Breaking Her (Savage Brothers Second Generation 4)

But nope. We’re in my room and that’s my closet he’s shoving a huge duffle bag into. Shit.

“How long are you planning on staying here?” I ask Thomas as he flops down on the bed, kicking off his boots and then settling with his hands behind his head—looking entirely too comfortable.

“Until you ag-g-gree to come to Kentucky w-w-with me.”

“That’s never going to happen,” I snap.

His eyes close like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I look around the room for something to throw at him. It’s just too bad that I know there’s not a baseball bat in here.

“Then, I g-guess I’m here f-f-forever.”

“You can’t stay here, Thomas. You have a life in Kentucky. Not here.”

“I have a child and an old l-lady here. If you w-won’t come to Kentucky, I’m here.”

“I’m not your old lady. You’re forgetting, I’m not anything to you except maybe a poor copy of what you really wanted.”

God, it hurts to say that out loud. I kept thinking it would have gotten easier, but clearly that’s not going to happen. Thomas has been sticking to me like glue since the shooting, but I didn’t expect him to move in here. Surely, my dad will never agree to this. It’s too crazy.

“Y-you claimed me. Remember? Y-you told your dad.”

My heart runs away with me, and it feels like the walls are closing in. I knew my decision would have repercussions, but I didn’t expect this. I thought I could claim him and then he’d go back to Kentucky, and we’d be forced to see each other for visitations as we navigated co-parenting. I mean, I never planned on keeping Thomas from his child. It’s not like Thomas is a bad guy. He’s one of the best. Memories of the way he hurled himself in harm’s way just to make sure I didn’t get shot flutter through my memory. That’s the kind of man I want for the father of my child. I never have to worry. I know he’ll protect his child with everything he has—with his life.

My hand covertly drops to my stomach. That’s what I want. I want to know that if something ever happens that I can’t solve for my child, his or her father can and will. It’s not my child’s fault that his father doesn’t love me like I love him. It’s not even Thomas’s fault. It’s just the way it is. What’s that old saying? The heart wants what the heart wants? It’s true. Thomas’s heart wants Gabby and mine… wants him.

God, I’m such a fool.

I’m learning that no matter how much you want to, you can’t turn love off. No matter how much you wish you could.

“This isn’t what I want,” I mutter.

“D-d-do you think it’s w-w-what I w-w-w-want?” He snaps and I can tell I hit a nerve. I lean on the dresser as I look at him.

“I think we both know what you want, Thomas. I just wish to God that I knew before we slept together.”

“F-f-fuck, c-c-can’t we just p-p-put it b-b-behind us and s-s-st-st-start o-v-v-ver?”’

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. That asshole. How dare he say anything like that to me! He knew how deeply I cared for him—knew I had never been with another man—that I wanted him to be my first. Instead of telling me how he felt, he let me believe what we were sharing was special—that it was a beginning.

I have this little porcelain statue of a butterfly my dad bought me for my fifth birthday. I’ve kept it all these years because it’s a good memory of my dad. A day when he put me before the club and spent the whole day with me as a surprise. I don’t think. I just grab it and turn and chuck it in Thomas’s direction. “That’s easy for you to say, isn’t it, Thomas?” I yell.

The statue goes hurling and I’m so upset, I feel glee as I wait for it to connect with his body. That emotion slowly leaks into panic as the statue doesn’t hit him in the stomach like I thought. I apparently had more power on it than I knew because it hits him dead center in his right eye.

I scream, because I wanted to strike out, but I didn’t specifically want to hurt him—well, not permanently maim him at least.

“Fuck,” Thomas growls loudly.

The only other time I’ve heard his voice like that was when he was yelling at her. I should probably be scared. I can’t be, though, I’m too busy worrying I hurt the big dummy. I move quickly around the bed to where he’s already sitting up and putting his feet on the floor at the side of the bed.

“J-j-j-jesus, Lyla.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, leaning in to try and get a look at his face. He’s making that impossible by holding his hand over his eye.