Page 103 of Scarred Redemption

I stood in the open doorway of the bedroom leading to the deck, lost in thought. Even as a child, the red flags involving my father had been there. He never talked about his work, other than to say he was in distribution. I’d overheard my mother grilling him about his work schedule and the fact he was gone more than half the time.

I’d even snooped through his things, wondering why I’d never found anything indicating where he worked. Not a business card. No letterhead. No holiday parties or barbeques. When I’d been brave enough to ask, he’d told me he didn’t want to bring work home. What little girl wouldn’t want to believe in her own father?

In thinking about my family, I realized I hadn’t bothered to open a statement about my trust fund in months. Maybe over a year. Had I thought in ignoring the fact an account had been set up for me I could pretend my father was a good man?

What I did know was that I’d been a fool to try to shove the past aside. No amount of running would ever erase the past or stop the legacy of one’s heritage.

That’s why I’d managed to fall deeply in love with Maxsim. It was as if an epiphany had hit me in the darkness. We’d both had difficult families growing up, terrible circumstances and were both trying to navigate our way through the rest of our lives.

I’d never fully understood the concept of someone having a broken soul until meeting him. Once defined, I’d been able to see that within myself. Which was why every emotion, every trauma and anxiety felt completely surreal.

What was very real was how I felt about him.

And about our baby.

I folded my arms across my stomach, wondering if we were having a little prince or princess. Either way I wouldn’t care, although I suspected Maxsim would love to have a son. I could see him playing catch or tossing a football. Well, maybe.

My subtle laugh felt good after the heartache of hearing in defining black and white how evil my father had been. I still felt nothing but satisfaction regarding his death, even if a tickling fear lingered in the back of my mind.

Was there even a remote possibility he was alive? It was a crazy notion, but I hadn’t been able to sleep because of it.

Maxsim had been gone for a long time. So long the ache was only growing. I needed his strong arms around me, whispering soft but powerful words that everything was going to be alright.

I leaned against the door, thankful Mina had been very tired, enough so she’d fallen asleep while I’d been reading to her. While she was a resilient little girl, the longer and more often her papa was gone, the more likely it was the cracks in her resolve would widen.

Every shiver had a purpose, every wild rush of my heartbeat a reminder of just how precarious everything remained. In his world. Now my world. It was obvious I wasn’t going to fall asleep without him being in the house. Maybe a cool drink would help.

Or maybe I’d just pace the floor downstairs to try to soothe the ache. As I turned on the bathroom light to grab my robe, I was caught by my reflection. My steps were slow as I crowded the counter, staring at my face in the mirror.

There were dark circles under my eyes, but how funny that my skin was glowing. How was that even possible? I took a step back, turning to the side and placing one hand under my stomach. Was I showing yet? Seconds later, I rolled my eyes. How silly of me. Of course I wasn’t showing.

I had to be at two months. I stared into my eyes, now wondering if I’d even make a good mother. I snatched the robe before I tossed something at the glass, already in the hallway before I managed to tie the sash.

I quickly checked on Mina before making my way down the stairs. Before I even placed my bare foot on the threshold, I sensed a presence. What I hadn’t thought of doing was asking Maxsim for a weapon.

Yes, I was a blackbelt, but the mace had certainly been the only reason I’d kept Mina from the school kidnapping. My can had been burned in the fire along with my identification. The thought was sudden and electrifying, but not in a good way. I listened for any sounds and other than being able to hear the waves through the closed doors, there were none.

The fact the house was eerily quiet was as unnerving as the shadows created by the slice of moonlight. I moved quietly, padding across the wooden floor and even before I reached the living room door, a jolt of electricity tickled every nerve ending.

At least as soon as I stood in the doorway, I knew why.

Maxsim was sitting in the dark in what I’d learned was his favorite chair, the overstuffed leather a perfect representation of a piece of furniture meant for the man of the house. His back was to me and he was doing nothing more than staring out the set of doors. As I walked closer, a glint of light shimmered across the crystal glass he was bringing to his lips.

I didn’t need to be close to know he was wallowing in rage and determination, two emotions that shouldn’t be fused together when a man of his power was involved. He was sitting all alone fighting his demons, creatures I’d come to hate as much as he obviously did. They kept him awake at night, refusing to allow him any peace.

Since I’d accepted the violent streak obviously running through my psyche, I could fully embrace taking them on one at a time.

I’d win.

But tonight wasn’t about either one of us protecting the other or even about discovery of the person responsible for making our lives so miserable. Tonight was about adding another lengthy and stronger tether to keep us connected. Why was that important?

Because someone desperately wanted to keep us apart.

He stiffened when I was only a few feet away, the glass midway from his lap to his lips. I remained where I was as he slowly tipped his head to the side.

“You should know better than to sneak up on a bad man, Isabel. There’s no telling what he’ll do.” His voice was deeper, gruffer than before. Not from aged scotch or even indulging in a cigar. From the quiet rage festering in the depth of his being. I could feel the caustic vibes from where I was standing.

I did worry that he’d sell his soul to the devil for a chance to discover the person responsible. I knew instinctively he’d done terrible things, only some of which he’d told me about. Should I be troubled by the fact I wanted to know in vivid detail how he’d done them?