Scorch (Virtues & Lies 2)

Bracing my hands on his shoulders, I steady myself as his hand smooths down my leg to my ankle, lifting my foot. He brushes away the dirt, scraping his thumbnail across the arch of it slowly.

Jesus, I’m about to fall flat on my arse and demand that he does all the things that drive me wild right here and now. But that smile. That fucking smile. Forget all the ships that launched for Troy. Forget all the armadas and battalions. My husband has a smile that could burn heaven to ground.

I can’t bear to look at him with how fast my heart is galloping in my chest. I need him to put my slipper on and just take me home. I want him to burn me to the ground. To destroy me.

“Stay still.” His whisper is raspy as he slips the flip-flop onto my foot and runs his hand all the way up to the top of my thigh. His fingertips trace the line of my underwear from the front to the back until he cups my arse, his forearm snug between my thighs. His lips press to my belly as he kneads my flesh and holy crap!

I don’t even care of who might see us. All I know is that I’m so wet and ready for him to devour me.

My head tips back as he presses his arm completely flush to my pussy, his fingertips sinking deep into my arse cheeks.

There’s only the sound of our heavy breaths and the thrumming of my heartbeat.

Looking back down at Christopher, my eyes catch on the sharp glint. It takes me a moment too long to register what’s happening, and by the time I do, all I can do is push him to the ground.

My throat burns with my scream as my legs give and I collapse in a heap on top of him. It gets far too hot and wet. And I have no idea what’s just happened but God, I feel sick. My insides feel all wrong.

“Arabella!” Christopher keeps shouting as he lays me flat on the ground. His eyes are wide, and with every swipe of his hands on his face, black smears his beautiful skin, like oil and tar. “Murphy! Murphy!”

Shouts and screams and yells fill my ears with my hard-pumping blood. It’s so hot. My entire body is burning. My face. My chest. My belly…

“Christopher?”

Why is he shouting?

“It’s going to be okay, baby.”

His trembling hand brushes my hair, and it’s only when the other presses to my stomach with terror rife in his eyes that I realise something’s wrong.

It’s not tar or oil on his face. I’m not sweating.

It’s all blood.

My blood.

Panic chills me, and now I understand why I’m shaking like this. I’m cold.

I’m dying.

“Don’t let me die.”

“You’re not dying. You’re going to be okay.” Both of his hands cup my face, his tear-filled eyes boring into mine.

He’s lying—I can tell from the way he sputters, unable to stop his sob. And all I can think is that it’ll be okay. So long as our baby is okay, everything will be fine.

I can’t see much as I glance down. My red dress is stained so dark that it looks a deep wine colour in the dark of night.

Pressing my hands to the sides of my belly, I look up at Christopher. Murphy is standing above us with his phone pressed to his ear, his mouth moving a hundred miles an hour. I can’t understand a word he’s saying.

But the way he looks at me is enough to tell me that this is only going to end one way.

“Pick her. Always.” I barely manage to get the words out. My mouth is so dry that I have to cough moisture back into it.

I shudder at the metallic tang that fills my mouth.

“Belles…”

It’s too late.