Prince Charming Can Wait (Ever After) (15 page)

"Because you're specia—" He suddenly noticed a small scar on the corner of her mouth, and he tensed as he touched it with his fingers. "Did your ex do that to you?"

Emma brushed her finger over it. "Yes."

He ground his jaw and dropped his hand. Did he need more evidence that this life wasn't for him? That he had no business forcing Emma into his world? "I'm going to talk to Ned and see what we need to do—"

Emma grabbed his hand as he turned away. Electricity leapt through him, and he stopped, unable to pull himself out of her grasp. But he didn't look at her. "I need to go," he said softly. "If I don't go now, I'm not going to walk away ever, but I have to."

"Why?" It was a whisper, as if she didn't even want to say it, as if she were afraid to hear the answer.

He looked back at her, but didn't turn away from the door. He couldn't take his gaze off the scar on her lip. "Your ex hit you."

She frowned, her brow furrowing. "And that makes me tainted?" She released his hand, retreating. "Sorry about that," she bit out. "I didn't mean to bring you down."

"Tainted? Shit no, you're not the one who's tainted. You're…you're like…" Hell, he had no words, no poetry to describe what she brought into his life. He turned back to her, unable to stay away, knowing he had to say something to make them both realize that it had to stop between them, but somehow he had to do it without hurting her, without making her think that she was anything but the most beautiful treasure he could ever be offered. "I told you my father got injured and collapsed in the woods, and he lay out there until he died, right? Then rotted for a few more months after that?"

She grimaced, nodding slightly. "Yes, but—"

"I didn't tell you why he collapsed or how he got injured." Harlan ground his jaw, refusing to let his emotions revisit the memories of that night. He kept his mind rigidly focused, struggling not to relive that moment that he never allowed himself to think about.

She cocked her head, studying him. "What happened?"

He met her gaze and let her see the truth in his eyes. "I tried to kill him with a chair," he said neutrally. "I didn't completely succeed and he got away, only to die alone in the woods from the wounds I had inflicted upon him. I was fifteen."

Emma's mouth dropped open. "What?"

"My father was a bastard, Emma. He beat my stepmother. He did the same to me." He grimaced and told her the whole truth, needing her to understand who he was. "And I'm the same way. I'm his son in all ways. Getting married to you and then leaving was the only safe way for me to do it. I thought it would work." He shook his head, brushing his fingers over her cheek, needing to touch her, to feel the softness of her skin one last time. "But it was a lie," he said quietly. "A complete lie. I'm not that guy, and I can't do that. I can't be married to you and leave you alone. I dream about you every single night. I dream about our night together, and I wake up feeling your skin against mine, hearing your laughter, and craving you so much that it actually fucking hurts." He dropped his hand from her face. "As long as you're mine, it's not going to stop, and I'm not strong enough to fight it off forever. I need to go find Ned and free you, before I become the husband and father my old man was."

Her mouth was still open in wordless shock, and he didn't give her a chance to respond. He simply turned and walked out, almost hoping she would call him back and announce that he was wrong, that there was a chance for a guy like him...but she didn't.

Of course she didn't. Emma had seen darkness before, and she was too smart to go back there again.

Which was a relief.

She was not going to allow him to destroy one more life.

Victory.

A victory that felt like shit.

As Harlan walked out of her cabin, Emma's heart felt like it was being crushed. An icy cold terror crept down her arms like a slow, insidious poison. Fear so deep it seemed to freeze her very soul pulsed through her. Not just of Harlan, but of the fact that she hadn't seen that violent, dangerous side of him. Not even a tiny bit. She'd misjudged him, just like she'd misjudged Preston. Wrong again.
Wrong again.
So very, very wrong.

The screen door slammed shut and she slid down the wall, her entire body starting to tremble. Her mouth began to throb, the old wound from where Preston had struck her burning as if he'd just done it. The same fear rippled over her, that terror she'd felt as she'd scrambled back from him, not understanding who this man was coming at her, like she was in some alternate world. She'd never thought of Preston as a large man, not until he'd shoved her against the bookshelf with such force, not until the back of his hand had opened her lip, not until she'd been in that corner, with nowhere to go, with nowhere to hide as he approached her with such menace.

But Harlan
was
big. He was thick with corded muscles and broad shoulders. His whole being was physical, exuding such tremendous strength. It was his power that had attracted her to him, the sense of safety when she was with him. He was stronger than all the bad stuff in life. He made her feel like there was a great protective shield around her, like she could actually breathe deeply when he was holding her.

She didn't understand how that same strength that had drawn her to him, was actually something he would use against her? He used it to shield her from nightmares. He used it to rescue people who were kidnapped. He used it to do good things.

But what did he do to actually
free
those victims? She knew without words the world he inhabited. Of course he did violent, deadly things. No man could perform the job he did and be afraid to do what was necessary. She recalled too vividly his statement that he wanted to kill Preston. He wasn't lying about his violent side. It had been there all along. She'd just chosen not to see it. "Oh, God." She pressed her palms to her head. What had she done? Who had she married? She'd seen the absolute conviction in Harlan's eyes that he spoke the truth, that he was the man his father had been.

He'd married her so he wouldn't repeat his father's life by dying alone. But really, was a lonely death the part of his father he wanted to leave behind, or was it the other part? The part that had beaten his son and his wife? Was his father's violence actually the legacy that trapped him, not dying alone? "I can't do this," she whispered. "I just can't." But even as she said the words, cutting herself off from him, another part of her, a deeper part, cried for the loss of the man she'd believed he was.

Harlan braced his palms on the warm hood of Emma's car, head down, fighting for control. He could still see the stark horror on Emma's face when he'd told her who he really was.

She'd trusted him, and he'd betrayed her. He could see it in every emotion on her face. The woman who had barely clawed her way back to life after a marriage from hell had put herself out there for him, believing him to be the good guy, and he'd ripped everything out from under her.

He'd broken his promise by coming back.

He'd taken the marriage away from her by declaring he was getting a divorce.

He'd cast filth on her dreams that she'd married a decent guy, telling her he was worse than the man who had nearly destroyed her. He'd made her realize that she'd married the very thing she feared most.

Why hadn't he been honest on the boat that night? Why hadn't he told her what he was really like? Why had he pretended that a midnight wedding and a quick departure would actually be a good idea?

Digging his fingers into the hood of her car, he raised his head and looked back at the little cabin. She hadn't come after him. Of course she hadn't. He'd betrayed her. How many ways would he be like his father? More and more—

The sound of tires crunching on the dirt road caught his attention, and he swung around, instantly alert. Who was coming back into her private area? As he waited for the approaching car to emerge from the trees, he became grimly aware of how isolated her cabin was. What if her ex decided to come after her? Who would hear her cry for help? Who would come to her aid? Even as he thought it, a ski boat cruised by. On board were seven shirtless guys, shouting too loudly, with a few beer cans visible in their hands.

Harlan went still, watching them, his gut going cold. What if Emma was out on her dock one evening when they went by? There was nothing out here except for woods and lakefront. The lake was host to a bunch of rowdy summer residents, including testosterone junkies who might down a few too many beers and decide to cause trouble for a single woman living by herself.

A cold sweat broke out on his arms, and he whipped around as an antique Volkswagen lumbered into sight and parked in front of Emma's house. Harlan instinctively moved between the car and her front door as the driver's side opened and a young woman emerged. Maybe in her mid-twenties, she was wearing a loose white blouse and a pair of jeans. Her hair was tucked up in a loose bun. She looked casual, but there was an air to her that made Harlan think that a bullet would bounce right off her chest if someone tried to take her down. "Can I help you?" he said smoothly, intercepting her as she stepped out of the car.

She eyed him suspiciously. "You must be Harlan Shea."

He almost blinked in surprise. How in the hell did she know who he was? "I am," he said, not giving away anything. "And you are?"

"Dottie McPhee," she said. "Is your wife here?"

"My wife?" he echoed, an unfamiliar sensation rippling through him at the phrase. It felt good, but at the same time, dangerously wrong.

She peered at him. "You
are
married to Emma Larson, are you not?"

Harlan stared at her. "I am," he said slowly. "And who exactly are you?"

"Dottie McPhee," she repeated, her eyebrows going up when he didn't respond. "I'm here to conduct the home study. I'm a little early, but I was in the area so I thought I'd come by."

"Home study?" he echoed. "What are you talking about?"

Dottie's eyes narrowed. "You and your wife filed an application to become foster parents with intent to adopt, specifically of Mattie Williams." She drew her shoulders back. "Are you not aware of this petition?"

Harlan looked toward the house as understanding dawned over him. That was why Emma had been willing to get married. Because she had needed a husband. That was what she wanted him for. A child? Jesus. He was dangerous enough to her. A child? There was no way he could get involved in this situation. "I'm sorry, Ms. McPhee, but—"

The screen door slammed open, and Emma leapt into the doorway, her face stricken as she looked frantically back and forth between them. Her skin was ashen, so white that Harlan actually took a step toward her, reaching out to catch her if she passed out. "Dottie McPhee?" she croaked. "I thought the home study was tomorrow."

"No, it's today." The social worker eyed Emma, her mouth thinning out. "I was just speaking with your husband. He seems to be unaware of the petition you filed."

Emma's face paled even more, and her fingers gripped the door so tightly that her knuckles were white. Harlan had seen victims staring down death at the hands of their kidnappers, people so terrified that they could not even move, and yet never had he seen an expression of deeper, more heart-wrenching fear than the one on Emma's face. Not for her own life. For the life of some little girl named Mattie Williams, who was clearly a kid without a home or parents. "I—," she stammered. "He—"

Son of a bitch. He could not let this happen.

Harlan vaulted up the stairs and wrapped his arm around Emma, tucking her up against his side. She was shaking violently against him, and her skin was cold. "My apologies, Ms. McPhee," he said smoothly. "My job sends me into dangerous situations, and Emma was notified that I had gone missing in action. I was rescued two weeks ago, but I wasn't allowed to make contact until I was released. I was given permission last night, and I came straight home without even calling first. I knew that she needed to see me in person to believe I was still alive. I surprised her ten minutes ago, and we're both a little distracted." He pressed his lips to the top of her head. "I thought I was going to die without ever seeing her again, and she was afraid I was dead," he said softly, as he turned to Emma. "I'm here, Em. I really am."

Emma looked up at him, and he was shocked to see her eyes fill with tears. There was so much emotion in her eyes, so much fear, so much anguish, and a loneliness so deep that it seemed to reach inside him and tear open his chest. Unable to stop himself, he slid his hand behind her neck and lowered his head, brushing a soft kiss over her lips. "It's okay, sweetheart," he said softly. "It's going to be okay." He didn't know what was going to be okay, or how, but he needed to say it. He needed to make it true. He had done so little right in his life, and he needed to change that, right now, right here, with the woman who had believed in him.

Emma's hand slid to his chest, and her fingers dug in, gripping the front of his shirt, as if trying to hang onto him and keep him from escaping. "Did you really almost die?" she whispered.

He put his hand over hers. "Nah," he said gently, unwilling to add more torment to the burden she was already carrying. "I was fine."

She searched his face. "You're lying," she said. "You really almost died, didn't you?"

He couldn't lie to her. Their relationship, what little of it there was, had been based on truths. "It was closer than I've been in a long time," he admitted. He managed a small smile. "But I kind of messed up my hip. I'm not doing anything more dangerous than limping to the fridge for a while, okay? No more missions."

Dottie cleared her throat, jerking Harlan's attention back to the present. Swearing under his breath, he tore his gaze off Emma and looked back toward the social worker, whose disapproving glare had been replaced by a misty-eyed romantic longing. "Well," she said, "I can answer one question already."