Page 8 of His Wild Storm
His little cheeks turn red, and he looks down at the ground. The embarrassment coming off him has me sitting up and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed quickly. I grip his shoulders and pull him a step closer to me.
I hate that I’ve embarrassed him.
“Wilde,” I whisper but he doesn’t look at me, “it’s not a big deal to turn your shirt around.” He nods slowly, but the way his little spirit has been snuffed out by something so small kills something inside of me. “I’m proud of you that you got dressed all by yourself today.”
His head snaps up, and he looks at me with wide eyes. It’s far from the first time I’ve told him how proud I am of him, but it hasn’t been easy for him to hear becausehealways made snide comments. If adults can’t hear the positive words when negative ones seem so much louder, how can a child do any better?
“Your shirt being backwards is a little detail which is easy to miss. I’m not mad,” I assure him and hate the way his little shoulders drop with my words. “Here,” I pull on his sleeve, “tuck your arms inside of your shirt.”
He does it and the corner of his mouth tugs upward slightly like he’s fighting a smile. I quickly spin his shirt around him without taking it off and make an engine noise as I do. His giggle feels like a win; a huge one.
“There. Now you just stick your arms back through and you’re good to go.”
“That was kind of fun,” Wilde whispers conspiratorially.
“Good.” It feels like I can breathe again. The thought of making my son feel uncomfortable or scared, after everything he’s already witnessed in his short life, feels like a knife to my chest. “Let’s go and get some breakfast so you have the brain fuel for art class.”
Wilde is practically jumping up and down before he grabs his small backpack, the one packed with art supplies—and I’m not talking about crayons—and straps it to his back like he’s ready togo off to college. I’m damn proud of myself when I don’t let the tears stinging the backs of my eyes fall.
He speeds through eating breakfast and barely throws a goodbye to me over his shoulder before he’s racing out of the dining room. There’s no doubt in my mind of his destination—the common room where art class is taking place.
Laura, one of the women who runs Safe Home, laughs softly as she watches Wilde seemingly levitate out of the room. “He’s excited,” there’s amusement coloring her words.
“I have no idea what time he got up this morning, but he woke me up, not the other way around,” I admit.
Laura gives me a knowing smile. “Maybe he’ll take a nap later.”
“I doubt it,” I chuckle. “Later he’ll just want to practice whatever he learned today.”
I hear some sort of commotion at the entrance of Safe Home, but I’m not worried. The security measures for this shelter are top notch. I’ve met some of the guys who are in charge of keeping this place safe. With one look I knew they’re the kind of men who would rather die themselves than put anyone in this building in danger. From what I’ve heard, they’re a group of former military men who now run a security firm in Denver.
When I first heard about them, I thought I would find them intimidating and they’d scare Wilde. It might have been a year since the last time we had to endurehisabuse, but that doesn’t mean the scars aren’t still there. Not all men inflict pain, but not all men are safe either.
Meeting the men of Higgins Security made me feel even safer in Denver. Someone from the security firm is on call for us at alltimes and the cameras are monitored closely. It could feel like living in a cage, but it doesn’t.
Before I can investigate what is going on, Avery walks into the kitchen area with a big smile on her face. “Good morning, Haven and Laura,” she greets us brightly. “Knox met up with Wendy for the art class.”
My stomach swoops the moment she says the name Knox. I’m not sure if I’m reacting to his name or the thought of him being around my son. What if Wilde is scared of him? What does he look like? Is he prepared for the kids in class to be wary of him? Will he be a good teacher?
Before I can get too lost in those worries, Wendy walks into the room with a huge smile on her face. She must be able to read all the doubts on my face because she reassures me, her smile firmly in place, “Wilde is going to have so much fun during art class.”
I let out a breath, but it’s only half the capacity my lungs can hold. I don’t think I’ll be able to breathe fully until I hear it from my son. Part of me wants to rush into the room and check on him, but the rest of me knows I need to trust. Wendy, Laura, and the rest of the people I’ve encountered at Safe Home have never given me a reason to doubt them.
“That’s good,” I try and keep my voice bright, but I’m not sure I manage it fully.
“How about we head to my office, and we can chat, Haven,” Avery offers, pulling my attention further away from the fear over how Wilde is going to do with a man he’s never met before.
My throat is dry to the point that all I can do is nod and follow Avery. Even though the office in question is more of a closet than the kind of office she could have, the smile on her face doesn’tfalter as she motions toward the chair on the other side of her small desk. As she sits, she can’t get close to her desk because of her pregnant belly, even though she tries.
“Thank you for being so patient about meeting with me,” she starts. “I wanted to get an understanding of the most critical issues first.”
“I know I’m lucky because I never married him.” I swallow hard, unable to say his name out loud. I haven’t said it in months, and I don’t want to. There are moments when that part of my life feels like a lifetime ago. There are moments when it feels like I’m still trapped in that cage. “It would be so much worse if I was married.”
Avery nods sagely, “It would be. But not impossible to navigate.” She leans over her desk, giving me her full attention. “If you were married to him and needed to divorce, custody would be part of the agreement.”
“He doesn’t get custody of Wilde, not even partial or visitation or anything,” my voice is fierce and resolute.
Avery’s lips tip up before her eyebrows pull together and her eyes become glassy. Her voice is small, like she doesn’t even want the words to escape her lips, “Did he hurt Wilde?”
