Chapter 5

"Excuse me?" I blink and blink again while staring at Lynch. "How do you know about that?"

"Least you ain't denying it," he grunts and takes a step back, looking disgruntled.

His attitude and remark piss me off. He has no reason to be pissed with me. I'm not the one who cheated. I ended what we had before going to that party. I ended it before getting plastered and making out with a frat boy. Granted, afterward, I hated myself for doing it. I'd been disgusted over the fact I lowered myself to the point I'd get so drunk and do something so idiotic. I knew better, and yet I still did it.

But I'd been hurt because of what he did to me.

I take a step into his space, press both my hands into his chest, and shove with all my might. He went back all of one step and gripped my wrists to keep me from doing it again.

"How dare you?" I finally snap, glaring at him.

"How dare I what?" he demands, ignoring my glare, his eyes burning with an anger of their own. "You ignored my calls for two weeks straight. Didn't call me back once. I left messages. The one time you reached out to me, it was a damn text message saying we're done, and you didn't want to see me. I drive my ass to your school, ready to talk to you. Your roommate told me you were at some party, told me where it was, and I find you there making out with some frat boy. I got your message loud and clear, Cams. I'd been too pissed to talk to you after seeing that, and if I'd stuck around, I'd have killed the fucker."

"You know why I ended things with you?" I shout. I yank my hands from his grip and stomp away from him, raking my hands through my hair while I try to block out the memory of seeing those images.

"No, I don't fuckin' know why," he growls, coming at me.

I spin toward him, plant my hands on my hips, and lean in slightly. "Don't lie to me now. I know the truth. I know you were cheating on me. I know you didn't really want me. All you wanted was access to my trust fund."

Lynch's eyes darken, and the air around him . . . the air in the room in general . . . thickens and it becomes harder to breathe.

"Come again?" His voice is hardening.

"You heard me, Lynch," I snap, my breathing becoming heavier, my chest rising and falling rapidly. "I don't need to repeat myself."

"Oh, I definitely heard you," he snarls, eyes going steely, and the vibe surrounding him darkens further. He takes a step toward me, lips thinning disapprovingly when I take another back.

Without the wall behind me, I want as much space between us as possible. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't hurt me. It isn't the type of man he was or at least it wasn't the type of man he used to be.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Camilla, so get that look off your face. I may want to spank your ass right now, but I'm not about to touch you. Not after that shit you just said. You think for one second, I wanted you for your damn trust fund? Are you fuckin' kidding me?"

"I saw the pictures of you. I have proof of you cheating on me," I whisper, shaking my head. "I saw the pictures of you and another woman together."

Lynch's body goes still, and he looks ready to commit murder. "Exactly what pictures are you talking about?"

"Ones of you with the women that come to the clubhouse. You know exactly which ones considering they're there to jump your dicks whenever told to do so," I spit out, trying to block out the memories. The warnings those girls would give to me the first few times I'd been at the clubhouse.

The pictures my aunt sent to me hurt to the point I cried those weeks when I didn't take his calls. I'd finally had enough crying and allowed the anger I felt at him to seep in. I'd sent him a message saying we were over and that I didn't want to see him again. I didn't want him visiting me or contacting me again. That very same night, I went to a frat party where he evidently saw me making out with someone.

"Camilla, explain to me these pictures, ‘cause I'll tell you now, I didn't cheat on you when we were together. Hell, I hadn't fucked a bitch from the day I met you until after we were separated."

"I don't believe you." I can't, even if a part of me wants to. Lynch was never a liar. He much preferred to keep it real rather than bullshit.

"Fuckin' explain, damnit," Lynch roars, causing me to jump.

"My aunt sent them," I blurt, tears streaming down my face as I do this and let it all out, giving him the explanation he's looking for. "She sent them to me. There were pictures of you with two of those clubwomen. Another picture of you and some woman on the back of your bike . . ." That one really hurt because I knew what it meant to be on the back of his bike. For him to have another woman there, it meant that I was nothing to him. "I saw the pictures of you and the women. I saw the picture of you and a woman embracing each other, and I saw the look on your face when you looked at her."

Lynch stares at me for a moment before he pulls his phone out and looks at it while doing something. He then turns the phone to me. "Was the picture any of these women?" he asks.

I glance at the screen and immediately see the one in the middle and remember her from the picture. "Yes. The middle one."

"That's Harlow, my sister," he answers and points out the other two. "One on the right is Raven, my cousin, and to the left is Chains's sister, Victoria."

I knew he had a sister, but I'd never seen her. Whenever he and I were together and around his family, it was always his aunt Ela and uncle. Pitch Black came around some, but not much. Lynch kept me away from the clubhouse most of the time. Mostly ‘cause I was still young, and he didn't want anything to happen to me.

"Harlow doesn't visit much, and whenever she used to visit before she got with her ol' man, I did give her a ride on my bike. She loves riding but didn't have one of her own. Raven and Victoria both are like sisters to me. Those three women are the only ones back then I'd have given the time of day to. They're my family, just like the women who my brothers claimed are my family. I don't know what your aunt's game was with those photos, but I didn't fuck around on you. I never once thought about it."

"I have pictures, Lynch. How am I supposed to believe you when I've seen the pictures?" I thought about them being fakes, but I looked at them so many times. Even over the years, I'd looked at them to see if it was possible for them to be photoshopped. Lynch has a very in-depth tattoo on his back that can't be easily copied. Then there's the ones on his chest and his arms.

"You still got these pictures?" Lynch asks.

"Yes." I don't bother hiding the truth. I have them and will admit they're in my briefcase right now. I'd been carrying them around with a new set of papers to give to Lynch because he balled the other ones up.

"Where are they?"

"My briefcase in the backseat of my car, why?"

Instead of giving me an answer, he turns away from me while doing something with his phone. A moment later, he's got the phone to his ear and talking to someone on the other end, ordering them to go to my apartment building, get in my car, and bring my briefcase. The other person on the line speaks for a moment, and then Lynch grunts something else and pulls the phone from his ear.

He doesn't immediately turn back around, he lowers his head and plants his hands on his hips, like he's trying to calm himself.

With the way he's acting, a part of me wants to believe him, but the part refuses to even think about it.

Slowly, Lynch finally turns around and lifts his gaze to mine. "Prospect gets your briefcase here, then we'll talk more. Until then, go find something else to put on. Last room on the left. The bathroom's got a toothbrush you can have in the top right drawer. Help yourself to whatever you want to put on," he says and spins on his heel, walks to a set of sliding glass doors, pushes them open, and steps through onto the back patio.

I suck in a breath and take a moment to get my bearings. The tension in the room doesn't ease. It doesn't dissipate. It lingers and swirls around me, threatening to suffocate me. I'm not sure if I can handle any of this, and Lynch seems bound and determined for us to talk things through.

Shaking my head, I followed his directions, deciding I was more than ready to get the hell out of my skirt. One I might add, he cut slits in so that I would be able to get on the back of his bike. It pissed me off, but secretly I enjoyed it. Just as I enjoyed being on the back of his bike. The freedom in it has always been a thrill to me. I used to love it when he'd take me for rides. We'd spend all day out on his bike.

I'm not worried about the toothbrush in the bathroom right now. It's good to know for later, at least. As I make my way into the bedroom and search for something to wear, the vision of the room is something. The bed in the middle is hand-carved. I'm willing to bet the wood is cedar. Same with the dressers. I'm also sure it was Lynch who carved the furniture himself. I'd seen him doing smaller things. In fact, I have a jewelry box he made for me and a wolf statue he chiseled out. I never got rid of either. I couldn't bring myself to do it.

I look in Lynch's closet, to find it a massive walk-in. It didn't contain much, but there were boxes situated on the floor against the back wall. One of them had my name on it, and I sucked in a breath.

He kept my things?

I moved to it, opened it, and found a handful of my old clothes. A few shirts I'd left at his place at the time. Some shorts. A dress that I wore. It's the same one I wore the day we got married. A couple pairs of leggings. All of it old, and I don't think any of it would fit me anymore. Well, maybe the leggings, but I'm not as small as I once was. Granted, I'm not big, I would say that my body matured, hips rounding just right, my breasts filling out completely. Mostly, I learned that I liked to do certain workouts that did wonders to my body.

Grabbing a pair of the leggings, I figure I'll give them a shot. If they don't work out, then I will just steal a pair of Lynch's shorts, which I'm sure he still wears whenever he's hanging around the house or doing yard work. There's no way the shirts he kept would fit, so I'll snag one of his tees. It's something I used to love doing. Every chance I had, I'd take one of his shirts. I still have one or two that I kept of my own.

I luck out when I take the skirt off and pull on the leggings to find they fit. They're tight, but still, I'm able to get them on. I unbutton my top, slide it off my shoulders, and let it fall on top of my skirt. I don't bother checking to see if Lynch is around. I walk straight to his tall dresser and open the third drawer to find his tees. I snag one and pull it on over my bra as I walk out of his room in search of him.

I find him still sitting outside. His gaze comes to me as I move to the glass door. Before I can get there and open it, he's there and coming inside.

"Prospect just left your apartment," he states and moves back to the kitchen portion of his open plan. "You want something to drink while we wait?"

"Do you have water?" I ask, feeling stupid for even asking.

"Yep," he states, popping the P at the end.

Lynch opens the fridge, reaches in, and pulls out another beer and a bottle of water. He tosses the water my way and pops the cap off his beer. There's something in his gaze that doesn't sit well with me, and I don't know how to decipher it. What I do know is that whatever it is has to do with those pictures, which makes me wonder if I didn't look at them hard enough.

Thirty minutes pass before a knock sounds on the door. Neither of us speaks to the other. I don't because I'm stuck in my head replaying the day those images came in so many years ago.

My aunt has never liked Lynch, but she loved me. All she wanted was for me to be happy and follow my dreams. To have the life I deserve. That's what she told me when she gave me the yellow envelope containing the images that broke my heart. She even held me as I cried.

Lynch moves to the door, opens it, but doesn't let anyone in. I watch him as he reaches an arm out and, a moment later, steps back with my briefcase in hand as he closes the door with a sharp thud. His gaze comes to mine as he moves toward me and hands me the case.

"Now, show me the pictures," he commands, his tone harsh and gravelly. It's a telltale sign that he's definitely pissed.

Without looking away, I reach into my briefcase. I know exactly where I put them. There's no need to look to confirm. I pull the envelope out and hold it out for him to see the proof I have that he's lying. "Here you can see for yourself."

Lynch snatches the envelope, opens it, and only when he takes the images out of does he look down. He goes still, and I watch as his jaw clenches and his muscles bunch.

"Baby, got to say these are damn good pictures, but they're not real," he finally states after shifting through each picture.

"How so? You can't tell me that's not you," I snap. "I'm not stupid enough to not know exactly who that is because there's no denying the tattoo is hard to recreate. All of them," I insinuate, grinding my teeth.

"Yeah, Cams, that's me," he grunts and shoves the images at me. "Can't say that's not me. But look at the background. Look at the woman's body. Look at the image where the woman's back is to the camera."

Clenching the pictures, I break eye contact and peer down at the images. Doing as he said and looking at the picture with the woman's back facing the camera. You can't see Lynch's face as it's buried in the woman's neck, but you can see his arm. The tattoo that goes up his forearm is noticeable and distinguishable.

"Look at the woman's back, Camilla. Look just between the arms," Lynch orders.

I do, and my breath catches in my chest. My lungs seize, and there's no air escaping as I see what he's talking about. I stare at it, and at the same time feeling the tattoo that sits in the exact same spot on my back. It's a simple design but intricate with Lynch's name.

How did I not notice this? All these years . . . I look at the next image, seeing the face of another woman, but the body is mine.

"You get it now, don't you?" Lynch growls, coming to squat in front of me. Taking the pictures in one hand, he clutches them and holds them up. "I never did you wrong, Camilla. It's the other way around."

My stomach churns, and I jump to my feet, almost knocking him back as I slap a hand to my mouth and rush to the glass doors. I slide them open as fast as I can and step out into the cool night air. I barely get to the grass before I crumble to my knees, everything in my stomach coming out. My eyes shut, tears spilling down my cheeks, my stomach in knots.

I barely feel the hand that comes to my nape and holds my hair out of my face.

Lynch doesn't say anything. He's just there when he shouldn't be. How can he stand to be in the same room with me? Let alone touch me. I don't understand how he could even bear to look at me knowing I'm the one who deceived him and not the other way around.

I hate myself for allowing these images to fool me so easily. For not talking to him. Questioning him. I lost him so long ago, and yet he's here holding my hair and touching me. Demanding we get things straight between us.

"How can you stand to be in the same room with me?" I manage to ask long minutes later.

Instead of answering me right away, Lynch moves, adjusts me so that he can scoop me in his arms, and carries me back inside. He sits on the couch and holds me in his arms.

"This isn't just on you, Cams. I shouldn't have walked away the way I did when I saw you. I should have confronted you. You were hurt?—"

"Don't make excuses for me." My breath hitches, and more tears fall down my cheeks. "I screwed up and messed everything up between the two of us. You should hate me."

"Can't hate you, Cams. No matter how much I tried. I couldn't," he says, stroking my sides. "I was pissed, still am, but never, baby, have I ever hated you."

Shoving my face in his neck, I wrap my arms tight around his neck. "I'm so sorry, Lynch. So, so, sorry. I don't know if I could ever make things right between us."

"Not up to you to make things right," he mutters and holds me.

Neither of us speaks another word. He holds me and lets me cry in his arms, and I do. I cried until I couldn't cry any more tears, and I cry myself to sleep. All the while, he held me close and didn't let go.