Free Resurgence (Heart of Stone #9) by D. H. Sidebottom Page A

need to be
near Mason was as great as the need to run far, far away from him. I had to be
hard, but I was too weak. Losing George had hit me more than anyone would ever
know. I was ashamed of him, agonised by what he had done, but he was still my
son, my little boy. I missed his unique scent, the way he would smile at me,
the sound of his laughter and the pitch of his voice. I missed his compassion –
well the compassion he had once had – and the feel of his arms around me when I
hurt.
    The worse feeling in the world was accepting that you
failed as a parent. And that pain tore at my heart constantly. There wasn’t a
moment in the day when the guilt didn’t eat me up, guilt at failing and guilt
at forcing him into the corner he had ended his life in.
    A part of me died alongside my son, and I knew I wouldn’t
ever get it back again. I always knew I wasn’t a good person, but now I had to
face head-on that I was also buried so far in my own sin that I would never
witness a bright, sunny day again.
    Yet, for Mason, I was willing to live in the darkness for
the rest of my days. I was willing to accept the evil that simmered away inside
me, just so I could fight beside my husband for another day.
     
    The sound of the shower from the en-suite was loud in the
small bedroom. Memories of mine and Mason’s younger days flooded me as I
perched on the edge of the bed. Memories of our laughter, our love-making, our
talks, his amazing smile, each one filtered inside me to warm the chill that
had crept in. We’d had such a good life, albeit a hard life, and we’d been
blessed with great friends and beautiful children – children that were broken
from our sins.
    The shower shut off and I gripped the edge of the bed,
bracing myself when the door opened and Mason emerged in a billow of steam.
    He stalled.
    I swallowed.
    I’d seen his scars on many occasions in the hospital. But
witnessing them inside my own house I realised I wasn’t remotely prepared for
the overwhelming feelings that burned through my veins.
    Each raw, broken bit of skin was like a scalpel to my
heart, etching myriads of mirror images across the surface and slicing me with
thousands of razorblades of pain. Visions haunted me, my imagination guiding me
through the long hours Mason had spent in the room with his own, masochistic
son. The pain he must have felt, both physically and mentally.
    “Why didn’t you fight back?” It was a daft question. One
I should never have voiced. But I needed to know, I had to know!
    He remained stoic, his deep grey eyes fixed on me like I
was stupid. I was stupid .
    His long body taunted me, the deep grooves of his muscles
and the heavy contours of his frame stood firm and hard. Even though he’d been
disfigured he was still a very beautiful man, the way he held himself, the way
he stood menacing and foreboding, and the way his cold eyes drugged me caused
my heart rate to escalate and my breathing shallow to virtually nothing.
    I blinked when he whipped off the towel from around his
hips and threw it into the corner of the room.
    “This is me,” he said cryptically, his voice rough with
emotion – the first emotion I’d witnessed from him since he’d opened his eyes
eight weeks ago. “Because I am me .”
    His cock stood proud, as proud as my man once had. But no
longer did he hold that pride, it had vanished along with his soul.
    He flinched when I stood up and walked over to him.
Lifting my hand to his face, my heart squeezed when he moved away from my
touch. His eyes closed and he screwed up his face as if he needed to prepare
himself for my skin against his.
    “And I love you,” I whispered. “I will always love you,
no matter what, you know that.”
    His snort pierced something inside me and my hand jerked
when he pushed it away from him.
    Snatching up his jeans and a t-shirt, he refused to look
at me, his tension pushing me away.
    “I’m going out.”
    I stood watching the door for a long time after he’d