“Your point was to come and get a dose of your man.” He grinned arrogantly. “Mission accomplished.”

“Preacher—”

“Don’t,” he rasped, resting his forehead to mine. “I’m still inside you, cher. Don’t. Please.”

I closed my mouth.

“Thank you,” he whispered and touched his lips to mine.

I closed my eyes.

He rubbed his nose against mine.

I opened my eyes.

And seeing him, smelling him, feeling him, connected to him again, tears filled them.

“Baby,” he murmured, sliding out and rolling us to our sides.

But he did this clamping me to him with his arms and legs.

“This was a mistake,” I mumbled, staring at his throat.

“How’d you find me?” he asked.

“Loretta,” I told him.

“Sendin’ her flowers tomorrow,” he muttered.

I tipped my head back and he took one arm from around me to cup my head, rubbing the wet on my temple with his thumb.

“I felt rage,” he said.

“Wh-what?” I asked, confused where these words came from.

“Sittin’ there, in the witness box, lookin’ at him. Sittin’ there, doin’ the same at her. Rage. I can guarantee you’ve never felt that, Lyla, and I hope with all that’s me you never do. It’s consuming. It eats you up. It is no exaggeration to say it’s a damned miracle I didn’t fly outta that box and tear them limb from limb.”

I had wanted this for so long.

And now I had it.

Therefore, I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to offer him the chance to give it.

Thus, take it.

So, I slid my hands up his chest and held onto his neck, trying not to do it too tight, whispering, “Preacher.”

“It was not good, cher.”

“Honey,” I breathed.

“It was so not good, I was not good for you. I was not good for the band. Lyla, they killed my brother.”

God.

They killed his brother, he heard it and he spent years making it so they’d pay.

And then he did, and they tore him apart.

Again.

I said nothing, just held on to him tight.