She shudders. Her breath catching. I love that sound. “Lance…”
I slip one finger inside her. She’s slick, dripping, ready for me.
“Good girl,” I murmur against her clit. Her hips jerk. I suck gently, then harder, until she’s fisting the sheets.
“Get ready, baby.” My voice is rough, a growl more than words. “Your Major McDonald alarm call is about to go off.”
***
Two days until Christmas. This is my last visit with Hannah before the big day. She’s quieter than usual, too quiet.
We’ve traveled to Edinburgh for some final shopping. The streets are packed, bright lights crisscross above us, and a traditional Christmas market spreads for miles. The air is buzzing with Christmas spirit. Hannah walks beside me like she’s carrying the world.
“You okay, sweetheart?” I ask gently.
“Yeah.” Too quick. Too small. Not her usual bubbly self.
Finally, she picks a handmade glass bauble for her mother; it sparkles under the lights. I know Ainsley will love it.
Decorating our family Christmas tree was always Ainsley’s job. She collects decorations from all over the world and is anal about how they’re displayed. The task of decorating for the festive season was never a fun family experience. I used to take Hannah away for the day; we would return to a catalog-worthy home.
“Mum likes perfect things,” she mumbles. “This looks perfect enough.”
Something solid settles in my chest. Heavy. Toxic.
On the drive home, we become solemn. This is not the Christmas I imagined myself having this year. I planned a full-on, family-filled holiday season. Life can change in the blink of an eye, and those you trust can let you down.
“Talk to me, Hannah, please.” She continues to stare out of the window. “Hannah, if something’s bothering you, I’d—”
“He shouts all the time,” she says, her voice wobbling.
“Hamish?”
She nods. My jaw tightens.
“At you?”
Her hair waves everywhere as she shakes her head. “No, just at everyone. Everything annoys him. Mum says he’s tired.” She pauses. “But she’s tired too. And she doesn’t shout like that.”
I crush the wheel in my grip.
“Has he ever hurt you?” Fear twists in my chest. If he’s touched my little girl…
Horrified eyes snap up. “No, Dad. Nothing like that.” She sighs. “It’s just sometimes I feel… in the way.”
Fuck.
“You’re never in the way. Not to me. Not to your mum. Not ever.”
Her chin trembles, and she bites her lip as if holding in a sob.
“I miss when we were a family. When Mum wasn’t always upstairs with him, with the door shut.”
Rage. Pure, soul-consuming rage burns through me, painful but useless. My daughter feels so alone in her own home, and there’s not a damn thing I can do.
“I’m going to miss you on Christmas Day, Dad.” She sniffs, her voice breaking. “I wish we could spend it together. All of us, like before.”
That knocks the air from my lungs. I take a moment. What the hell do I say?