Page 91 of ICED
I nod again, barely managing the word. “Yeah.”
His hand finds mine, fingers weaving together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Do you think that’s a real possibility?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I haven’t heard from him in almost a year. He used to try, especially when Lila was younger. Calls, emails. But I never responded. Changed my number. But still…”
I shift, my arm brushing against the edge of the doorframe, and wince without thinking. Owen notices. He doesn’t say anything at first, just gently lifts the sleeve of my hoodie that’s fallen down around my elbow. His hand pauses.
There, on the inside of my forearm, is the faint scar I usually manage to keep hidden. It’s small, faded with time, but unmistakable.
He traces it lightly with his thumb. “This was him?”
I nod, throat burning. “He had a cigarette in his hand. I said something about not wanting Lila in the car with him when he was angry. And he just grabbed me.” My voice cracks. “He didn’t even flinch. Just pressed it in.”
Owen’s jaw tightens. His whole body tenses under me. But his hand stays gentle.
“Jesus, Maya.”
“I covered it up. Told people it was a cooking accident. Kept telling myself he never hit me, so it didn’t count. But…” I meet his eyes, heart hammering. “It counted. It still counts.”
“It does,” he says fiercely. “It counts. Every bit of it. And none of it was your fault.”
I nod, but the guilt still clings. Old habits die hard.
Owen exhales, brushing his knuckles against my cheek. “I’m so damn sorry he did that to you. That you had to carry all of this alone.”
“I’m not alone now,” I whisper. “Right?”
“Never again,” he says, without hesitation.
There’s something in the way he says it that’s solid and sure and so completely Owen, that makes my chest ache. Not with fear, this time. With relief.
He helps me up, still holding my hand. “Come on. Let’s sit somewhere a bit more comfortable.”
I follow him into the living room. He doesn’t ask questions when I tuck myself into his side on the sofa. He just wraps an arm around me, settling in like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Lila stirs once in her bedroom down the hall. I freeze. Owen rubs my arm gently.
“She’s fine,” he murmurs. “You both are.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. The scar on my arm still tingles, but it doesn’t own me. Not anymore. “I’m so tired,” I whisper.
“Sleep,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
JACKO
As the morning breaks and the light begins to filter into the lounge, every part of my body aches. My muscles are tense from being on high alert all night. Maya finally fell asleep on me about four this morning, after I managed to convince her it was just a faulty alarm again. But something’s niggling at me and I can’t put my finger on it.
Everything feels too normal. The kettle hums on the counter. Maya’s moving around the kitchen with mechanical calm, slicing strawberries for Lila’s porridge like the night hadn’t induced mass panic.
I watch them from the kitchen table, mug warm in my hands, eyes gritty from sleep I never really got. The baby monitor crackled to life twice overnight, and both times I was on the verge of grabbing both of them and getting the hell out of there.
Lila sits on her booster seat at the table, swinging her legs and chewing thoughtfully. She doesn’t say much at first, just hums along to the silly morning jingle on the radio.
“More strawberries, Mummy?” she asks, voice syrupy and small.
Maya nods and slides more into her bowl. “Eat up quick, baby. We’re on the clock this morning. Nursery starts in thirty and Mummy’s got a mountain of croissants to roll.”
