh.
“You forgetting the rule about not saying things you don't mean?” he asks with a stern warning in his voice.
“Oh, I mean it alright,” I assure him. “I’m never letting you do this to me again.”
“What happened to promising to love me forever? And wanting to have my babies?”
“Three months straight of morning sickness! That's what!” I glare down at my phone. It’s sitting on the bathroom floor, and Waylon’s looking up at me on FaceTime. “How did I forget how bad this was the first time—”
I cut off to make another breakfast deposit to the porcelain god.
Hopefully, that’s the last one. I lean my head against the toilet’s cool lid, willing the nausea to subside. Surely, there can be nothing else.
“Crap. It’s real bad today, huh?” Waylon says from the bathroom floor. “No wonder you called me all pissed off. I should be happy you’re not threatening to divorce me like when Toni was in the oven.”
His empathy immediately dissolves all the hate I carried in my heart when I called him after the first round of throwing up to let him know we were never having sex again.
“Yes, I’m so sick of being sick all the time,” I tell him, letting a note of self-pity enter my voice. “I’m sorry for calling.”
“Don’t you apologize to me for reaching out when you’re feeling awful,” He answers in that particularly grumpy-but-sweet way of his. “What did you eat this morning? You sticking to the BRAT diet like we talked about?”
“No, because it sucks,” I answer, even though I’ve recommended a bland breakfast diet of bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast to many women in my same position. “I have so much to do today, and I really needed a cup of coffee. Plus, I wanted bacon, eggs, and toast this morning because I miss you.”