Wrong Kind of Love

The water cuts off, and she grabs the towel from just outside the door, wrapping herself in it before she steps out. She startles when she sees me, then her gaze drops to my bloodstained jeans. “What happened?”

“Something you’re best not knowing.”

“Probably.”

Water trickles over the exposed swell of her breast, and I can’t help myself. Like a magnet, I’m drawn to her. My hands go to her hips without my consent, my mouth seeks out the plump feel of her lips. I don't know how much longer I can take this. It’s masochistic torture being this close and not being able to fuck my way back into her soul the way I want.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, doll.” And God, she is. Perfect. Temptation. Everything a man could ever want or need, and she’s mine. No matter what has happened to her, she will always be mine. "Just let me touch you.” I skim my fingers along the seam of the towel, parting it. “Please.” I’m begging because I’m a desperate man with desperate needs, and the dip of her waist and curve of her hip under my palm feels so damn right. I glide my palm over her hip bone, and that’s where I stop. Her stomach is hard and tight, slightly rounded, and that’s not right. She tries to pull away when I yank the towel open, but it’s too late. A slight bump sits between her defined hips. A bump that has my muscles tensing and my stomach churning, one that sends my already burning world threatening to crash to the motherfucking ground. Because how long has she been pregnant? When I lift my gaze to her face, her eyes are closed. "Tor?"

“I was going to tell you,” she whispers, tears glistening in her eyelashes.

A wave of nausea washes over me as I take an unsteady step back. The thought that this must be Tom’s baby lodges itself in the forefront of my mind. My fingers draw into fists, the anger swimming through me begs for an outlet.

“It’s yours,” she whispers.

And my knees almost give out. For a split second, tears blur my vision before I grab her and drag her into me, kissing the top of her head.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I didn’t know how to...”

I don’t even care that she kept it from me because it’s mine. Not his. Ours. “It’s fine.” I take her face in my hands, sweeping my thumbs over her reddened cheeks while a very real fear shoots down my spine. Her and a child—for Tom to come after. I tighten my hold on her like that will keep anything from happening to them. “I love you, and I promise I won’t let anything happen to you or the baby.”

“I love you, too.”

I kiss her soft then hard and long, and in that one fucking kiss, I feel everything. The purpose of my life bleeds through my veins with every pump of my heart. It’s Tor, it’s our unborn child, and I will do whatever the hell it takes to make sure they are safe. I deepen the kiss, moving my hand between us and resting it on the small bulge. When I go to test the waters and slip my hand a little further, she tenses.

“Jude…” She breaks the kiss and drops her chin to her chest on a heavy sigh.

“I love you. I fucking love you.” I grab her chin and force her to look at me. “I’ll wait forever if I have to, but you have to understand, I’m not him. I’d never hurt you, Tor.”

I wouldn’t. I would die before I did.

30

Victoria

I fucking love you. I’m not him.

Something in me cracks open at his words, and I can’t stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks.

I know Jude isn’t Tom, but every brush of his fingers, each whispered breath over my skin, feels like that monster. Tom’s touch is branded on me every bit as much as the scars on my back, and I loathe it. Yet I allow the memory of what he did to linger, to push away a man who loves me.

I want to get past this—need to get past this. For myself, for Jude, for us... I press my lips to his, trying to convey what I can’t voice: I want him, but I’m terrified.

Jude scoops me into his arms and carries me across the hall to the bedroom. Nerves flutter through my stomach, but I try to fight it and trust him.

He takes a seat on the edge of the bed and kisses across my collarbone. “You’re all I need, doll. Only you.”

My chest tightens. The simmering pull that has always existed between us slowly stirs to life, cutting through the fear. I grab hold of it and force myself to feel what I thought Tom had extinguished. No matter what he did to me, he can't kill my love for Jude. What we are hasn't changed. Jude is still my beautiful tragedy, my knight in bloodied armor. He always will be.