Sara Jane

Alexander’s lawyer, Quincy, arrives quickly. The lawn is littered with police and paramedics. There’s no saving April Dorset. No one seemed particularly sad, and that makes me sad.

I overhear Brown telling his captain about Langley receiving my message and how when they arrived, he saw April aim her gun at my back, so he shot her first. He. Shot. Her. First.

First. The word sticks with me throughout the night as we are questioned separately and then together. While a paramedic examines me, I realize Alexander must have shot her as well.

He had more than enough reason to shoot her, to even kill her, especially after being held hostage and starved like he was. But I don’t want him to be a killer. I don’t want it to become second nature to him. Maybe I don’t want him to lose what I’ve fought so hard to keep—the good that he can be, the light to his dark.

Although we don’t talk about the day I was shot and how he reacted, we’re both aware of what happened. I would have reacted the same. The rest is muddled in emotions that come into play.

April was a horrible person, but even though she was willing to kill me, I don’t know if she deserved to die. She should have suffered more. Nothing tastes as sweet as revenge.

Love does.

The response comes without my permission.

Love is a feeling, a weakness.

I should know better, but some lessons are harder to learn than others, especially when you’re in love with a Kingwood.

I have post-traumatic stress disorder, so I’m told. I’ve been working through my thoughts, my fears, and my anger in therapy. There’s too much weighing on me day to day to not discuss it with an impartial party.

Lying on the therapist’s couch, I’m exposed in ways that make me feel uncomfortable, like some secrets should stay buried. Maybe that night is one of those. Maybe the depth of my love for Alexander is another.

In a lowered voice, deep with neutrality, my therapist asks, “Is this an addictive relationship? Do you need help, Sara Jane?”

I laugh, sitting up. “Of course it’s addictive. Love is an addiction. Passion is an addiction. Alexander is an addiction.”

“Addiction to anything or anyone is not healthy. I also understand that it’s hard to end a relationship that is bad for you.”

“I would never want to end things, especially now that the bad is behind us.”

Her frustration is setting in. Her expression scrunches as she stares at her lap. The tapping of the pencil eraser against the yellow pad nestles into my thoughts. I turn away from the therapist as she reads over her notes. “How are you sleeping? It was a traumatic event. You once told me he set off a domino effect. His search for his mother’s killer led to the death of your friend, you were shot, his birth mother’s role in all this before her death. How do you feel about these now?”

“I realize he didn’t start the battle, but he won the war. Things were set in motion generations before Alexander. It took him to end it.”

“Are you aware you always defend Alexander? It doesn’t matter what is asked or implied, you come up with a justification.”

“I don’t have to justify anything. The story tells itself.”

A sigh, the sound of scribbling on the pad, her annoyance is obvious.

Giving her something to focus on, something that might help her or me, I lie back again and reply, “To answer your earlier question, I sleep soundly now that he’s back. It’s the daytime hours that are cluttered with flashbacks.”

My therapist adds, “A feeling of abandonment is natural, Sara Jane.”

“Alexander would never abandon me. We’re like salt to the sea, meant to be.”

“It’s a nice analogy, but you said you felt vengeful. Are you still feeling those emotions now that he’s back?”

I’ll protect what’s mine, and I’ll never be underestimated again, so I lie, “No. He’s home.”

“Home. Is that the manor? Where is home these days?”

“Wherever Alexander is, that’s my home.” I make no apologies for loving him this much. His demons were sent to hell, and he’s found peace in his life. One day, I’ll join him, but today, I try to work through the tragic side effects of loving a Kingwood.

Or perhaps, not the side effects of loving a Kingwood, because the Kingwood I love is good. Perhaps it’s overcoming the hatred and greed Alexander’s predecessors created within the name. They bred arrogance and an insatiable gluttony for wealth, which only brought destruction and hate.

But no more. That cycle has been stopped.

* * *

I wake up when Alexander sits up abruptly, his hand flying across my chest like we’re in a car accident. “What?” I ask, startled.

“Garvey Penner.”

“Huh?”

With his eyes fixed ahead, I turn toward the TV that hangs on the other side of the room. The newscaster is reporting from the riverbanks:

After the family was notified, we can now report that the body was identified as a local man, Garvey Penner, a known felon who had several warrants out for his arrest for dealing drugs and fraud. The police have released a statement that the body will undergo an autopsy to determine the cause of death, but early reports lead us to believe it’s a drowning suicide.

“Garvey is dead?” I ask, looking to Alexander for answers.

He sits back, his body relaxing, his finger clicking the button of the remote and turning the station. “Wow, that’s too bad.”

“Alexander, look at me.” When he does, I say, “He was your cousin. Are you okay?”

“No, he wasn’t. Mom told me he wasn’t April’s nephew. That was one of the many lies she told.”

I lean my head on his bare shoulder, and the horrible memories come back. Tears fall down my cheeks, leaking onto his skin. He wraps his arm around me and pulls me even closer. “You were her son. How could she want you dead?”

There’s no rush to answer. What do we say anyway? But when he finally breaks the silence, he says, “She was a monster. What if I’m a monster too?”

My gasp is audible, and my head flies up so I can look him in the eyes. I hold his face in my hands, the stubble rough against my skin. “You are not a monster. Genetics don’t turn someone into a monster. Greed does.”

“What if—?”

“No, there are no what ifs. You are not simply a product of genetics. There’s only this between us—our love and our life together.”

A quiet calm comes over him and he says, “You bring out the best in me. How can I ever repay you?”

“That’s just it. My love doesn’t cost a thing, Alexander. You are mine and I’m yours.” Leaning up, I kiss him, my tears trapped between us on our lips.

His hands run up my neck, his fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck. “You’re my family. God, what am I doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted a perfect moment. For you, I wanted to give you romance and an over-the-top proposal—”

“I don’t need—”

His finger crosses my lips while he smiles. “Please. Let me say this.” I give him this because he needs it. And listening to him, my heart swoons from his sweetness. He says, “I understand you don’t need over the top or some planned-out night. I understand now. This is romance. You and me in bed together talking, touching, always on each other’s side.” He smirks. “Or maybe that’s just romance to me.”

“Being with you every night is all the romance I’ll ever need, Alexander. Remembering how it felt when you were gone, thinking you left me and then finding out how you were treated, how close it came that I might never see you again, I don’t need anything more than you.”

“Marry me, Firefly.”

I tease, “I thought we were already.”

Leaning over me, my head hits the pillow, and we sink down together. I love the feel of his body on mine. I love the weight of his love on me. One of his fingers traces an erratic line languidly down my neck and lower. “Marry me, Sara Jane Grayson. Be my wife, my love, my best friend, my lover forever. Will you marry me?”

“I couldn’t deny you years ago. There’s no way I can deny you now. Yes, my love. Yes, my life.” My fingers weave into his hair, and I tighten around his dark locks, bringing him down to me. Against his lips, I say, “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

The rest of my yeses are consumed by kisses and moans, stroking and thrusting until yeses to marriage turn into orgasmic yeses consumed by our rapture.