Be Afraid (Morgans of Nashville 2)

But it wasn’t over.

Philip had called her cell seconds after five that same day. Guilt had prompted her to take that first call as she’d sat in the shabby motel room, surrounded by her life in trash bags. He’d begged her to return. I love you. I love you. It will never happen again.

Of course, he was sorry. He was always sorry.

He’d sent flowers. Called. Waited outside her office. No matter where she looked, he was there. Come back to me. God, I love you so much.

Floorboards creaked in her closet, and she bolted back up, clutching her hand to her throat, the pulse drumming under her fingertips. This time, logic couldn’t silence the alarm bells, which clanged louder and louder until reason scurried away like a frightened mouse. The last time she’d seen Philip, he’d been clutching the restraining order, furious. No piece of paper will separate us!

Her fingers poised over the 9-1-1 direct-dial button, her gaze scanned the darkness. At first glance, nothing was out of place. Her door was closed. Locked.

And then, the faint flutter of movement in the shadows inside her closet. Another cold breeze from a half-open window brushed her skin like a wraith.

“Hello, Leah.” Philip’s deep voice sounded amused as he stepped out of her closet.

Philip! How had he gotten into her room? Mentally, she ran from lock to lock in the apartment, checking.

He clicked on the overhead light, making her wince at the burst of brightness. He was tall, wearing a dark turtleneck, jeans, and boots, and his broad shoulders ate up the tiny space of her room. He stared at her, his long fingers clenching and unclenching at his side. Attached to his waistband was the brown leather holster that cradled a six-inch knife blade. The blade was inches from his right hand.

“Philip.”

“Leah.” His voice lacked concern or fear as it always did when he came to a decision.

Without taking her gaze from him, she hit 9-1-1. A distant, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” echoed out from the phone.

“My husband’s going to kill me,” Leah said. “I live at 112 Main Street, Apartment Two. Treemont Apartments.” How many times had she practiced this line, imagining this moment over and over?

“Ma’am, repeat what you just said.” The operator’s voice was clean, crisp, and so blissfully free of fear.

Leah’s hand trembled so badly she thought she’d drop the phone. “He’s found me. He’s in my room.”

“Who’s found you, ma’am?”

Philip arched a brow, unconcerned, as he rested his hand on the hilt of the knife.

“My husband. Philip Latimer. He’s going to kill me.” How long would it take for the cops to arrive? Five minutes? Ten? And how long would it take for him to cross the room and stab her? Seconds.

“How do you know he’ll kill you?” The operator’s voice was flat, emotionless.

“He’s in my bedroom. He has a knife.”

Philip knew exactly how long it took the cops to respond. He was a cop. Saving people like her was his job.

“What’s your name?”

“Leah Carson. Leah Latimer.” She rattled off her address again, fearing she’d be dead before they arrived.

“I’ll send a car,” the operator said. “Stay on the line.”

The words were cold comfort. Philip had broken the protective order. He didn’t care about an arrest. He’d crossed an invisible line, knowing his was a one-way trip. His only goal now was to kill her.

Tears filled Leah’s eyes as he slid the knife from its holster, the cold metal catching and glinting in the moonlight.

He moved toward the bed, slowly and unhurried. He’d slicked back his thick, blond hair away from his angled face, now hardened with purpose. Once, she’d considered his face handsome. Once, she’d looked into those vivid blue eyes and seen love. Once, he’d made her feel protected.

“You’re so beautiful.” His deep voice was smooth, silky as if they’d bumped into each other on a street corner on a sunny afternoon. He smelled of fresh, cold night air and whiskey.

During their marriage, she’d learned to fear him most when he wasn’t ranting or raving, but when he was cool and controlled. “Philip, what do you want?”

“I’ve been telling you for weeks. But you won’t listen. I want you back home with me.”

With deliberate slowness, she pulled her covers over her T-shirt that strained the outline of her breasts. “Philip. How’d you get in here?”

Keep him talking. Buy time. How much time did she need? She’d timed the route once or twice. Without traffic, it took ten minutes.

Those long, calloused fingers slid up the blade to the tip. “I’ve missed you.”

“Philip, you shouldn’t be here.” The evenness in her voice belied her fingers tightening into a white-knuckle grip on the comforter.

His thumb circled the knife’s hilt. “Why not? You’re my wife. And this is our wedding anniversary.”

Twelve months ago today, they’d exchanged vows. “You need to leave.”

“And if I don’t? What’re you going to do?”

“The cops are coming.”

He traced the knife blade’s tip over the comforter, snagging ice-blue fabric. “I don’t care.”

“Philip. Just go. Get away while you can.”

He raised the blade to his thumb and pricked the edge. Crimson blood bloomed, dripped before he raised his thumb to his mouth and sucked the blood dry. “You were so pretty on our wedding day. Such a beautiful white dress. You carried those pretty purple flowers. What were they called? Irises?”

“Just leave me alone, Philip. Go away. I don’t want to see you arrested. It will ruin your career.” Her pulse thrummed against the soft skin of her neck.

“Until death do us part, Leah. I promised. You promised.”

Keep talking. “You love your job. You’re a good cop. Respected.”

“Without you, it doesn’t mean much. You’re mine, Leah. We’re two halves of a whole. Restraining orders and cops can’t keep us apart.”

Chin raised, tears pooled, spilled. Buy time. Buy time! False promises of love and devotion danced on her tongue and readied for declaration when the truth stubbornly elbowed past. “We’re over, Philip. I’m not coming back to you.”

He traced his hand over her leg, rough callouses on smooth white skin. Skin prickled, she flinched and rolled her leg away. Gaze darkening, he clenched the blankets in his large hand. An onyx pinky ring marked with the letter L winked in the moonlight before he yanked the covering off the bed. She was left half naked, wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt. Cold air skimmed her naked legs. Gooseflesh puckered.

“Philip, please—”

For a moment, he sat as still as a statue, his terrible beauty etched in calm repose. And then, like a rattler riled, he struck, moving with lightning speed. He climbed on top of her, the rough fabric of his jeans scraping against her bare waist. He pressed the knife blade to her throat.

Their gazes locked, as he smoothed the steel tip over her chest to her flat belly. She flinched. Braced.

“Philip, don’t. Please.”

This close, his eyes red-rimmed as if he’d been crying, bore into her. “I’ll never let you go. You belong to me. I love you.” His body hummed with need. Need to own her. Need to possess her. Need to hear her words of love.

More tears spilled down the sides of her face. He controlled so much in this moment. Life or death rested in his palms. All she controlled were her words. The truth. If she died tonight, Philip would know her heart. “I don’t love you.”

He flinched as if he’d been slapped. “You’ve been brainwashed. Your mother and your friends filled you with lies. Poisoned you against me.”

“I don’t love you.” Defiance pricked as sharp as the knife’s tip. “You don’t own me.”

Pain deepened the lines of his face, even as his teeth bared into a snarl. He lowered his lips to her ear. Warm breath against her skin raked over her nerves.

“I love

you,” he whispered. “I love you. Why can’t you understand that?”