Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

It wanted to mark its mate.

Leaning against a tree for support, Dylan clawed at the hardened bark beneath his fingers, welcoming the pain. He was in no mood to be nice. It had been too damn long. If he returned to her now in his current state, he might hurt her.

With that knowledge, he moved forward with one heavy step, and then another, a focus of will that helped put distance between him and his ultimate temptation.

There was one thing he knew for certain, one point of clarity that gave him strength: Sophie’s return was a tentative gift, one that could just as easily be taken away if not handled properly. Their reunion couldn’t be an act of domination. Not with their history. Not with how she’d been treated in his home.

No, his wife needed to come to him, because he wanted more than just her physical submission. He wanted her loyalty—and her trust. He wanted her to accept their marriage, and he would bloody well wait for her to do so, even if it killed him.

“WHAT THE HELL?” SOPHIE RAN HER HANDS OVER HER face, trying to regain her composure. When she realized he wasn’t coming back, she returned to the lake house, creeping through the front door like a guilty teenager.

Her mother was up— of course —and dressed for the day in navy slacks and a simple white blouse. She turned and assessed Sophie with shrewd brown eyes. “You couldn’t put off running for a few days?”

“No.” Sophie felt her face turn red, even though the question had nothing to do with her embarrassment.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed further. “Did something happen? Did you run into Dylan?”

“No. Well, er, yes,” she fumbled.

“Why is your face red?” She sniffed the air as if something didn’t smell quite right. “And what’s on your clothes?”

“I tripped and I’m sweaty. And I need a shower.” Sophie rushed to the bathroom before her mother could probe further. “I won’t be long.”

Locking the door behind her, she stripped quickly and turned on the shower, groaning when the hot water ran down her back. As Dylan’s words replayed in her mind, she rested her forehead against the tiled shower wall.

Our son isn’t the only thing I lost when you left me.

A soft sob escaped her lips. Only here, only when she was alone and the water washed away her tears, could she express her true feelings. How many times had she pictured Dylan with other women? With Siân? God help her, but she felt immense satisfaction knowing he had never returned to that woman’s bed.

After rinsing off, she wrapped a towel around her middle and gathered her dirty clothes from the floor. Once in her bedroom, she chose the first thing out of her suitcase, gray trousers and a square-neck black sweater; both items hugged her frame but also allowed movement and were presentable and functional.

After combing out her hair and putting on tinted moisturizer, the extent of her morning routine, she made her way to the kitchen, ready to face her family.

Joshua sat at the kitchen table as Francine leaned against the counter. The smell of cinnamon and baking bread filled the room, along with a sudden awkward silence.

“Thanks for finishing the rolls, Mum.”

After no response, Sophie asked, “Okay, what’s up?”

Francine lifted her coffee mug to her lips, took a sip, and set it down on the kitchen counter. “Joshua and I have been having an interesting conversation.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sophie glared at her child, whose six-foot-three frame was trying unsuccessfully to sink under the table. “About what?”

“Um,” Joshua mumbled, “is the bathroom free?” Not waiting for an answer. “I’m gonna take a shower now.”

Not a woman to waste time, Francine got right to the point. “Joshua told me you’re married to his father. Is this true?”

Sophie glared at her son’s retreating back. “Dylan and I made promises to each other. Nothing more. No papers were signed, no minister, no witnesses. I thought, at the time, it was a romantic gesture.”

Francine pinned her daughter with an assessing look. “But Dylan thinks differently.”

“He does,” she admitted.

Her mother remained silent, thoughtful— never a good sign. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I want you to be truthful with me.”

“Can’t this wait?”

“No, it can’t. Did your husband ever hurt you?”

“Mum . . . you don’t understand, it wasn’t like that. It’s . . . complicated .”

Her mother wasn’t deterred. “It’s a very simple question . . . yes or no . . . Did your husband ever hurt you?”

Regardless of their sordid history, Sophie was unwilling to allow her mother to think the worst of Dylan. “No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then why were you injured when you came to me?”

“Dylan had no knowledge that I was hurt when I left him.”

Francine’s shoulders eased somewhat. “When your husband threatened to take his child from you, was that because he knew you were leaving?”

Sophie’s stomach tightened, not liking the way her mother kept referring to Dylan as her husband. “Yes.”

“Did your husband want you to stay with him?”

And tightened some more. “Yes.”

“And what type of promises did you give your husband in this ceremony that had no witnesses? Did you promise to support him, and to love him, through good times and bad . . . ?”

“Stop.” Sophie held up her hand. She knew where this was going but didn’t know how to defend her actions without betraying Dylan’s secret. So she voiced the only truth she could. “I lost my freedom as Dylan’s wife.”

“Sweetheart,” Francine said in a tone that would have been condescending if it hadn’t been laced with concern. “What do you think marriage is? Sunshine and roses?” She snorted, a feminine snort, but a snort all the same. “Your freedom ended the day you spoke your vows and accepted that man as your husband.” She held up a pointed finger. “ And consummated the union. There are reasons to end a marriage, of course. So, I will ask you again . . . Do you have a justified reason? Do you think your husband is capable of harming either you or Joshua?”

“No,” Sophie said again, shaking with frustration, “Dylan would never hurt us. And I don’t want to talk about this any more.” Feeling overexposed and miserable, she slumped into the nearest chair and put her face in her hands. There was a soft shuffle across the kitchen floor as her mother approached, and then a gentle touch on the top of her head.

“In all these years,” Francine said softly, “you’ve never so much as looked at another man. And yet, in Dylan’s presence, you’re all blushes and fumbled words. Do you still love him?”

Sophie hated the sudden thickness of her throat. “I told you it’s complicated.”

“ Life is complicated. The heart isn’t. Do you still love him?”

“I . . . Oh, hell . . .” she stammered, turning to mush under her mother’s comforting hands and facing what she’d denied for sixteen years. “I love him so much that when I look at him it hurts.”

“That’s what I thought.” Francine let out a loud sigh. “I know you. And I know I didn’t raise a coward. I think it’s time you explained to me what the hell is going on. If it’s not your husband, then what— or who —have you been running from all these years?”

I LOVE HIM SO MUCH THAT WHEN I LOOK AT HIM IT HURTS.