Chapter 82

Jesus fuck, I was a horrible fucking person and an even worse husband. Not only had I said those things to her, but I couldn’t even remember. What fucking bender had I been on to forget that?

My hands ran up her back as I clung to her tighter. I pressed my ear to her chest, listening to the quickened thrumming of her heart. The sound was heaven. A song ready to lure me in with its comfort and hope. I could die a happy man to the sound of her heartbeat.

Another time. Instead, I made myself pull back to look at her. I was a fucking mess of tears and uneven emotions. Gentle fingers brushed over my cheeks.

“I’ve never seen you cry before,” Genevieve murmured with something akin to fascination in her voice. I’d always been very careful to never cry—especially around her.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said. Okay? This woman was far too good for me.

“It’s not,” I insisted.

“We both did horrible things, Killian.”

“I’ve done far worse.” But we’d get there. “What else?”

“I don’t know,” Genevieve admitted. “I didn’t do much, Killian. I just… stayed here. There’s just not much to tell you.”

“Okay,” I whispered, nodding slowly. That went a lot faster than I’d been anticipating. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to share with her—I did—I was just worried about how she’d take it. Deep in my core, I was afraid. What if it was all too much for her? What if I was too broken? I wouldn’t blame her. Not after everything.

As if sensing my trepidation, she pressed her lips to mine softly in a kiss that spoke volumes.

“You won’t scare me away, Killian,” she said against my mouth. A sad sort of smile tugged at the corners of my lips. I didn’t believe that for a second. Twisted with a little bit of darkness in her or not, my wife was a good fucking woman. Better than most people in the world could ever hope to be. Me? I’d grown real fucking comfortable with my demons and darkness. It was easier to dance to the fucking song they were playing than fight them.

“Do you remember when I was sixteen? I spent two weeks in the hospital?” I asked. Better to start at the very beginning than in the fucking middle.

“I do.” She frowned. “I remember being mad at your mom for not letting me go with her to see you. I also remember realizing just how scary your mom could be.”

“Yeah, she has that effect when she wants to,” I said. Sighing, I took Genevieve’s hands in mine and stared down at where our fingers laced together. I traced her empty ring finger with my thumb. Fuck, I missed the sight of my ring on her finger.

“Killian, you’re worrying me.”

“I wasn’t sick. I tried to kill myself,” I told her quietly and gave her time for the words to sink in. I refused to look at her, my entire focus on our hands. I wanted to know what she was thinking, but I also didn’t. “I stole my dad’s heart medication from my mom’s medicine cabinet—I don’t know why she still fucking had it. Not that that’s important right now anyway. I took the whole bottle, but Declan found me. Mom… Mom managed to revive me.”

“Killian…”

“I was just… so tired of hurting. It was like… no matter what good happened, I felt fucking awful. I was so stuck in my head and just… I wanted to be done with everything. I just wanted to be done with it all.” Words caught in my throat as I choked up. She removed her hands from mine, and I braced for the fucking backlash. It never came as she wrapped her arms around my shoulders and buried her face in my neck. I hugged her tight and did my best to hold back the waves of emotions rolling through me.

“It’s okay, Ian,” she whispered into my skin.

“It’s not,” I muttered. I clung to her, using her closeness to help push me through. “I quit the medication they gave me as soon as I turned eighteen because it made me feel like fucking crap. I didn’t feel good. I just was fucking numb to the world. I like to think I had a fucking handle on things, but I know I didn’t. It didn’t get worse until the shit with your dad happened and I lost my job. I drank. A lot. And I hid it well enough.”

“I knew,” Genevieve said. “Or I sort of knew. There were signs, and I just tried to ignore them with everything else going on. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. That’s a me problem. Not you,” I told her. “When I left, I stopped caring and just kept drinking. Roan and Maverick were stuck taking care of my dumbass. I did a lot of stupid shit to try to deal with the fucking pain. Truthfully, I don’t remember most of that year, which I’m not fucking proud of.

“On the one-year anniversary of…” Fuck, I didn’t want to say the words. “… his death, I gave up. I just… couldn’t take anymore. I took my gun, locked myself in Brady’s house, and tried to kill myself.”

Her embrace turned damn near suffocating as she let out a tiny sob. I matched her intensity, needing it just as much as she did.

“Roan saved my ass. I don’t fucking know how, but he did. And then Brady tossed my ass into a psych ward to get help.”

“You needed it,” Genevieve said.

“I know,” I replied. For as much as I hated that place, I had needed to be there. “I was diagnosed with bipolar type two and given medication to help. I take an antidepressant with a mood stabilizer and have an anti-anxiety to help with the fucked up thought spirals I go on sometimes. And for sleep when I’m too riled up to fall asleep.”

“And that helps?”

“Sort of. This past month has been fucking awful.”

“With me?”

“With us,” I corrected. “I never dealt with any of my shit. It was easier to throw myself into work than deal with it.”

“And now?” she asked. “How are you doing now?”

“A fucking mess,” I told her. “After our last fight, I… I left town and ended up in a bar. I drove black-out drunk down to Brady’s and tried to kill myself… planned to kill myself. I passed out before I could.”

“Your text messages.” Genevieve leaned back to look at me. Yeah, those. I didn’t remember sending them, but I sure as hell saw that I sent them the next day. I swallowed hard as she put the pieces together. “That was only a few days ago.”

I nodded. Her fingers tangled in my hair as her forehead touched mine.

“I’m not okay, Genevieve,” I admitted painfully. Goddamn emotions. More fucking tears spilled over. “I haven’t been for years.”

For most of my fucking life really.