Chapter 286 - Claimed By My Stepbrother (Cadell Security Series)

Seona’s POV

I was concerned that overnight I’d lose the strength I found in Hallick’s car yesterday and change my mind about filing for divorce from my husband. I worried that I’d feel differently, panic and fear would crash down on me for stepping into the unknown, but as my eyes open and I look toward the curtains that cover my bedroom window, all I feel is calm. This is the right thing to do, I can feel it, in my heart, being away from Davis, out of his constant words and disappointed looks, I can see clearly again, and I don’t want to return to that cloud I lived under.

I climb out of bed, stretching my arms over my head, Mark’s t’shirt lifting slightly, brushing around the tops of my thighs.

I run my hands down the fabric, smiling slightly, the soldier never asked me for it so I just never gave it back, secretly keeping it and sleeping in it every night. I tried a couple of times to sleep in the sleepwear we purchased, but I couldn’t, ending up tossing and turning for hours before falling into a restless slumber plagued with nightmares. Wearing Mark’s shirt, even though it no longer smells of him, instead scented with our washing powder, it’s like his protection envelopes me even in my dreams and the nightmares don’t come.

Stripping out of the top, I pull on some panties and a bra, before I head into my closet, reaching for a clean blouse and skirt. My hand stalls just inches from my normal attire as I glance to the back of the tiny room, where a long forgotten shopping bag still sits.

Biting my lip, I retract my hand, taking a tentative step toward the brown paper tote, bending down, my fingers shaking a little as though I’m scared it might bite me.

Grasping the corner, I pull it toward me slowly, tugging open the top to reveal the contents. I reach inside, pulling out the thick denim jeans, placing them on my lap and running my hand over the hardy material. When was the last time I wore jeans? When did I last own a pair to wear?

Pushing up to my feet, I pull off the price tag still attached, and then pull one leg over my foot, then the other before wriggling them up my hips. The material is soft against my skin, sliding easily over my thighs, the waistband coming together as I push the button through the button hole and tug up the zipper. They fit me perfectly, as though whoever made them had my exact measurements and tailored every seam to my build.

Delving once again into the bag, I pull out the crop top, a small smile tugging at my lips as I rub the fabric between my thumb and forefinger for a moment.

I peek back toward the door of the closet nervously, do I dare? What will people say? What would Mark say if I walk out wearing something so revealing?

‘What if he likes it?’ a tiny voice murmurs in my head, ‘he isn’t Davis, you know he isn’t, what would it hurt?’

I nod, still staring at the small shirt, what would it hurt for me to wear it?

Unbidden, images of what happened when I wore clothes that were deemed unsuitable by my husband try to push forward but I ball my fists, shoving them back.

‘Mark isn’t Davis’ I tell myself sharply, ‘he bought this for me!’

I nod again, this time with more decisiveness, tugging the crop top over my head and pushing my arms through.

Tugging the material down over my breasts, I force myself not to try and cover more than it’s designed too, dropping my hands to my sides as I suck in a deep breath.

Moving back into the bedroom, I place myself in front of the full length mirror that sits in the corner of the room, my gaze firmly planted at my feet before I make myself look up.

I follow the path up the blue denim covering my legs, to my waist where a thin strip of skin shows, and up over the form fitting top to my face. My hair is still a mess of bed head, and there is a slight puffiness under my eyes where I stayed up late to finish my book but my face . . it looks . . . happy. What once was a drawn, pale complexion looking back at me, usually with a bruise peeking out from under my blouse is now, somehow, lifted. My cheeks hold a flush of colour, my eyes sparkling, lighting up further as I smile at my reflection.

I straighten my shoulders, picking up the brush from the vanity beside me and pulling it through my hair, instinctively reaching for the hair tie I use to throw my hair into a ponytail each day before stopping. Do I want my hair up? I realise with a start that I haven’t asked that question of myself in years. I have always just put it up as Davis wanted me too, having my hair down was supposedly for me to get attention from other men, made it look like I was trying to cheat. I scoff loudly at the thought, hit by just how absurd that is. My hair gave the impression I wanted to sleep with other men? Really? I was faithful, everyday of our relationship, I never once looked at another man. I was punished for crimes that I didn’t even commit, punished by Davis for things he assumed I would do if I had the chance.

I tug my hand away from the hair tie, pressing my lips together as I shake my head at my reflection in the mirror.

‘No’ I mutter sternly, ‘I don’t want my hair up, I want to wear it down and around my face. I don’t want to wear dowdy blouses and old fashioned skirts, I want to wear nice clothes, I want to wear jeans, I LIKE jeans!’

Gripping tightly to the determination, I stalk toward the bedroom door, throwing it open, and step out into the hallway. I can hear Mark moving around in the kitchen, so I duck into the bathroom, brushing my teeth, and using the facilities before walking out again, holding my head higher as I approach the kitchen doorway. I walk into the room, standing just inside the doorway, nerves fluttering in my stomach, as the soldier turns around, his smile freezing in place as he takes me in.

Silence falls between us, and my confidence starts to slip away the longer the man stands unmoving, staring at me.

‘I uh . . ‘ I start, my voice quivering as I move my arms to cover my exposed stomach.

A strangled growl crawls up the soldier’s throat as he suddenly moves toward me, grabbing my arms and holding them by my side, his eyes darkening as he drags his gaze over me.

‘Don’t f.ucking cover yourself love’ he mutters darkly, ‘don’t you ever feel like you have to cover up.’

I lick my lips nervously, looking up at him, ‘do you . . do you like it?’ I stammer nervously.

A harsh laugh falls from the man’s lips as he closes his eyes for a second, swallowing thickly before opening them again and focusing on my face.

‘My opinion matters?’ he asks me in turn, a slight vulnerability too his voice.

I nod mutely, not really sure how to vocalise just how much his opinion matters to me, how much HE matters to me.

Mark sucks in a breath, his calloused hands still on my bare arms, lightly rubbing his thumb over my skin, as he drinks me in, ‘I f.ucking love it’ he finally breathes out softly, not meeting my eyes, 'I really f.ucking love it.'