Roan (The Henchmen MC 17)

All the scars that weren't visible, those could have been avoided too.

"Mack..." Roan's voice said, low, soft, sweet. So, so freaking familiar. And a flutter that used to be so common inside me moved through my belly, up into my chest at the sound of it. His hand reached out, pressing down on top of mine, giving it a squeeze. "I know," he went on, voice a whisper. "I know, sweetheart."

My chin met my chest, my hair falling forward to curtain my face as I struggled to find it. Just a little bit of composure.

The urge to grieve for the woman I lost was so strong.

Just as strong as the urge to grieve for the man he had lost.

Because it wasn't just my life that had been utterly changed that day.

He'd had to go on living his life believing he had been the reason the woman he'd loved had been murdered. For no reason.

That weight must have been crippling.

Just getting out of bed each morning must have taken determination.

Fifteen years.

And I had spotted him countless times.

Had I found the courage to move in sooner, maybe all this would have come out sooner.

Before it was too late.

Before life had twisted, cracked, molded me into a different shape.

Before I allowed so much ugly to become integral parts of my personality.

It had never occurred to me before to think about how I must appear to those around me - aside from hoping I came off as strong enough to handle myself, to be someone you didn't want to fuck with - but I couldn't help but view myself through a different lens as we stood in the kitchen.

This metamorphosis had made me hard.

Cold.

Prickly.

Things I had prided myself on for so long.

But what about this woman was something anyone could even love?

No one wanted to reach for something that might cut you.

Let alone wrap their arms around it, tell it that it was okay, that there was still time, that it could still be loved.

As if hearing my thoughts, as if agreeing with them, Roan's hand left mine, the absence something like an icepick to the thing that had once been a heart.

But then there he was, moving in behind me, arms wrapping around my upper chest, around my midsection, pulling me back into his strong chest, squeezing tight enough to hold my crumbling pieces together.

"Tell me, Mack," he demanded softly, pressing the side of his head to mine.- PAST -Mackenzie - 15 years agoIt felt strange to be home.

That was silly, of course, seeing as I had spent more time at my uncle's house than I had with Mikhail as a whole, but after spending so many nights away, the shuffling of the staff felt oddly intrusive as I got back to my room, sorting through all my clothes, separating everything into piles, telling myself that I would have a productive night of laundry, maybe some pampering with a face mask and a nice pedicure.

But I couldn't seem to shake thoughts of Mikhail as I went about changing into bum-around clothes. When I looked at my bed, I wondered if I could ever have him there, if I could sneak him in, finding the idea oddly fun and risqué even though we were all adults, and it shouldn't have felt like rebellion to have a man in my bed.

When I considered the nail choices from my absent aunt's collection, I found myself wondering which color he would prefer.

Then, a while later, sitting on the closed toilet lid with my leg cocked up, a half-dry green mud mask on my face, I found myself imaging him walking through the door, seeing me neck-deep in a beauty routine. Would he laugh? Say something?

For as much as I knew about Mikhail, there were some things I was still in the dark about. Like basic life things. We shared a hotel room, sure, but it wasn't the same as sharing a house. Where both of us had all our things.

I found myself thinking about what his style was like, how it would mesh with mine. What we would watch on TV if we had more time together. Would we eventually hit the market together, standing side-by-side with him as we cooked dinner? Did he even cook? Was he someone who would roll up his sleeves with me on a Sunday afternoon like I had been taught to do all my life, cleaning the house top-to-bottom because, as my mother had always taught me, it was important to start the week with a clean house. It set you up to succeed.

I had no answers to any of that.

But I was hoping that, someday, I would get to see for myself.

I didn't want to make myself sick thinking about all the reasons that might not happen, or the way life could complicated it.