Page 94 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

Matthew

The letter fell from her fingers.

Florence stood motionless, staring at the fire, her vision blurring with tears she couldn't stop.

All this time. All this time she'd been waiting for words. For declarations, for promises, for the three syllables she thought she needed to hear.

And he'd given her something far greater.

He'd given her his life.

He was riding towards a monster who would use him, break him, chain him to a life of violence and servitude. He was sacrificing his freedom, his future, his self, so that she could be safe.

And she had let him believe he wasn't enough.

This man who'd killed for her. Married her. Followed her across the country. This man who'd held her while she wept and apologised for not having the right words.

She had doubted him. Of all people. She had doubted him.

A sob tore from her throat.

She sank to her knees on the cold stone floor, the letter clutched in her hands, and wept.

She wept for the man who didn't know what love meant but loved so completely. She wept for all the nights she'd turned away from him, nursing her wounded pride, too consumed by her own need for assurance to see what he was offering. She wept for the words she should have said. You are enough. You have always been enough.

She hadn't held him. Hadn't loved him the way he deserved.

She'd been so preoccupied with her own desperate hunger for validation, that she'd failed to see the truth standing right in front of her.

He loved her.

He loved her wholly, in the only way he knew how—with action, with sacrifice, with a willingness to walk into hell so she wouldn't have to.

And she had let him believe it wasn't enough.

But it was. God, it was.

All she could do now was love him as completely as he deserved. As completely as he had loved her.

Florence drew a shaky breath and shook the dust from her skirts.

Then she walked out to find Brennan.

The main hall was quiet. A fire burned low in the central hearth, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Brennan and Tam sat near the flames, a mug of coffee in their massive hands.

The men looked up as she entered. Brennan’s eyes moved over her face—the red-rimmed eyes, the tear-stained cheeks, the set of her jaw—and he set down his mug.

Her nose was running, her face wet with tears. She pressed a finger to one nostril and blew hard into the cold hearth.

"He's gone," Florence said, ignoring their wide eyes. Her voice was surprisingly steady. "Matthew left."

"I know. Half an hour ago." Brennan's expression was grim. "We tried to stop him, but he’s stubborn, that one."

"I'm going after him."

She wiped her face with her sleeve like Matthew had taught her.

"He's got half an hour on you. Strong rider. Fast horse." Tam rose from his seat. "I'll ride ahead." He was already moving towards the door. "I'll stop him."