Page 12 of Love What's Left
Mid-forties, huge and gnarled, with a scar running through his upper lip, a nose broken multiple times, and military-short dark hair, he looks intimidating, but he always got along great with Sydney.
He forces a smile and ignores my retching. “Hey, Syd. How’s it going?”
Without waiting to see him make room for her to pass, she spins in the direction of the chest-high glass wall at the edge of the deck. As she goes, she hooks her elbow under the back of a small bistro chair and drags it across the balcony, awkwardly scraping metal against stone tile.
When she pushes the chair against the glass barrier, I waste precious seconds bent over, cupping my cock, and breathing through clenched teeth, before I come to the panicked realization that she’s not planning to sit in that chair and admire the view.
I push off against the stone tile floor like a sprinter at the crack of a starter pistol, racing toward her.
She climbs onto the chair and stands, wobbling on the seat, her knees level with the top railing. She’s still in the act of straightening when I wrap my arm around her, jerking her away from the edge and against my body. She flails and kicks, disturbingly silent in her struggle. The wind, our heavy breathing, and the slaps of skin as she makes contact with my face and arms are the only sounds, despite her panic . . . and mine.
“You’re okay.” I speak the way I would to a terrified animal. Calm. Firm. Gentle. Inside, though, fear and a broken heart fight for supremacy. My strong, beautiful, fierce wife nearly went somewhere so deep in her pain that I could never follow and bring her home. If it had taken me one second longer to understand the danger she was in, it would have been too late.
I can’t process the reality of it. I don’t want to. I adjust my grip, tighten my arms, to keep her safe. For her, but also for me. I need to feel her here. Alive.
I trap her arms against her body. “Stop. Fighting.”
No part of me expects the demand to work. Since when has Sydney ever listened to an order from me? But the words come from instinct, fear given a voice.
She closes her eyes and goes so still that she stops breathing, her face flooding with color as she refuses to suck in air.
“Breathe.” Fear morphs to fury, burning like hot coals inside me, welcome and necessary. I want to kill Markov all over again for what he did to her. This time, slowly.
She opensher eyes and drags in a noisy, wheezing lungful of air, then she frowns, her gaze raking over the skyline. She looks down, down . . . her mouth dropping open.
“We’re on a building?” Her voice emerges in a shocked squeak.
Thank God. Thank God.Thank God, it wasn’t deliberate. “Yes.”
I don’t know what she thought she’d seen. Markov’s home? My warehouse where he’d planned to murder her and dump her body?
She gulps, then her teeth chatter. “Oh God.”
“I’m taking you back inside where it’s safe and warm.” This isn’t the time to lose my shit. Sydney needs me to stay solid as a rock when I’m about fifteen seconds from breaking into gravel or crumbling into sand. The worst part is, even I don’t know what I’ll do if that happens. Beg her to recognize me? Punch a hole in the drywall and picture Markov’s face when I do it? “Drown,”a voice whispers inside me. “You’ll fucking drown.”
She leans on me, presses into me, like I’m a lifeline. I release her arms, and she wraps them around my shoulders. But when I turn to face the doors where Dave stands with his phone to his ear, her panicked battle renews.
“Dave, get out of sight. She’s afraid of you. Send PT home when they show up.”
His concerned expression transitions to regret, and he moves farther back inside and out of the way. She stops fighting. When he’s out of view, I step inside and set her on her feet.
Her gaze darts warily around the living room. This is ourhome. But none of us knows what happened in those hours before she disappeared. There was an entire night spent here alone after the situation at the lab and before she disappeared the next day.
“Do you want to leave the penthouse? We don’t have to stay here,” I say.
Her mouth tightens. “Get me out of this city.”
I nod, relieved. It’s a good idea. “Then we’ll go. I need to pack for a trip. You need shoes and a jacket, first.”
She cranes her head, probably seeking the front door. When we reach the broken glass of the vase and a lamp, I stop her with a touch to her forearm. “Your feet are bare. May I carry you again, so you don’t cut yourself?”
I don’t want to manhandle her or steal her free will. If she says no, then I’ll find another way. Clean the floor first. The fact that I carried her inside against her will doesn’t feel good. Not for either of us. If she were in her right mind, I’d never consider it. But that was triage. I’m winging it and praying when I talk to her doctors later, they’ll give me guidance.
Either way, I’m not forcing her to do anything unless it’s to keep her from hurting herself.
She nods stiffly. This time, I pick her up in a bridal carry and bring her through the bedroom and into the walk-in closet. I can’t leave her alone while I pack and expect her to remain in the penthouse by the time I get back to her.
“I’ll make flight arrangements. You need socks and shoes.” I lower her to the large tufted ottoman near the floor-to-ceiling mirror. “It will take a few minutes, if you want to sit.”
