Cash wasn’t simply the man I was fucking. The pain I felt proved there was much more to the relationship than that.

I ached.

The same mind-numbing pain that took possession of me after the death of my parents returned. As much as I loved the way Cash made me feel, I knew I couldn’t live a life with a man who used violence as a means of resolve. By his own admittance, he was the MC’s muscle.

It was his job to do just that.

Seeing it happen twice over a one-month period caused me to realize a lifetime of exposure to such violence would be more than I could handle. Each time the club required him to use his violent nature, the tables could easily turn. One day, he could be the man who was on the ground in a pool of blood. Continuing any kind of relationship with him would only prolong the inevitable. One day, he would be taken from me.

I knew I could handle another relationship.

I simply couldn’t handle another loss.

I stepped into the living room. “I think I want you to go.”

He lifted his hands and turned his palms to face me. “Give me a minute to explain,” he pleaded.

He hadn’t spoken in the ten minutes that had passed since the lop-sided fight. I didn’t know that I wanted him to, either. I wanted him to leave. Without argument or explanation. I hoped the pain I was feeling would leave with him.

“There’s nothing to explain,” I said dismissively.

“There is.” He lowered his head. “I just don’t know if I want to do it.”

“Well, I don’t want you to.”

He looked up. “Do you really want me to go?”

I didn’t. I wanted him to stay. To hold me. To lay in bed with my head on his chest. To sit and enjoy a meal together and talk about American history. To tell me of his Irish mother and listen to stories about how my father taught me to fish in the streams in northern California.

“Yes,” I said.

He took a few hesitant steps toward the door, and then paused. “I want you to know something before I go.”

A sigh escaped me. “I don’t want--”

He faced me. “I’ve never been scared of anything in my life. There’s a reason Baker chose me to be the club’s muscle. I’m either been too dumb or too damned tough to know what it’s like to fear something.”

He swallowed heavily. So much so, I heard it.

“Until tonight,” he said. “I’m scared to fuckin’ death that I’m going to lose you. The fact I’m willing to admit it scares me, too. You make me feel like there might just be a life beyond this.”

He raised his clenched fists and studied them. Dried blood covered his knuckles, and a trail of blood that had dried on his forearm blended in with one of his tattoos. His eyes shifted from his hands to me.

He appeared defeated.

The pain in my chest worsened. I wanted him so badly that it choked me from breathing. I simply didn’t know if I could live each day knowing that one night he might not come home.

“I want to find out what that life is like,” he said. “There’s only one way to do it and there’s only one person to do it with. That person’s you.”

He turned toward the door and pulled it open.

I wanted to tell him to stop. To turn around. That I was ready to take that journey with him, because I felt the same way.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I listened to him start his motorcycle and ride away.

As the sound of his exhaust faded into nothing, my eyes welled with tears.

The pain of knowing that I’d never feel him in my arms again began to squeeze me and didn’t stop until I was sure I was suffocating.

I sucked in a breath. The sudden rush of air choked me, causing me to cough. With the cough came tears.

I lowered myself to the floor and blubbered.

I cried until I was exhausted. Somehow, I eventually managed to stand. With swollen eyes and an aching heart, I glanced around the empty home. I couldn’t imagine sleeping in the bed without him at my side.

I fell asleep on the couch fearing I’d never be able to return to that bed.

Or, to Cash.