Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7) by JC Emery Page B

me so hard. He told me I was overreacting, but Sylvia got it. She doesn't know Ian's history--nobody here does--but she's a mother. She doesn't have to know my boy's damage to appreciate my happiness over something so small. She's not doing great these days, but she hides it well in front of the boys. I give her what support I can, but Sylvia Stone is not one to accept help no matter how much she needs it.
    "Well, you gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna yell? I got shit to do," I say. In the time it's taken my mind to wander over how much worse my situation could be, he's stood stock still and just stared at me. His eyes are at first blazing hot and crinkled in the corners, like he's angry, but then he's just kind of spaced out. Which might actually be worse, because I can't figure out what he's thinking.
    And he doesn't tell me. Instead, he reaches out and cups my face in his hands and pulls me in. In a rush, his lips are on mine, and they feel damn good. All soft and velvety and . . . like bubble gum. Only he's not chewing bubble gum. I straighten my back and try to pull away, but he won't let me, and fuck him for this shit. What an asshole. Jim's lips are never this soft, and he damn sure doesn't go around chewing bubble gum. Without another option, I reach up and place my hands on his chest. And I bite down on his lower hip. Hard.
    He pushes himself off me, sending me back into the door frame. Pain radiates from the back of my skull, but it doesn't matter. The quick rise and fall of his chest in partnership with the narrowing of his eyes is all the satisfaction I need.
    "You stupid bitch," he hisses. For the first time since I got to know him, a sliver of genuine fear runs through me. Jim won't hit me , I tell myself. He's not like the rest of them. But he takes a step forward, and it's so slow and calculated that I recognize it for what it is. He won't hit me , I promise myself. Another step and he's almost on me. But he might. Because that's what men do--even good men.
    "Stop." The word leaves my mouth as something between a command and a panicked shout.
    "You're going to pay for that."
    I put up shaking hands and take a deep breath. I say it again when he doesn't listen, but my voice breaks under the effort. My hands clench into balls at my sides as my lungs strain for breath. Jim's black hair lightens to the darkest brown I've ever seen. It's no longer a windswept mess around his face and is slicked back with an expensive mouse that keeps it set. His pale skin darkens and takes on an olive complexion that is purely Mediterranean. Gray eyes darken to a deep brown, and the man before me grows a few inches. Jim Stone, my infuriating friend who stood before me moments ago, is no longer. In his place is Carlo Mancuso--Mike, when I knew him. And his lip is curled, his voice spitting venom, and he's holding my six-year-old son to him with a knife to my boy's throat. I try to shake it away, knowing it's just an illusion, but it feels so real. Short pulls of breath are all I can take in, and they're not nearly enough to keep the pressure from swimming in my head. My eyes fall closed as I try to regain control of my mind and body. I can barely think clearly enough to suck what little air I can into my lungs. It's just . . . my throat is so tight. This doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense.
    Jim says my name, but it sounds like he's far away, and his voice still carries a thick New York accent. I reach out but lose my balance. No sooner than I'm falling forward is Jim catching me in his arms. He cradles me against his hard chest, murmuring soft words I don't understand. I suck in a deep breath, knowing it's Jim and not Mike. The anger that flowed through my veins is gone now, and all that's left in its wake is a sorrow I don't understand. Jim isn't Mike, and I know that, but the fear still lingers.
    A subtle tingle starts in my toes and works its way up through my legs to my torso and finally my arms. As it