"Justice," Blade had called it as we watched the compound burn in our rearview mirrors. Not revenge, not murder. Justice.
The sound of a motorcycle pulling into our driveway snaps me from my memories. James immediately perks up, recognizing the distinctive rumble of his father's Harley.
"Daddy!" he squeals, smacking his hands on the tray.
"Yes, Daddy's home," I confirm, turning down the heat under the chicken and wiping my hands on a dish towel. "Let's go say hello."
I lift James from his high chair, settling him on my hip as we head to the front door. We reach it just as it opens, revealing my husband's imposing figure silhouetted against the setting sun.
The smile forming on my lips freezes when I see the state of him. His knuckles are bloody and raw, his t-shirt splattered with what is definitely not his own blood, and there's a dangerous glint in his eyes that I recognize all too well.
"James, honey, why don't you go play with your blocks in the living room for a minute?" I set our son down, gently steering him toward his toy corner. "Mommy needs to talk to Daddy."
James looks up at his father, completely unfazed by the blood. At two, he's already learned that sometimes Daddy comes home messy, but he's still Daddy.
"Blocks, Daddy?" he asks hopefully.
Blade's hard expression softens immediately, as it always does for our son. "In a minute, little man. Let me talk to Mommy first."
Satisfied with this promise, James toddles off to his corner, immediately engrossed in his wooden blocks.
I turn back to my husband, hands on my hips. "What happened?"
Blade shrugs, closing the door behind him. "Had to have a conversation with someone."
"A conversation that required your fists?"
"Some people don't listen to words."
I sigh, taking his battered hand in mine to examine the damage. The knuckles are split but not badly. It's familiar territory. I've cleaned and bandaged these hands more times than I can count over the past three years.
"Who was it this time?" I ask, leading him to the kitchen sink to rinse off the blood.
"Martin Dawson," he says, allowing me to hold his hand under the cool water. "Been hassling women coming out of the Bluebird Café. Following them to their cars, making threats if they don't give him their numbers."
My stomach tightens. The Bluebird is two doors down from my shop. "Has he bothered any of my customers? My employees?"
"Not that I know of. But he would have eventually." Blade's voice is matter-of-fact. "He won't be a problem anymore."
I grab the first aid kit we keep under the sink, another familiar routine. As I clean and bandage his knuckles, I find myself torn between exasperation and gratitude. My husband's methods may be violent, but his motives are pure. He protects what's his, and in his mind, that extends to the entire town of Pine Haven.
"Is he still breathing?" I ask, only half-joking.
Blade's mouth quirks in that almost-smile I've come to cherish. "Yeah. But he won't be walking right for a while."
"Good." I finish taping the bandage in place, then rise on tiptoes to kiss him softly. "Thank you for protecting our town."
His arms encircle my waist, pulling me against his solid chest. Even after three years of marriage, the feel of him still makes my heart race. "Our town. Our family. Our life," he says, his deep voice rumbling through me. "I protect what's mine."
After a lifetime of feeling abandoned and unwanted, belonging to someone—belonging with someone—is the greatest gift I could have received.
"You should change before dinner," I say, reluctantly pulling away. "That shirt is a lost cause."
He glances down at the blood-spattered fabric. "Probably right."
"And you promised your son some block time."
His eyes soften as he looks over at James, who is stacking blocks with intense concentration, his little tongue poking out between his lips. "Yeah, I did."
