Prince Charming Can Wait (Ever After) (23 page)

"You don't mean that. I can see the conflict in your eyes." Satisfaction gleamed on Preston's smug face. "You still love me, I know you do. Listen, I fucked up. I never meant to hurt you—" He suddenly went flying backward, crashing into a table and upending the contents across the floor.

Harlan stepped in front of Emma, and she realized that he'd grabbed Preston by the back of the shirt and tossed him across the floor. "You stupid bastard." His voice was a low, deadly whisper that made chills run down Emma's spine.

She stared in shock at the expression on Harlan's face. It was such raw fury, such visceral hate that she froze.

Preston shot to his feet, evidently unharmed, his fists balled as he faced Harlan. "What's it to you?" Preston's blond hair and white dinner jacket were like glaring perfection against Harlan's black tee shirt and blue jeans. Both men were large and well-muscled. She knew exactly how hard Preston could hit, and how many hours he put in at the gym with his trainer working on kickboxing, but it was Harlan who scared her the most. The anger and fury were gone from his face. His features were schooled into a cold, lethal expression of pure destruction. The face of a warrior intending to kill. He looked like a man who could kill without remorse, the one he had claimed to be all along.

She froze, stunned at the change in Harlan. "Harlan?" she whispered, as if she could call him back from the place he'd gone.

"You were dancing with my wife," Preston snapped, his hands bunched into fists.

"Your ex-wife," Harlan said, his voice still edged with lethal chill. "She's my wife now."

"Your wife?" For a split second, Preston's face paled, and Emma felt a surge of triumph at his panic.

"What? You never considered that anyone else could want me?" Emma leaned on a nearby chair, taking the weight off her injured foot.

"She's mine," Harlan snarled, still not taking his gaze off Preston.

"Is she?" Preston shot a glance at her left hand, then gave Harlan a triumphant smile. "She's not wearing a wedding ring," he said.

Emma looked down at her hand, even though she already knew she'd see bare skin. No ring. Of course no ring. Suddenly, the absence of it felt hauntingly empty, a statement to the world that she didn't really belong to Harlan, or anywhere, that her life was simply a lie.

"She always wore mine," Preston sneered. "I guess you're just the rebound guy." His condescending gaze took in Harlan's attire, and disgust twisted on his face. "I give you a month," he said, "until she realizes that she likes the life I can give her better. When was the last time you bought a woman a new car? Or a pair of shoes? Or even a package of gum?"

"Stop it!" Emma began to shake with anger. How many times had she heard that derisive tone directed at her? By Preston. By her parents. By his parents. Memories slashed at her, ugly memories that seemed to cascade through her mind, one on top of the other.

"Push me," Harlan said evenly. "Just push me a little further, you piece of shit." A new wave of coldness seemed to settle over Harlan. His hands were loose, not fisted like Preston's, but there was far more danger emanating from Harlan. She could see now the killer he claimed to be, the man who killed to save those he had vowed to protect. "You hurt her," Harlan snarled. "You stripped the light from her spirit. You made promises to her, and then you betrayed her."

Oh, God. It was too much. Was he going to kill Preston right there in the middle of the fair? "Stop." Emma grabbed Harlan's arm, shocked at how tense his muscles were. "Harlan, let's go—"

"You don't deserve to breathe the same air as she does." Harlan didn't take his eyes off Preston, who was starting to circle him, his fists ready.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Griffin jumped between them, followed quickly by Jackson and Jason, as well as the bartender that Clare had tried to set Emma up with. "Stand down, guys. Jason, get Preston out of here. Harlan, take off."

Jackson grabbed Harlan's arm, but Harlan didn't even seem to notice. He was just staring at Preston, with that same deadly expression on his face.

"Come on, big guy," Jackson said to Harlan. "Stand down. He's not worth it."

"No, he isn't worth it," Harlan said, not moving. "But Emma is."

Emma's throat tightened at those words, and suddenly it all felt like too much. She wanted to fall into Harlan's arms for defending her, and at the same time, he scared her to death the way he was bleeding violence. Seeing Preston again was overwhelming. How many tears had she shed over him? Seeing him, hearing his voice...it was like reliving everything he'd ever done to her. Numbly, she stumbled backward, clutching her purse. She just needed to get out. Get away. From Preston. From Harlan. From all of them.

Eppie came racing over. She yanked her hat off her head and smacked Harlan with it, and then Preston. "Stop it!" she shouted. "You boys are acting like toads! Pull it together! Harlan, for God's sake, didn't you even notice your wife is hurt? She needs you to help her, not be an ass!"

At Eppie's words, Harlan jerked his gaze off Preston for the first time, whirling around to face Emma. "You're hurt?"

She shook her head, hugging her handbag to her chest as she fought back tears, still inching away from everyone. "I just twisted my ankle. I just have to go. I need to go—"

His gaze shot to the foot she was favoring. Anguished guilt flooded his features, turning him back into the man she knew. Swearing violently, he strode toward her and scooped her off the ground, not even noticing when Preston started shouting at him, daring him to come back and finish. Harlan's entire focus was on her, his arms so tight around her. "I didn't even notice," he said, his face tormented. "How bad is it?"

"It's fine." She pushed at his chest, frantic, needing space. "Let me down."

"No. I'll take you to the hospital." He didn't even turn back to look at the crowd. He just strode across the field toward his truck, not even hearing her protests.

"Harlan!" She hit his chest in frustration just as he reached the truck. "Let me go!" Tears were streaming down her face now, and she couldn't stop them.

He looked down at her, and his face went ashen. "Am I hurting you?"

"Just leave me alone," she whispered, too exhausted to fight. "I just want to go home."

He yanked open the door to the truck and eased her onto the seat. "I'll take you to the hospital—"

"No!" She grabbed his shirt. "For God's sake, just once, just this one time, will someone
please
listen to what I want? I just want to go
home.
"

He stared at her for a long moment, and then he nodded. "Home, it is."

She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, relief cascading through her. "Thank you," she whispered.

He said nothing, but she heard the gentle click of him closing her door softly. She didn't open her eyes when he got in the truck. She simply wanted it all to go away. And by "all" she meant all the men who she'd ever married for any reason.

They just needed to go away. Forever.

Harlan felt like shit, which was appropriate, because that was all he was worth.

There was no mistaking the way Emma tensed in resistance when he carried her up the steps to her cabin and across the living room to her bed. She hadn't spoken the whole ride home. She hadn't even made eye contact with him.

He deserved it. He knew he did. But hell, after having seen Emma smile at him earlier in the night, losing that affection felt like someone had taken a sharp dagger and carved out his damned heart. Her silence felt like hell.

Harlan set her down on the bed. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure what to do, but then quickly stepped back when she groaned and rolled onto her side, burying herself under the blankets. The faded quilt wrapped around her, its colored patterns mocking the blackness pulsing through him.

He should leave her. Go sleep on the couch. Give her privacy.

But he couldn't.

She was hurting. He'd seen her face. He couldn't walk away from her. "Em?"

No response.

"Emma."

No response.

Harlan ran his hand through his hair. "Did I hurt your ankle?" he finally asked. "When I grabbed Preston? Did I somehow hurt you?" The thought made him sick, literally sick, and he sat down in the middle of the floor, pressing his palms to his forehead. He'd been mad, so unbelievably angry when he'd seen Preston with his hands on Emma. The sight of Emma's stricken face had undone him, and he'd snapped, just completely fucking snapped. Jesus.
Jesus.
He dug his hand into his hair. What the fuck had he done? What—

"No." Emma's soft voice broke through his torment, and he jerked his head up.

She was on her side, the pillow tucked under her head as she looked at him. Her face looked pale and vulnerable against the faded yellow of her sheets, her blond hair strewn carelessly across the cotton. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, and the blanket was tucked up to her chin, but her head was uncovered now. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and her eyes were rimmed with red.

"No, what?" he asked. He had no idea what she was responding to. All he could do was look at her, and fight the desperate, unforgivable urge to crawl under those covers and pull her into his arms, to hold her until nothing could ever hurt her again. But he was the danger to her.
Him.
So how could holding her protect her from him?

"No, you didn't hurt my ankle," she said quietly. "I hurt it trying to get away from Preston."

The air seemed to stand still inside his chest, as if oxygen were circling so close, almost close enough to breathe again. "You mean it? I didn't hurt you?"

The smallest furrow appeared between her eyebrows. "How would you have hurt me? You didn't even touch me."

"I didn't?" He tried to remember, to replay the scene, but all he could think of was how much he'd wanted to attack Preston, how he'd thought of nothing else but getting over there and stopping him from touching Emma. "I can't remember what happened."

She frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know." He pressed his fingers to his head, trying to ease the pounding inside his brain. "When my father would go into a rage, no one around him was safe. He broke my stepmother's nose twice, and he threw me into a glass door when I was ten."

Emma's face blanched. "Harlan," she whispered. "How could you live like that? I'm so sorry for you."

"No, don't feel sorry for me. It was fine. I survived it." He couldn't take his eyes off her face, off the beautiful delicate visage of this woman who was allowing him into the sanctity of her bedroom, even after she had seen a flash of the beast within him. "But he taught me how to react to situations. My instinct is to do what he did, and to react first and think later. I lost my shit when I saw Preston touching you, when I saw the look of fear on your face." He met her gaze, not hiding from her anymore. "I don't know what I did in that moment. All I remember is the fury, and then charging at him."

Her face paled slightly in the moonlight, but she shook her head. "You didn't hit anyone, Harlan."

"I didn't?" When she shook her head, there was a moment of raw, stark relief ripping through him, stripping away his strength, but then it was quickly replaced by the grim truth. "But I wanted to." Swearing, he stood up, lacing his hands on top of his head as he paced the room. "I wanted to kill him, just like I told you that night in the boat. I was so pissed. I—" He broke off as he swung to face her. "I've never hated anyone like I did in that moment, when I saw the look of terror that he'd put on your face. I lost it, Em. I absolutely fucking lost it, just like my father."

Slowly, she held out her hand. It was steady now, not shaking, an invitation so beautiful he wanted to fall to his knees in disbelief that she could offer him her trust again. "Come here."

"No." He backed up, fighting off the instincts howling through him to reach out to her, to touch her, to bury himself in all that she was. "No, I'm not getting close to you—"

"I need you to come here," she said softly. "Please."

Please.
There was no chance for him to resist that. Reluctantly, he walked over to the bed and crouched beside her, so his face was level with hers. "What?"

She held out her hand again in silent appeal.

Gritting his jaw, he shook his head. "I can't hold your hand and give you comfort. I'm not that guy, Emma. We both saw it tonight."

"You didn't hit him. You were angry, but you didn't hit him, or me, or anyone else."

"You saw my anger. I know you did. I scared you." And as God was his witness, that had nearly broken him when he'd seen the fear in her eyes when she'd looked at him. Not at Preston. At
him.
He'd seen his stepmother terrified of his father. He'd seen kidnap victims recoiling in horror from even their rescuers. He'd always known he had the capacity to put that look on a woman's face, but he'd always,
always
promised himself he'd never get close enough to actually do it.

He'd broken his promise.

Silently, he took her hand and pressed his forehead to the back of it. Her hand was cool and soft, a respite from the emotions pouring through him. "Forgive me, Emma, for thinking that I could be someone that I'm not," he whispered, his throat aching with the words. "I don't belong here, in this house, with someone like you. With a child."

"Harlan—"

"No." He raised his head to look at her. "I do my job easily," he said. "I go in, I do what I need to do, and I get out. It's business to me, so when I see kidnap victims who have been mistreated, I can keep my focus and do what I need to do. Tonight was different. Tonight, I couldn't think. All I could do was feel. Hate for him. Terror for your safety. Fear that I'd lose you, that somehow he'd win you over again and you'd walk away from me forever, back into hell." He tightened his grip on her hand, willing her to understand. "I can't afford to feel," he said. "Don't you understand? I can't control it when I feel. It makes me dangerous. And you make me feel. I can't look at you and stay emotionally detached. I'm so far past that, Emma. So far."