Chapter Thirty-­Two

Chapter Thirty-Two

Cecelia

P ulling up from another exhausting day, I find Tobias in the front yard with Beau, his smile warming me as the dog leaps at his feet, eager for something in his hand. I catch the tail end of their conversation as I exit my Audi.

"Devrions-nous montrer à Maman sur quoi nous travaillons?" Shall we show Mama what we've been working on?

"Oui," I reply as Tobias reaches over a dancing Beau to grip me in his hold and kiss me breathless.

"Salut, Maman." Hello, Mama.

"Bonjour, Frenchman." Hello, Frenchman. "What are you two up to?"

Tobias's gaze glitters over me, his smile reaching his eyes. "I have a surprise." He gives Beau a stern look before he barks out his first order.

"Assis." Sit. Beau immediately sits on his haunches.

"You can't take credit. I taught him that," I taunt.

"Roule." Roll. Beau immediately rolls over, and I clap with glee as Tobias rewards him with a treat.

Beau pants, waiting for his next order as Tobias lifts the treat up to eye level.

"Pattes en l'air." Hands up.

I laugh as Beau raises on his hind legs putting his paws up in surrender.

"Ah, ah." Tobias keeps him in the air, right before he converts his hand into an imaginary gun. "Bang, bang."

Beau goes down in a rehearsed heap.

"Oh, my God!" I exclaim as I kiss both men furiously while giving them praises.

"How long have you been working on that?" I ask as Tobias ushers us both inside.

"A few weeks."

"You could be a dog trainer."

"I can barely tolerate him," he scoffs, giving me a snobby side-eye.

"You love him."

"He did give me a mercy fuck when you wouldn't," he shrugs, and I slap his chest. He grins, making quick work of retrieving ingredients from the fridge.

"How was your day, Trésor?"

"Just a day," I say, darting my eyes toward the bedroom, anxious for another journal entry. For the last few weeks, he's given me huge glimpses into his life, recalling bits and pieces of the years I've missed. Sometimes he'll expand over dinner on what he's written, and other times he refuses to discuss anything more in-depth. But his story is by far one of the most fascinating I have ever read. The day at the track, where he bet everything he had to start Exodus being one of my favorites. Every paragraph gives bits and pieces of his, Sean, and Dom's pasts, eliminating some of the mystery behind them, while only making them more intriguing. Every detail I savor, which only makes my love and appreciation grow.

"I'm going to shower," I say as Tobias closes the fridge and grabs me by the hand, jerking me back to him.

"Why so eager?"

"You know why, don't be a shit."

His lips twitch. "You like my stories, Trésor?"

"I love them." I palm his face. " And you . "

He reads the eagerness in my face and frowns. "I'm afraid I'll disappoint you today."

"I don't care."

He presses his lips to mine. "Trésor, this one will upset you."

The last few weeks have been a dream—more than that, a honeymoon of sorts. We haven't argued... much. It's like we've resumed our life back in Triple Falls. The brief sad looks we share over our past are overcome easily by the victory of the new reality we're creating.

We fuck like bloodthirsty animals every morning and make love every night. My bad dreams are getting scarce, and when I wake up, he's with me, kissing me, inside me, chasing whatever remnants remain away. Sadly, his anxieties haven't eased, and I know it's because of the secrets he keeps close. Day by day he continues to bare more pieces of his history, leaving me temporarily satisfied.

Once, I came close to beating him at chess, and I gloated for far too long because he punished me that night for a good half hour before he let me come. And as our old habits of stargazing and drinking Louis merge with new habits we've collected here in Virginia, we've hit a stride I didn't think was possible so soon in our new union. With one week left until Thanksgiving, it seems as though the worst of our struggle is behind us.

"Whatever it is, we'll deal with it," I say, fully confident that's the case.

He gives me a nod and goes back to his task of cooking, something he looks forward to and takes painstaking effort daily to do—in which I reap the rewards.

With one last reassuring kiss, I rush into the bedroom, tossing my purse onto the bed and take the seat at the desk.

Cher Journal,

Over the last weeks, we've become closer, closer than we were before, but there is still a space between us, and we both know why .

I'm hiding something from her, and she knows it. But this confession I've kept close for years, and when I finally tell her what it is, I'm afraid she won't understand it the way I need her to. I want so much to tell her, but the more time that passes, the stronger we become. Sharing this with her could change everything between us again. Neither of us wants that, but I need her to know I'm waiting to tell her this for a reason. A selfish reason, because for the first time in years of endless war in head and heart, I'm close to content. I don't want my fears to become hers. So, I need her to wait just a little longer. I can only hope she will understand.

I've known for a lot longer that he's been hiding something from me, and I needed no confirmation by way of his daily confession.

Anger surfaces as I read through his words again and slap the journal closed. If I have any grudge or resentment left, it's because of this.

Knowing I'm in for a fight and completely unable to let it go, I stand and forgo my shower, walking back to the kitchen to find him missing, chopped vegetables abandoned on the counter. Opening the back door, I pause when I hear hushed conversation as Beau barks somewhere in the garden.

"This isn't just going to go away. You have missed two calls with me."

A woman's voice.

He's on FaceTime, and I step closer to get a look at her. Jealousy singes me as she comes into view, and of course, she's fucking beautiful. She looks to be early- to mid-thirties, dark hair and eyes, a melodic French lilt in her voice.

"I'm aware, Sonia. I've been preoccupied."

"I can't keep making an effort with you if you won't speak with me or return my calls."

"I understand. I'll be in touch soon."

"I urge you to make me a priority, as I have you . "

He nods. "You have my word."

Her eyes find mine behind him, and she gestures to Tobias, who glances back at me, either already aware or being made aware I'm standing behind him. I can't tell which. They end the call, and I wait for an explanation, standing just behind him, my blood running hot.

"Exodus business," he says simply and stands before he faces me. The lie too easy to detect.

"Right," I say, turning on my heel and slamming open the back door.

"Cecelia," he grits out, following me inside, a soft curse leaving him as I whirl on him.

"You thought I was in the shower," I snap.

"I'm not hiding anything."

I scoff. "You just lied to my face."

"Cecelia—" he grips me by the arm—"it's a confession for a later time."

"Are you fucking her? Have you fucked her?"

"Jesus, no." He releases my arm. "Trust me, you'll know sooner than later. We called a truce, remember?"

"Fuck your truce," I snap, my jealousy winning over logic. He didn't shy away when caught, but it's not good enough.

"Is she part of what you're hiding?"

"Yes, but don't, Trésor, don't jump to conclusions." The timbre of his voice more mournful than fearful. "It's nothing like what you're thinking. This explanation you will get in great detail. She wants to speak with you."

"Well then, get her back on the phone, King. I'm all ears ."

"Not yet."

"Only when it's convenient for you, right? Like you won't tell me why you're pacing at night instead of sleeping and checking in with the birds on watch more often than necessary. Or why you get so lost in your head sometimes, you stare right through me. Maybe you'll tell me, maybe, or maybe you'll run away from giving the explanations I deserve like you did in Paris . Trust you, right? Trust you. How can you ask me for what you won't give?"

I stalk off and slam my bedroom door. That night, he wraps around me wordlessly. His silence festers, keeping me awake.

*

Cher Journal,

This morning we got into a fight, and it was a nasty one. She thinks I'm an "overbearing, arrogant, caveman with a God complex, who needs to loosen the reins a bit." I yelled at her in English and cursed at her internally in French for two hours before I stormed out of the house and ran until my legs gave out. But I'm not sure she understands the fear that drives me to act the way I do. I'm not sure she understood me clearly enough when I said I wouldn't survive losing her. Maybe I'm selfish, but I want more of this life we started together. I'm too afraid one wrong fucking move will end it all. I need her to listen to me because my fear is real. And I can't temper it no matter how hard I try.

I wish so much that she could experience this fear for just a few seconds if only to help her understand. That I could let her witness the catastrophe that continually rages in my head that leads to the needles that turn to knives stabbing my chest to the point I suffocate from it. If only she knew how it felt, then maybe I wouldn't be such a "chest-beating moron." Or perhaps I should just man the fuck up and tell her I'm sorry. But even doing that, I know I'll only act this way again. No matter how much I want to trust her instincts, and no matter how much I'm beginning to fear the Beretta in her purse because I swear, I saw murder in her eyes mid-fight.

So, my confession is this—I will always act this way, feel this way, insist on my own way when it comes to her protection, to keep these feelings from taking over. To keep her with me .

I read his entry again and shoot off a text.

I'm sorry, too. Come home. I love you.

On my way.

*

Went for a run.

He's upped his runs to three a day. For the last week, he's been more and more on guard. On good days, when I get home from work, I find him waiting with a breathing bottle, usually in the kitchen, before he delivers a breath-stealing kiss. After dinner, we play chess, often until the late hours, talking, laughing, and exploring each other's bodies until we exhaust ourselves. On Thanksgiving, we dined alone together, stuffing our faces and splitting the wishbone, his win, before target practice gave a whole new meaning to a Turkey Shoot.

Though the secrecy is nothing new, it's been gnawing at me constantly since his confession, and I've been patiently waiting for him to finally reveal what cards he's got plastered to his chest. Often, I catch him in a daze, features twisted, eyes haunted, completely immersed in his thoughts, and I've given him ample time to come clean.

And he continues to fail me.

More than once, I've witnessed him drink himself to the point of passing out, an apology on his lips when I manage to get him to bed. And it's infuriating that even the drink that's loosened his lips in the past hasn't aided in bringing forth his confession at all.

His drinking would worry me more if he didn't take such immaculate care of his body. For now, I allow it because of his admission. It helps to stop his errant thoughts and calms him to the point he's able to sleep, which as of late, he's been doing less and less of.

If he came clean now, I could ease his burdens. He would keep his promises to me, but he hasn't, and odds are, he won't.

As of now, our watchful birds are becoming relentless, often dining at the café, and as of a few days ago, they started flanking me when I run errands, walking me to and from my car. They're on high alert, and I know why. They're becoming just as agitated as their boss.

It's infuriating for me to know that's the truth of it, and he's still hiding behind our truce to keep from telling me.

It's not hard to keep myself guarded when the deception at this point is so blatant.

Secrets tore us apart, and I have zero doubts they'll do it again—if I let them.

But while he's been sharpening his flock, readying them, I've made some decisions of my own.

I have to force his surrender so we have complete transparency.

It's the only thing that will fully heal us.

Until I get that, I won't stop seeking the truth from him.

On this, I won't break. I won't waver, no matter how much his kisses beg and his eyes plead.

So, for now, even with our truce in place, even as we draw closer than ever before, we remain in an unspoken stalemate.

I'll keep him just a breath away from where he so desperately wants to be from fully regaining my trust.

This is war. I'm not just fighting for the truth anymore—I'm setting boundaries for the future.

This time, I'm determined to break my king before he breaks me.