Chapter 13 — Broken Glass

Landon:

"What the fuck is this?" I stare at the documents Brooke put in front of me. They are well organized and have detailed lists and charts. I read things like the safest car seats and promising daycares listed based on proximity. Developmental stages from infant to five years old. Best organic formula. I look at Brooke, assessing. She stares at the left corner of my desk, hugging her arm across her chest. She is wrapped in another one of her huge cardigans, even though it is a normal 76 degrees in my home office.

"It's just... It's just some stuff I put together for you. For when...for when the baby comes."

"Why would we need to use a daycare? Or hire a nanny? Aren't you going to breastfeed?" She wrings her hands.

"No, I wouldn't. I'm not going to be around after the baby comes," she says in a clear voice. I cannot be sure, but I think I hear sadness in her words.

"And why not?" I snap.

"I told you, I don't—I don't want to be a part of this baby's life." I hear her words, I do. But I have a hard time associating them with her. I remember the way Brooke's eyes lit up when she got her first glimpse at Daisy. Even though she refused to hold her, I wrote that off as her not feeling well.

"Why not?" My voice is gruff and curt.

"I just don't, okay."

"What kind of answer is that. We're talking about this child, Brooke, not some pet or hobby. You can't honestly be so selfish and callous." Her cheeks flush with anger, but it is nothing to the anger I am feeling.

"I am aware that it's a child, Landon!" she snaps. "Maybe I just don't want to be a part of your life anymore. Ever think of that?"

"You would give up your child because you want to get away from the husband that you blackmailed into marriage?" I cannot fathom what she is saying to me. I run my hands through my hair. I am so tired. It took me forever to get to sleep last night. Every time Brooke so much as twitched last night, my anxiety flared up, wondering if she was still breathing. It seemed like I had just fallen asleep when I woke to the sound of retching in the adjourning bathroom.

"Blackmailed?" She sounds shocked.

"Yes, blackmailed. Did you think I married you for love? Let me tell you something, Brooke. My heart didn't pound when I first saw you, and you certainly didn't take my breath away when you walked down that aisle." I do not know how I ended up standing in front of my desk. Or when she stood up, meeting my glare, but we were suddenly very close to each other.

"You bastard. It's not as though you get my heart racing either."

"Oh, really? You're going to sit there and tell me I don't rev your engine?" I lean in closer to her. "I've felt your pussy squeezing around my cock, beagchaithnini sneachta."

She flushes again and opens her mouth to release another heated retort. But I do not give her the chance. Instead, I reach out and wrap my arms around her waist, hugging her to me. My lips smash against hers in a heated kiss. I probably should not have done it, considering how angry I was, but seeing her stand her ground had me horny as hell. I put all my anger into that kiss, shoving my tongue through the slight opening between her lips and fucking her mouth. And she gives as good as she gets, reaching up and digging her nails into my chest. I push us back a step, trapping her between me and the desk.

As the kiss continues, my need for her rises to desperate heights. I lift her onto the desk, moving my mouth to drag down her neck. She is panting for breath. Then I am reaching for the hem of her shirt and shoving my hands up toward her stomach. Instead of finding smooth skin, it is rough. There is a scar. I vaguely remember seeing it at the ultrasound, but I was too distracted by our baby's heartbeat to remember to ask her about it.

I pull away and look down at Brooke. Her eyes are dilated, filled with lust and anger. It seems to take her a minute to realize I had stopped. My hand is still on her stomach as her eyes focus behind those sexy spectacles she wore. Neither of us moves. She just stays there, panting for breath. After a minute, I move my hand upward, dragging her shirt with it and revealing her stomach inch by inch. It is slightly curved from the baby, and I feel a sense of pride. But it is quickly overshadowed by the large scar running diagonally across her stomach.

I reach out with my other hand to trace it. It is about two fingers wide and straight. Very straight. As if it was done intentionally. Almost surgical. Brooke's hand covers mine, pulling it away from her stomach. She tugs her shirt down and moves to stand up. I take a step back, giving her some space.

"Where did you get that?"

She shrugs. "I fell."

"It's very straight, Brooke. You didn't get that from a fall."

"What's it to you anyway? It's not like you actually care."

"I care." She scoffs. She moves to the left, trying to get around me, but I grab her wrist. "Who did that to you, Brooke?"

"Let go of me." She tugs at her wrist; when I do not let go, she tugs harder. When she goes to tug again, I let go of her wrist but underestimate the timing and force of her tug. She stumbles backward, her glasses falling to the ground.

Panic fills her features almost instantly, and she drives down to her knees, looking for them. Her breathing picks up as she blindly scrambles around. Her leg pushes back when she leans forward, and she knocks a glass figurine from the bookshelf behind her. Her whole body flinches, and she throws her hands up to cover her head at the sound of the shattering. I lunge forward. "Brooke."

"I'm s-s-so sorry. I'll clean it up." She reaches out and places her hand right into the glass shards.

"Careful, Brooke, your hand." It is at that moment I realize she really cannot see. I did not know how badly she needed her glasses before.

"My glasses. My glasses."

"They're right here, Brooke. Just be still." I kneel next to her and pick up the glasses from the mess of shattered glass. The lenses have spider cracks running through them. "They're broken," I say softly.

"What?" she screeches. Her breathing becomes impossibly faster, hyperventilating. She moves backward again, knocking over another glass figure. I wrap myself over her to protect her from flying shards. Fuck, how many stupid figurines did I have? I can feel Brooke shaking as she pushes against my chest. She is terrified.

Brooke:

The minute my glasses fall, my world becomes shadows. Dark, lonely, miserable shadows. Shadows that haunt my memories. My ears fill with the sound of my dad's cackle. I want to curl in on myself to protect my ribs from the kick I know is coming.

"Brooke. Beagchaithnini sneachta. Calm down. You're going to hurt yourself some more. Brooke!" I take a deep breath and pull in Landon's intoxicating smell. He smells like pine trees and lust and man. Landon will not hurt me, not physically, at least. I know that to be true. He is my hero. My shelter. I glance up to where it sounds like his face is. "It's going to be okay, Brooke. Just calm down."

My breathing slowly evens. "I need my glasses," I whisper. I feel his hand cradling my cheek.

"Okay. Do you have a second pair?" I nod. "Where are they?"

"In the bathroom."

"Okay, I'll go get them, but first, let me help you to the sofa." I start to panic. I grab his shirt front.

"Don't leave me alone, Landon. Please, I cannot see. I can't see." He moves the thumb of the hand on my cheek in a soothing, circular motion. "I know, beagchaithnini sneachta. I know."

I feel a fat, hot tear slowly trickle down my cheek. "Please, I hate the dark." I can feel Landon's eyes on me, assessing me. I wonder what he sees. His crazy wife is having a panic attack because of a pair of broken glasses. Suddenly, I am being lifted into the air. I latch onto Landon's shoulders, my stomach fluttering at the unexpected movement. We are walking, out the office doors, down the hall to the left.

"No, Landon. My bathroom," I say when I realize he took me to his room. He pauses, and his grip on me tightens before he turns and continues down the hall, turning right into my room.

He gently sets me on the bed, and I can hear the light switching on. He digs around for a while, and then he is in front of me again. He gently slides my glasses on my face, and my world becomes light again. I stare into Landon's stormy eyes, taking in the beauty that can so quickly be taken away again.

"Let's get your hand cleaned up." He goes back into the bathroom and comes back with a first-aid kit. He kneels in front of me and gently picks up my hand. There are glass shards embedded in it and a gash running across my palm. I had not even realized I had cut myself. We do not speak as Landon works on removing the glass.

"I'm sorry," I murmur. His hands pause, and he looks up at me.

"For what?" he asks as he goes back to his task.

"The thing I broke. I'll go clean up the glass and replace them."

"I don't care about the stupid figurines, Brooke." I do not even flinch when he pours peroxide on it.

"How did he do it?" Landon asks.

"Excuse me?" Landon's gaze meets mine and holds as he speaks.

"How did your dad give you that scar?" I look over his shoulder and shrug. He turns my face to meet his eyes. "Tell me," he says gently. I can feel my throat close.

"What makes you think he did?"

"Brooke, you had a panic attack when I mentioned going to see him on our walk the other day. You apologize constantly for the tiniest things. You hunch your small frame, trying to look smaller than you already are when I introduce you to men you do not know. You're quiet and skittish when you are not sure of a situation. So, tell me how that bastard gave you that scar."

"He...he was angry at me for burning the dinner. Arnold was there for dinner, and he kept complaining about how overcooked his steak was. My dad yelled at me for embarrassing him in front of his guests. Arnold suggested I needed to learn how to feed a man properly. He kept saying how worthless I was and how no man would ever want me, and I was to be a burden for my dad for the rest of my life. He told my dad how sorry he was that he had to put up with me. His words only made my dad angrier. He hit me first, knocking me down. I knew better than to get up or to stand defiantly. It was better when I cowered. But Arnold grabbed my hair, pulled me to my feet, and threw me across the table. He tore my shirt open, and Dad grabbed his steak knife. It was as if they planned it. Arnold held me down, trapping my legs with his body and pinning my shoulders."

I cut off after that. Tears streak down my face. I want to sob, curl up on the bed, and pretend the world does not exist.

"It's okay, beagchaithnini sneachta." Landon brushes away my tears. He had sat on the bed sometime during my story. His hands are fisted in anger. "He can't hurt you anymore. I promise." He kisses my forehead, my cheek, and my nose. I think he is just trying to keep me calm to avoid another panic attack. Whatever the reason, I do not want him to stop kissing me.

When his lips finally touch mine, it is gentle, not filled with the heated passion it had when we were downstairs. But it is still good. It still left my head spinning, intoxicated by his taste. He pushes me back against the bed. He drags kisses down my neck, and his body covers mine. When he pulls my shirt up, I help him take it off me. I am so raw with emotion, and his kisses keep traveling lower. Across my breasts. Below them. Above my belly button. I know where he is headed, and I want more than anything for him to keep going. He has never given me this kind of attention before, never explored in the day—without the assistance of alcohol.

My skin tingles in anticipation as his lips run across my scar, but I do not want this. I mean, I do. More than anything, I do. But not like this. Not after what I had just shared. Not when my heart was so exposed, so vulnerable to the fall and ready to shatter as the figurines did downstairs. Landon is my hero. My safety. I love him. But I cannot do this with so much unknown between us. After all, he is a man, and just because he knows a little bit more about me does not mean he is doing this for the right reasons.

I sit up, pushing him away while reaching for my shirt.

"What's wrong?" he asks, studying me. I give a forced smile.

"Nothing, I'm just not in the mood. I'm kind of pooped after this morning."

"Right, of course. I don't know what I was thinking." He stands up. "I'll let you take a nap." And with that, he leaves the room.