Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

Half a flight…

Dislocated.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered, my words strangled.

He pointed at my face, and if I thought his expression was ravaged before, I didn’t understand the meaning of the word.

It was that now.

And I felt it.

I felt it in every cell that made me.

“That,” he growled, jerking his finger in my face gain. “That right there is why I didn’t tell you.”

“Do you not think I should know my husband’s mother beat him?”

“I absolutely do not think you should ever know that, and it is fucking killing me telling you now.”

“Remy,” I breathed, wanting too much all at once.

To shout at him, scream, rant, rave, dissolve into anger to balm the hurt that he never trusted me with this.

But the bigger needs were to touch him, smooth my hands over him, make him absorb how loved he was, find a way to go back in time and save him from his mother, from that fucking father of his, from his unhealthy need to shield me from, from…

Shield me from him.

Shield me from the man I loved.

“I needed to know all of that,” I said.

“You don’t need to know it, Wyn. I’m looking at you right now, and it’s written all over your face how much you don’t fucking need it.”

“I need every part of you.”

“Not that.”

“Every part, Remy.”

He reared forward so fast I didn’t have a chance to lean away.

“Not that!” he roared in my face.

I went silent.

Then I demanded, “Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Give me your phone!” I screamed.

His movements wooden, he reached to his back pocket, pulled out his phone and handed it to me.

I looked down at it and asked him, “Same passcode?”

“What are you doing?”

It was the same passcode because I entered it, my birthdate (for God’s sake!), and I was in.

I went to his contacts.

“Wyn, what are you doing?”

“I’m calling your fucking father.”

He slipped his phone out of my hand.

My head shot up. “Give that back.”

“I’m seeing we both need to take a breath, drink some wine and—”

“Give it back.”

“Wyn, there’s no point phoning him. Trust me, he doesn’t give a shit.”

I put my hands in his chest and pressed hard into the firm bulges of his pectorals.

Then I fisted my fingers in his shirt, pulled out then pushed in.

After that, I let him go, walked around him, through his kitchen to the back wall and stood at the wall of windows, staring at the lit, deep-clean aqua of his pool.

He had a dinette set out there: white table, white bucket chairs. A seating area with four white armless chairs facing each other, two-by-two. Not to mention, two other seating areas that had loungers.

Every inch was perfection, not even a hint on that white of the famous Phoenix dust that coated everything, and my guess was, he maintained it himself.

She shook me when we were on the stairs, lost control, and I fell down. Half a flight.

I closed my eyes.

Half a flight.

Twenty-four years, I didn’t know.

Twenty-four years.

And I didn’t know.

Remy was behind me when he said, “She’s dying, and I need to go see her. I also need to talk to our kids, give them the information to help them make the decision on their own of whether they want to go or not.”

I opened my eyes. “Does that information include them learning their grandmother physically abused their father and their grandfather doubled down on that abuse by making his son responsible for it?”

Remy didn’t answer.

I turned and looked up at him. “You are not going to that den of jackals without me.”

His torso swayed back, and his brows shot up.

“She might be dying, but a cat’s at her most dangerous when she’s vulnerable. No way…in fuck…are you facing that bitch without me.”

There wasn’t a lot of space between us, but after I said that, Remy negated it by moving into me. He then smoothed my hair from my face and held my head in both hands before he dipped down so we were nose to nose.

“I hate that you know,” he whispered, and that was no lie, I could see it in his eyes.

This was killing him.

“I hate you didn’t tell me,” I retorted.

“Do you understand why I didn’t?”

“No, I don’t, Remy. I really fucking don’t.”

He closed down, started to move away, but I shot my hands up, caught his wrists and stopped him.

“Don’t you dare move away from me,” I snapped. “You did that once and it’s not happening again.”

He stood stock still.

“We’re telling our children and they’re all coming. Your entire family will be with you when you go back there, Remy.”

“It should be their choice.”

“They’re coming.”

He took a second with that before he agreed, “Okay. We can tell the boys, but Manon never knows.”

I felt my brows shoot together. “She will know.”

“No way, baby.”

“We are not her, Remy. Manon and I are not porcelain dolls who shatter at a blunt touch and cut you with our edges. We’re not that. Stop treating us like that.”