Breaking Him

I didn’t hear my grandmother’s response because I’d picked up my pace.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PAST

“I hate my name,” I complained one day to Gram when I was over for tea.  My name was just one thing on a very long list that the kids at school teased me about, but I’d decided to take particular exception to it because that day I’d overheard some girls chanting Scarlett harlot when they thought I couldn’t hear.

So I’d come to rant about it to Gram.  She was the only grownup I knew that I could say anything to, tell anything to, and she took it all in stride.

This though for some reason seemed to take her aback.

Her hand went to her chest and she blinked at me several times before responding, “You do?”

I looked away.  I couldn’t maintain eye contact with her when she appeared so . . . wounded.

I shrugged, not so sure about my outburst now.  “I guess so,” I muttered.

“Want to know something absolutely fascinating about your name?”

My eyes went back to her as I nodded.

“A very famous woman named you that.  She named you that because scarlet is a brilliant, brave, and daring color.  You see, she knew you’d have an interesting life where those qualities would serve you well.”

“You named me?” I breathed.

She smiled and nodded.  “I did.  Glenda was . . . overwhelmed when she first got you and so I took over for a while.  I named you because I felt strongly about it, and she didn’t mind.  I always had a talent for naming, if I do say so myself.  Do you want to know who else I named?” she glanced over at Dante as she asked the question, and I found my eyes following hers.

He was in his usual spot on the sofa across the room, just lying there listening to us, occasionally piping in to add to or argue with what we were saying.  He sat up now and looked at Gram.

“Who?” I asked, though I saw what she was hinting at.

“Dante.  Don’t those names sound just wonderful together?  Scarlett and Dante.  They have a romantic ring when you combine them, don’t they?”

Dante and I were just looking at each other.

“Did you know that she named us?” I asked him.

He smiled and laid back down.  “I did, but I thought you’d enjoy the story more coming from her.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY

“A man’s kiss is his signature.”

~May West

PRESENT

I was striding across the cemetery, had nearly made it to the car when Dante caught up to me.

“Don’t,” I told him when he fell in beside me.  “Don’t involve yourself in my issues.  Just.  Don’t.  It’s not your job to defend me.”

“Since when?”

I shuddered.  Hello, temper.  “Since you dumped me.”

“I didn’t dump you.”  He sounded upset, which upset me.

“I didn’t dump you,” he repeated when I didn’t respond.

“Are you trying to pick a fight?”  I asked him pointedly.  He had, after all, been the one to declare this a day of peace between the two of us.

He set his jaw and fell quiet.  Good.

I thought and hoped that he’d just stay quiet, but about halfway back to the house he pulled the car over onto the shoulder suddenly, putting the car in park.

He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and lay his forehead against it.

“God, I don’t want to do this,” he spoke quietly, not turning his head.  “I don’t want to deal with those people being in her home, talking about her, pretending to care, most of them just waiting to see what she left them in the will.”

What he’d said didn’t need a response.  He knew how I felt about those people.

“And if one of them says an insulting word to you, so help me, God—“

“Let’s just get home and get it over with,” I cut in, speaking to the window.  “And besides, the sooner we get there the sooner I can have a drink.”

One plus for the day—liquor.  It would be flowing freely for this ill-fated gathering, I had no doubt.

“Yeah, okay,” he said dejectedly.  “Just give me a minute.  I need to get a grip.”

I was fine with that, because I thought he meant to just leave him to his thoughts for a minute.

He didn’t mean that, it was quickly clear.

He started tugging on my arm, and I looked at him.  He wasn’t leaning on the steering wheel anymore.  Now he was leaning toward me.

“What are you doing?” I asked him warily.

His answer was to keep tugging me to him, not stopping until my resistant head was pressed to his faithless chest.

Still without speaking, he started stroking my hair.

“Stop it,” I demanded.

He kissed the top of my head and kept stroking, a soothing, familiar motion, his heavy hand moving with just the perfect amount of pressure from my temple to the ends of my long hair.

Perfect because he’d done it a thousand times.  More.  This used to be how he’d soothe me down from a temper.

“Stop it,” I repeated faintly.

Just like the bastard to declare a truce and then launch an attack.

And somehow it was working.  I was leaning into him, relaxing into his familiar embrace.

I caught myself and tried to push away.

He wouldn’t let me.  And he was stronger than me, the bastard.

I struggled harder, then harder.  It did me not one bit of good.  He held me to him easily, both of my wrists captured in one of his hands.