Scars of Yesterday (Sons of Templar MC #8) - Anne Malcom Page 0,72
He moved from the bed to stand in front of me, hands firm on my hips. “Lizzie, fuck it hurts to see you like this. Every damn time. Every damn moment I’m not inside you.” There was frustration in his voice. Fury.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about watching you doubt everything you do. Like you’re failing some impossible test you’ve set for yourself. Like somehow you can only live with yourself if you’re constantly in pain. Constantly punishing yourself for every single decision you make. Everything you want. I’ve been keepin’ my mouth shut because I know this is something you gotta work through. Even though it’s fuckin’ torture. But I can’t anymore. So I’m not going to let you say this shit out loud. I can’t control what you think. Maybe, in time, I’ll be able to help change that. Maybe not. But however long I’m fuckin’ you, however long I’m in your life, secret or not, it’s my mission to make you stop punishing yourself for any second of happiness or pleasure.”
His words hit true.
Not just the words but the feeling behind him.
He had feelings. For me. Which was a problem. A big fucking problem. He was too young. This was too soon. He was in the club.
And worse than that, I was getting feelings for him too.
Which was why I walked out of the room without saying another word, without looking him in the eye.
I went through the motions of the afternoon. Picked up the kids. Took them out for ice cream which we ate on the beach.
Took them home. Made them shower off the sand, do their homework and then get ready to go for our weekly dinner at Evie’s.
Sometimes it was a huge dinner with everyone from the Sons coming. A dinner that usually turned into a party. Other times it was a mishmash of whoever could arrive. But once a month, it was just us. The two Sons of Templar widows. It sounded pathetic, but with Evie involved, it definitely wasn’t pathetic.
The routine consisted of us ordering in whatever we wanted, whatever the kids wanted, with wine or whisky, depending on the mood. It was a night for talking about everything, while usually skirting the subject of our dead husbands.
Evie had taken Steg’s death in her typical stride. On the surface, at least. I knew she was suffering. Bleeding. Trying to make sense of a life without the man she’d been next to for decades.
As much as I hated any activities that were born out of my husband’s death, I actually looked forward to dinner with Evie. Being around her, I didn’t feel like such a broken, weird shell of a person.
“You look different,” Evie stated the second she let me through the door, the kids already running toward the ‘toy room’ Evie had set up for the various Sons of Templar children who visited on a daily basis. Despite being the most unlikely of grandmothers, she sure knew how to entertain.
Shit.
I knew I should’ve made some excuse to miss this week. The bitch was far too perceptive for her own good. But I’d reasoned that canceling our plans would’ve only made her more suspicious.
“I got my hair done,” I lied, walking into her home.
It was warm. An interesting description, especially when looking at Evie. There were a lot of things that came to mind looking at the biker queen, but warm was nowhere on the list.
For a start, it was huge. There were enough guest bedrooms for the many families that had needed them over the years during lockdowns, wars, weddings funerals.
There were three different living rooms, one with a huge L-shaped sofa in a deep brown. Sitting on that couch was like laying on a cloud. There were pillows. Throws. Candles. Books on the coffee table. A huge TV. Pretty much everything inviting you to stay awhile. Her and Steg had always had two cats, Boris and Nigel who were most likely hanging out with the kids. The two kids who’d named them the oddest cat names in the world.
Photos decorated almost every surface. The Sons of Templar throughout the years. Her and Steg. Wedding photos. Baby photos.
Memories of the legacy she was a part of. The life she’d lived.
I walked into her huge kitchen, where I’d helped cook many Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, snatching two whisky glasses from a cupboard filled with various types of alcoholic drinkware.
Evie raised her brow at my choice. “You did not just get your hair