Tore Up (Mississippi Smoke Series Book 1)
Tore Up: Part 2 – Chapter 23

Part 2

“Indeed, indeed, I cannot tell, Though I ponder on it well, Which were easier to state, All my love or all my hate.” – Henry David Thoreau

There had been no screaming, yet here I was.

After my shower, I’d lain in bed and stared at the ceiling for almost an hour, waiting for her to cry out. Telling myself I wasn’t sleeping because I didn’t want to be woken up by her nightmare was a lie. I had no reason for being here in this room and especially in this bed. No logical excuse that made what was happening in my head okay. It wasn’t.

No amount of fucking both Milena and Bronwen tonight had eased it either. I had been so sure that all I needed was to fuck. Hell, when Milena riding my dick out on the lounger didn’t work, I took them both in the game room, lying on the pool table with one on my cock and the other on my mouth while they faced one another, kissing and playing with each other’s tits. It was hot, and I went through two condoms, letting them switch spots, but it hadn’t gotten Halo out of my head.

I’d known the moment she left the great room to go upstairs. Every time she looked over at me, I felt it, although I didn’t make eye contact. Struggling to focus on the damn game was hard. When someone talked to her, that was all I could hear. Making sure no one had said anything that upset her.

Giving in and coming up to her room had been the only way I was going to ease the war going on inside my head. This was something I needed to get control of. If she wasn’t screaming, I shouldn’t be coming in here.

A small sigh escaped her, and the mint from her toothpaste drifted up to my nose. I’d been enjoying the smell of her hair. It reminded me of strawberries. My arm tightened around her involuntarily. It had a mind of its own now, it seemed.

I ran my fingertips down her back, stopping just before they met her ass. The top of her silky pajamas had ridden up, and her soft skin was warm and tempting. Perfect.

I’d been so fucking angry with Crosby for this. For her. Being so careless as to fuck some girl and knock her up. But when I was in bed with her like this—her scent surrounding me, her flawless skin in the moonlight, and the way her body felt, pressed against me—I understood. She wasn’t mine, and I had no right to do this, but I couldn’t seem to stop it.

If she would just do something, anything to justify my accusations that she had trapped Crosby for his money, I could hate her again. I had hated her, and then … I didn’t. Or maybe I hadn’t ever truly hated her. Had it just been misplaced and my hatred was never for her? I had lived in anguish for two months, needing to know who was responsible for my little brother being in the cold, hard ground, and she was the first thing I could sink my pain and fury into. Admitting that the unwelcome grinding in my chest was guilt had been difficult. That wasn’t an emotion I was familiar with, and now that I seemed to live with it, I could say that I wasn’t a fan.

A whimper came from the girl in my arms, and I pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Shh,” I said, soothing her. “I’ve got you.”

Immediately, she quieted, and her body relaxed.

I glared at the wall as if it had made me place my lips on her. Another line crossed. I had to stop this shit. Holding her was one thing—I was making sure she got sleep. If I didn’t hold her, she’d have a nightmare. The screaming had to be bad for my nephew. They both needed me. The healthier and happier she was, the better it was for him. Crosby would have understood that. He’d have wanted them both taken care of.

As I closed my eyes, satisfied that I was doing what my brother would have wanted me to do, the heaviness on my chest eased enough that I could get some sleep.