Chapter Twenty-Three
The lavender sky plunged into darkness like a pearl into midnight waters. Cash watched the moon grow brighter against its dimming backdrop, barely noticing the whip of the icy wind against his cheeks.
He deserved the discomfort, just as he deserved every part of the aching numbness that had infected his blood. He knew that much.
The hulking carcass of the old church loomed before him, the wind whistling through the jagged remains of its stained glass windows. He gazed up at the imposing arcs and spears of its silhouette, but for the first time, he wasn’t inspired. His fingers didn’t itch to pick up a pen. Which was just as well, because he hadn’t bought his sketchbook and his hands were frozen stiff.
Another pain that he deserved.
Furious with himself, Cash turned his back on the gothic beauty that had always soothed him. He’d been a fool to think that the usual tactics would work. There was nothing usual about this situation.
There was nothing usual about the woman he’d left behind, or the way she made him feel.
I’m not in love with Bailey.
“I’m a fucking liar,” he muttered to himself. The wind snatched away his words. He liked that; it made him feel braver. “I’m a liar,” he repeated. “And a coward. I—”
He broke off. There was a figure approaching, wandering out from the trees with a halting gait. A figure he recognised.
But she was… Limping?
Cash ran across the frosted grass, his boots kicking up icy chunks of dirt. He reached her in moments, pulled her into his arms as though he hadn’t seen her in weeks.
But she was stiff, cold in more ways than one.
Of course she was. God, where the fuck was his sense?
He pulled back, looked down into her face and found fury. That was to be expected. But there was something else there, something that broke his heart. Pain gleamed like a knife’s edge in her soft, brown eyes.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Bailey—”
“I mean it.”
Cash took a deep breath. Let her go. Stepped back. And then he tried again. “You’re hurt. What’s wrong with your leg?”
“I fell,” she said shortly. “Landed on my knee.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“Looking for you.”
As though he wasn’t guilty enough. “We need to get you home. I can carry you.”
“Where the fuck do you get off, acting like you give a shit?”
That felt like a slap. He wanted to do something to stop this—to stop the pain of the best thing he’d never had splintering before his eyes—but he shouldn’t. He wouldn’t.
He. Deserved. This.
“Well?” She demanded.
“The cold will make it worse.” He began walking back towards the house, hoping she would follow. But she didn’t, of course.
“Why do you care?” She shouted at his back, accusation crawling over her words.
He looked back at her and wondered if she could see his heart shattering through his chest. “You think I don’t care about you, Bailey? You’re wrong. I care about you so much, it worries me.”
“Then stop the bullshit, Cash. Stop the hot and cold, stop with the mystery and just fucking—just talk to me! Now. Right now.”
She made it sound so simple. As though talking—telling her exactly what a mess he was—would make things better instead of worse. His first instinct was to push her away somehow, to take the choice out of both their hands.
But something about the way she was looking at him spoke of finality. Of the fact that this might be his last chance. At what, he didn’t know; but the thought of wasting it terrified him more than any of his demons ever could.
And then she said, “Your mother talked to me.”
Bailey watched as Cash turned away, ran a hand through his hair. In the swelling shadows, he seemed to mirror the imposing carcass of a church that stood beyond him, piercing the sky. But then he turned back to her with a haunted, hopeless expression that didn’t belong on a man like him; a man who moved mountains. She wanted to replace that look with something else, something warm and contented, forever. But she couldn’t.
That was up to him.
“What did she tell you?” He asked, his voice ragged.
“Well,” she said, gently. “I think I know now, how you got that scar.” Her voice, so bold moments ago, was soft now. Hesitant.
He laughed, but the sound was harsh. “I want to piss you off,” he said. “I want you furious again, to burn away the pity.”
“I’ve never pitied you and I never will.” She stood firm, watched as he studied her face. As he saw the truth in her eyes.
His gaze shuttered. “Bailey. You must know by now that I’m not the kind of man you can be with.”
“Why? Because of your past?” She shook her head. “If you’re afraid—I understand that. But I want to help.”
He shook his head, a sharp smile twisting his face. “Is that what you think? That I’m scared for myself?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No. I’m scared for you, Bailey. Do you realise what a fuck-up I am? Do you realise that—that if I’m not careful, I’ll end up just like him?”
“Why would you say that?” She asked, horrified. A tear ran down her cheek, tracing fire across the icy plane of her skin.
His arrogant veneer crumbled when he saw her cry. He came to her, swiped the tear away with a thumb; then he cupped her face tenderly, as though she were something precious. She allowed herself to be swept away by the sensation, until he spoke again, his voice solemn.
“There’s a beast inside of me. I keep it caged. You drive it wild.”
Confusion pleating her brow, she peered up at him. “So are you, like, a werewolf?”
He squinted. “…No, Bailey. I’m not a werewolf.” And then he laughed. The sound was harsh, broken, but real—and despite the icy chill, her heart grew warm. He bumped his forehead against hers, and some of the strain was gone from his features. “A werewolf? Really? You’re so fucking cute.”
“Shut up,” she huffed. “It’s not my fault you decided to be all dramatic.” But she was smiling, because even when she fucking furious and confused and upset, Cash could always make her smile.
Then his face returned to solemnity, and he shook his head. “I’m not being dramatic. I’m a mess, Bailey. And it never really mattered before, because I had nobody to inflict it on. But I can’t hide it from you. And I can’t give you anything better.”
She studied his face, saw truth in his eyes. But she just didn’t understand.
“Why do you think that?” She asked softly. “Tell me.”
He hesitated. When he spoke, the words were wincing and hesitant, as though they didn’t often see the light of day. “I have… Thoughts. Intrusive thoughts. I bet you know what that means.”
“I do.” Unwelcome, involuntary thoughts that were difficult to manage or ignore; sometimes associated with mental illness; sometimes the result of trauma. And in his case, probably the latter. “What do you see?” She asked.
“Hear. I hear it.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “So you have these thoughts. And they make you think that you’re… That you’re like your father?”
He shook his head. “They tell me I’m like him. No matter what I do—they tell me that… I’ll end up hurting people. Like he hurt…” His voice trailed off and he squeezed his eyes shut, his expression fierce. He probably looked intimidating to most people. Terrifying, even. He was a big guy; he was tatted; he stomped around in those fucking boots and all that leather, and when he wasn’t smiling he looked something close to savage.
But Bailey had never been scared of this man. Not once. Because she knew who he really was.
“Cash,” she said gently. “I’m not afraid of you.”
He opened his eyes. “I know. And I want to keep it that way.”
“I will never be afraid of you. Intrusive thoughts can’t tell you who you are. Only you decide that. If you need to push people away to feel safe, I understand. But pushing people away for their safety is a different thing entirely. I am a grown woman. If I want to love an accountant from a neat little family who goes fishing on Sundays, I will. And if I want to love you, Cash, I will. You can’t stop love. All you can do is take it or reject it.”
He stared down at her with something perilously close to hope, something so vulnerable that it made her heart ache. But then his gaze shifted once more, and she felt him pulling back into self-doubt.
“You don’t understand,” he said stiffly. “I’m just like him. I… I tried to kill him, the day he came for us. I would have, if the police hadn’t arrived.” A tear slid down his own cheek, and the sight almost broke her. His voice was shaky as he continued. “I said it was self-defence. It wasn’t. I saw him before I saw the knife and I decided right then that I would kill him. I just wanted my family to be safe, and I couldn’t think of any other way—fuck, I didn’t think. I didn’t weigh up the pros and cons. Morals didn’t come into it. I saw him and I wanted him dead.” He took a ragged breath. “That’s the kind of person I am, Bailey.”
She reached up and slid her hands into his hair, angled his head until he was forced to look down and meet her eyes.
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to protect your family. Defending the ones you love isn’t twisted or cruel. Can you imagine your father doing something like that? Knowing he’d spend the rest of his life locked away, without the ones he’d sacrificed for?”
Cash shook his head. “I didn’t need to be with them. I just needed to know they’d be safe.”
“Exactly.” She rose up on her toes, pressed her forehead to his. “Your love is as fierce as you are, Cash. That’s all.”
His eyes were wide, hungry, desperate. He wrapped his arms around her waist, held her as though she might disappear at any moment. “God, I want to believe you. The way you make me feel…”
“How do I make you feel?”
“When I saw you for the first time, I felt like… Fuck, I felt like I’d been punched in the face.” He choked out a laugh. “I felt like my life would be a failure if I never got to know you. And then I worried that I was building you up too much in my head. But I wasn’t. You’re… You’re more than I ever dreamed you would be. We met two months ago, Bailey. Two months. And I would kill for you. That’s not normal.”
“Doesn’t have to be normal to be right,” she murmured. “Cash… I never wanted to be with anyone. Not really. All I’ve ever seen of love is the way it drains people; the way it uses them up and leaves them wanting. I grew up thinking of love as a vampire. And I was always left to nurse my mother back to health when it attacked.
“I never understood how she fell so hard every time. But I’m starting to. If loving someone feels like this… I’m starting to. And I know now why they call it falling. You can’t just step into this shit. And you can’t stop it once it’s started. You have to be brave. You have to believe that someone’s gonna catch you.”
Around them, the temperature sank lower as night crept over the grass. The huge, old church behind him was just a terrifying shadow now, any semblance of beauty blanked out by the bone-white glare of the moon. But between them, the air was hot. His warm breath soothed her wind-chapped cheeks; his hands on her were so delicious, she almost forgot the ache in her knee. And his gaze was burning like the fire in the home they’d left behind.
“You know that I’d catch you,” he said. “Don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” she whispered, and as she said the words, she realised they were true. They really were. The knowledge rang through her body like the sound of shattered glass.
No—of shattered ice.
She wasn’t afraid anymore.
But it was no good being brave alone.
“Do you know it, Cash?”
“I trust you,” he told her.
“I believe you. But that’s not all it takes. You have to trust yourself.”
He cursed softly, and all of a sudden he was gone. The shelter his big body provided was cruelly stolen, and cold swept in with a vengeance.
Cash paced away from her, raking his hands through his hair, muttering to himself. The traitorous wind carried the sound to her ears—just enough for her to hear the frustration in his tone. Not enough to make out the words.
Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, and she let them. It didn’t matter, now. A thought pushed its way to the front of her mind, refusing to leave, even though she knew better. Nothing matters now, it whispered. Nothing.
She turned and limped away.
“Bailey!” He was back within seconds, sweeping her up into his arms. “What are you doing? You aren’t walking on that knee.”
She wanted to tell him to put her down, to get off of her, to disappear completely so she might have some chance of ever feeling whole again. But she didn’t even know if that would work, or if it would only ruin her further. And anyway, when she tried to speak, all that came out was a garbled sob.
“Don’t cry,” he said, horrified. “Bailey! Please don’t cry.” And then she felt his lips tracing their way across her cheeks, making constellations of her teardrops. His thick stubble tickled her skin, somehow comforting and devastating all at once.
“Bailey,” he whispered. “Sweetheart. I know I hurt you. I know I’m… God, I’m a bastard. I know that. But I want to be better and I want to be braver and it’s all because of you.”
Wait. This… This was not what she’d been ready to hear. And maybe it was foolish, but her hopeful heart sat up and listened.
“I want to be the one who cares for you. I want to be the one who makes you smile. I want to be the man you spend every Christmas with. I want to love you the way you deserve to be loved.” He took a breath. Cradled against his broad chest, she felt the air shudder through his lungs. “I do love you, Bailey. And I know I don’t deserve it, but if you could give me a chance—’’
He was forced into silence when she pressed her mouth to his. Her kiss was clumsy, frenzied, desperate. All the things she’d never wanted to be. And yet, when he kissed her back with just as much fervour, she found she didn’t mind it at all.
“Is that a yes?” He panted against her lips.
“What are you asking?”
“Be mine. For more than ninety days. For as long as you’ll have me.”
Bailey tangled her gloved fingers through his hair and said, “Forever, then?”
“Yes,” he whispered, and his piercing gaze became achingly tender. “Forever.”
She dragged his head down and kissed him again.
∞∞∞
It had taken Karen almost an hour to notice that Bailey was missing. Now she sat in the living room with an anxious Monroe and an infuriatingly calm George, pacing and cursing and generally panicking at as high a volume as she’d ever managed.
“I bet she’s fine,” Monroe said.
“But are you sure?” Cried Karen, twisting her apron with numb fingers.
“Yes,” Monroe said firmly.
“But she doesn’t know this area,” George interjected. “And she might fall into a ditch and twist her ankle and freeze to death. And then there will be police at the house on Christmas morning, and the boys will have very bad memories.”
Monroe looked at her husband in blank astonishment. Karen wailed and began pacing with renewed energy.
“Now what would you say that for?!” Monroe demanded.
“It’s a genuine concern,” George said. “I think I should go and look for her.”
“Shut up!” Karen said suddenly, flapping her hands. She ran to the window, peering out past the flashing Christmas lights. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! I’m trying to see.”
“Mother,” Monroe sighed. “I don’t think your hearing and your sight are connected.”
“Oh, no, they definitely are,” George countered sagely. “I’m quite sure of it.”
“Quiet!” Karen shrieked. “I think…” She squinted into the darkness, watched the growing shape in the distance come closer. Within seconds, it was identifiable. “They’re back!” She cried, her despair vanishing. “Oh, they’re back! And—goodness me.”
Monroe rushed to the window, and so very delighted was her own cry that George felt moved to join the pair.
He ambled over, slipping an arm around his wife’s waist, taking a moment to enjoy the happiness on her pretty face. He was almost completely distracted by the curls springing loose from her serviceable bun—but then he remembered that he was supposed to be seeing whatever it was that had the women so well-pleased.
And so George looked out of the window too, and saw Cash walking towards the house with Bailey in his arms. He was looking down at her with an expression that George had never seen on the man’s face before. And Bailey, for her part, was looking up at Cash with an equally baffling smile. It was soft and silly and vaguely familiar. It took George a second to place it, but eventually he did.
That was how Monroe looked at him—when he wasn’t making her growl with frustration. And sometimes, when he was.
Well, then. It seemed they’d all have a very merry Christmas after all.