Total pages in book: 20
Estimated words: 18319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 92(@200wpm)___ 73(@250wpm)___ 61(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 92(@200wpm)___ 73(@250wpm)___ 61(@300wpm)
He stared at me for a long, terribly silent moment, his blue eyes going hard. “You can’t do that. It’s not even legal.”
“I don’t care,” I shot back. “And I would say I don’t care what you think, but that would be a lie.” A hot tear scoured my cheek. “I’ve always cared what you think. I’ve cared too much. But I love you, and I want you to accept me. I’m asking you to accept my choices.”
I wasn’t just asking; I was begging. I was laying my soul bare, right out in public. Any passersby could see me crying, could hear my voice hitching as I pleaded for my dad’s approval. It was one of the most vulnerable moments of my life, and he could crush me with a word.
I wished Marco were with me. He’d come to support me, and I’d hurt him deeply.
As the silence stretched between my father and me, desperation to get back to my men—back to Marco—clawed at my insides. They were all that mattered. I needed to be with them, surrounded by their strength and love.
Not here, crying on the sidewalk as my father’s disapproval tore at my heart.
“I don’t understand this,” he finally said in a low, tight rumble. “I don’t understand you, Ashlyn.”
All the air left my lungs as though he’d punched me in the chest.
No, he’d never understood me. I’d never been the daughter he wanted me to be, and I couldn’t be that person.
“I know,” I whispered, bleeding inside.
I spun on my heel and raced away from him, toward my home. Toward my men, my family.
My father didn’t call after me. He didn’t approve of me. I’d been a fool to think he’d come to the wedding, that he might even walk me down the aisle. I’d put myself on the line with my stark honesty, and he had crushed me.
Chapter Two
MARCO
I scrubbed at the center of my chest, trying and failing to ignore the ache behind my ribs. I sucked in a breath before taking a long gulp of beer from the frosted bottle in my hand. The coolness against my fingers did little to soothe the strange, too-tight sensation that tugged on my skin. Muscles flexed, my frustration having no outlet.
Because I wasn’t mad at her: Ashlyn, my babygirl. I was pissed off at her bastard father. His judgmental bullshit had made her too scared to tell him about us.
I took another swig of beer and continued to ignore the pain that knifed through my chest.
It wasn’t fair to her for me to feel…
I gnashed my teeth and set the bottle down on the kitchen counter with a little too much force. Beer foamed up and spilled down the sides of the glass, wetting the granite before I had the chance to toss it in the sink with a curse.
I hadn’t finished cleaning up the mess when the front door slammed shut, jerking my attention away from my task.
“Marco!” My name hitched on her sob as she called out for me.
I was in the foyer before my next ragged breath, and my arms closed around her trembling body, pulling her tight against me. She buried her face in my shoulder, her tears wetting my shirt. My heart twisted in my chest.
“Daddy, I’m sorry,” she cried, twining her slender arms around me and clinging on desperately. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, babygirl,” I tried to reassure her, my voice strangely rough with emotion. I hated her distress, her pain. “I’m not upset.”
She tipped her head back, and her wide, shining blue eyes pierced my soul. Her gaze searched mine for a moment, and her brow furrowed.
“Yes, you are,” she countered on a strained whisper. “You are upset. I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”
I trailed my fingers through her dark hair, and she leaned into the soothing touch. The soft glide of the silken strands beneath my callouses calmed me, and I drew a deep breath as the tightness in my chest finally eased.
I cupped her pale cheeks in both hands, stroking her tears away. “You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
More hot tears spilled over my thumbs. “But I do,” she sobbed. “I am sorry. I should’ve told my father about you—about us—a long time ago. I was going to tell him today. In person. But I should’ve done it sooner.” Her delicate hands caressed my face, tracing the tight line of my jaw as I clenched my teeth at the mention of her father. “I didn’t want you to know,” she said with the weight of a confessed sin. “I lied to you.”
I searched my memory. “You didn’t lie about anything, sweet girl,” I promised. “I never asked. I should have. I know how difficult it is for you to talk to your father. I should’ve stayed to support you today. I’m the one who’s sorry.” I pressed a kiss to her forehead.