Page 1 of Declan's Dove

PROLOGUE

Violet

Two years ago

“Where were you yesterday, Violet?” My husband’s voice is eerily calm as he sits at the kitchen table drinking his morning coffee. His scrambled eggs, three pieces of crispy bacon, and home fries freshly made to perfection sit getting cold on the plate before him.

Carter, our nearly seven-year-old son, is sitting across from James, tucking into his plate of food, pretending he isn’t listening to our conversation, but I know he is. He always is. My boy is smart as a whip and pays very close attention to his father’s moods. He’s learned when to keep his mouth shut, and when to hide. He’s seen and experienced things no child should ever have to go through.

I continue washing the pans from breakfast in the soapy water I’ve filled the sink with, while answering the question truthfully. Mostly.

“I had a follow up appointment at the clinic with the doctor we saw last week. We spoke about it the other night at dinner.” I keep my tone light, pleasant … passive.

“I did some research on that clinic,” James says. My stomach drops. “They specialize in helping women who get themselves into trouble—in unwanted situations—a way out.”

Shit. He knows. How does he know?

Not sure what exactly James thinks he knows, I feign ignorance and say, “I’m not sure what you mean, sweetheart. I went to the main clinic on the first floor. The nice woman doctor took my vitals, asked about my, uh, wrist and how it was healing after my nasty fall.” I look over my shoulder at Carter, who gets the hint and quickly eats the last two bites on his plate, then brings it to the sink for me to wash.

“Thank you for breakfast, Mama. I’m going to go brush my teeth now.”

“Okay, sweetie.”

“Have a good day at work, Dad,” Carter says to James before scurrying out of the room.

James pushes his chair back and stands. He carries his plate to the sink. Pressing his body into mine from behind, he places the plate in the warm water. Both his hands grip the sink on either side of me, caging me in.

His mouth grazes my ear and my body shudders. It’s not the kind of shudder a woman feels when she’s turned on. It’s quite the opposite. It’s the response one’s body has when it knows imminent danger is near.

James leans in, his mouth near my ear as he whispers, “Are you pregnant, Violet?”

“What?”

His left hand, like a snake strike, grips my throat, squeezing enough to make me choke for air, but not enough to close my airway completely. It’s what he does when he wants my undivided attention.

“I researched your little doctor’s clinic. They specialize in abortions and various types of birth control and family planning bullshit.” He runs his nose up the side of my face as I struggle to take short breaths and not hyperventilate. “Did you go there to abort our baby?”

His grip is too tight for me to speak, so I simply shake my head no.

“You’re late. It’s been seven weeks since your last menstrual cycle. So, tell me, sweetheart. What were you really seeing the doctor about? Did she tell you about the baby when you went to the ER, and you made a plan to see her again, hoping I wouldn’t find out about the baby?”

“We’re having a baby?” Carter’s excited voice breaks the tension slightly, only to fill my heart with such pain. He has always wanted a sibling. James has tried for years to get me pregnant again, but my periods are never consistent, and my hormones fluctuate on a regular basis. The last obstetrician I saw told me stress could be a major contributing factor to the irregular cycles.

It happens when you live with a monster who’s always waiting to strike.

James releases my throat, wrapping both arms around my middle, and spinning us to face Carter.

“Tell him, Violet. Are we having a baby?” His voice has an edge, and I know, no matter what the reason, when I tell them both I’m not pregnant, I’m going to pay for it.

Looking my excited son in the eyes and hating the blow of disappointment I’m about to deliver, I tell him the truth. “No, Carter. I’m not pregnant. Me and Daddy were just talking about how we would like to have another baby. How we wish I was pregnant. But I’m not. Not yet.” Bile rises in the back of my throat at the thought of giving this man another child. Another person for him to terrify and abuse. If I could, I’d get my tubes tied to ensure he could never bring another life into this world for him to torment. For now, I’m just grateful my body is as repulsed by the idea as I am, because I’ve not been able to conceive since Carter was three years old.

One night after work, James learned I had taken forty dollars out of our grocery money and hidden it in a drawer in the bedroom. He accused me of stealing ‘his hard-earned money’ and then proceeded to beat the hell out of me as a reminder that I don’t earn the money that pays our bills—therefore I don’t deserve to have any of it for myself.

He never did ask me why I took the money.

I was planning on ordering a special cake to tell him we were expecting again. Only after the three punishing blows I took to my abdomen I no longer needed the cake because we were no longer expecting.

Of course, James blamed my weak body for the loss. Never taking any blame for his actions.

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