My eyes slide closed, her words smoothing something in me that I didn’t even realize was jagged. How long has it been slicing through me? How long would I have continued to carry it around if my wife hadn’t gotten to it first?
My forehead presses against hers and her hands are warm on the back of my neck. She wraps herself around me, giving me comfort and forcing me to absorb it.
“I don’t deserve you,” I rasp the words, feeling the truth of them land somewhere in my soul.
“What you don’t deserve is a father like that who would dare to speak to you, to anyone, the way he did. He’s a horrible person.” She pulls back enough for me to look into her blue eyes. “I’m so damn happy I married you, Rook. The thought of him touching any part of this farm, any part of your family’s legacy, makes me feel like a rage demon with no outlet.”
I can’t help but grin at the visual she just painted. As much as I never want her to be put in a situation to feel that way, and I certainly never want to be on the receiving end of her anger, I find it incredibly sexy.
“You’re the most beautiful rage demon I’ve ever seen,” my voice is soft as I look at her, feeling the love I have for my woman, for my wife, fill my chest.
My head falls down to rest on her shoulder and for a few moments, we just breathe together. I feel it all—the disappointment, the anger, the fear. It’s the way I always feel after my dad shows up and disappears again. It’s happened so many times over the years that I expected to be numb to it years ago, but it never happened.
Maybe it never will.
Or maybe I just need to come to terms with the fact that he’s not my family. No, the only family I have now is the beautiful woman in my lap.
“Wife,” I whisperthe endearment and she tightens her grip on me as if she can hold me together by sheer will alone.
It feels like she can.
Her stomach growls and she freezes in place. When I pull back and look at her, her cheeks are turning a pretty pink color. I love the way she blushes for me.
I love her.
But I keep the words locked behind my teeth. For now.
The last thing I want is for me to tell her how I feel about her on the heels of that man showing up. I don’t want the moment to be tainted; it should be pure. She shouldn’t question if my confession is a reaction to his vindictive, hateful words.
“I was going to make you breakfast,” I say it again, but this time my tone sounds like it’s been patched back together.
“How about I make breakfast?” She glances toward the kitchen and something giddy crosses her face. “I need to get used to this kitchen and I love to cook.”
Before I can argue with her and insist on taking care of her, especially after the attention and comfort she’s given me this morning already, she jumps off my lap and is heading toward the kitchen. I reach for her but only touch air.
I lean my head back against the couch and take a deep breath. The scene on the front porch fades slightly, not in a way that makes it disappear, but the edges soften as it falls into a memory. I’d rather it feel like something distant, even though adrenaline is still making my heart pound in my chest.
As the reality of hearing Meadow moving through the kitchen sinks in, I stand up slowly and move toward her. I can feel the pull of her, the need to be near her, tugging me forward.
My eyes lock on her and the way she’s poking around the kitchen, searching for things and orienting herself. She moves effortlessly throughthe room with an ease that has more of the tension from this morning falling away.
It started out perfectly. I woke up with my wife in my arms, and she fitted against me like she was always made to be there. Because she was.
As much as I wanted to stay wrapped up with my wife, I wanted her to be able to sleep in, and my dick was trying to get me to wake her up. That’s when I slid out of bed, pulled on some sweats and a shirt and padded toward the kitchen. I was making a plan for breakfast; one I could imagine serving to my wife in bed—our first morning as a married couple—when I heard my father’s car pull up.
And then the morning went sideways.
Meadow looks at home in the kitchen, like she’s been moving through it for years instead of minutes. The longer I watch her, the more I need her.
I should let her eat.
But the need takes over.
When I step up behind her, my hands find her hips easily. She stills and looks over her shoulder at me while mischief dances in her blue eyes.
“This kitchen is a dream,” there’s reverence in her voice. “I was thinking about baking something, but I’ll do it later.”
“Much later,” my voice is rough with desire I don’t even try to contain.