Chapter 318: Not Hugged Enough

Fitzgerald did not move when Samantha lunged at him.

He still had no idea what had made her so angry, but, strangely enough, he found that he enjoyed her like this.

Samantha was never more alive than when she was furious with him.

He caught her around the waist as she lunged, using her momentum to lift her clean off the floor. Before she could protest, he swung her over his shoulder and carried her to the bed.

“Put me down!”

He did.

Just not gently enough to satisfy her.

She landed on the mattress with a startled gasp, and Fitzgerald followed immediately, catching both her wrists and holding them above her head.

He trapped her legs between his knees before she could retaliate. He had learned the hard way what those knees were capable of. He rather liked his crown jewels where they were.

“Samantha.”

She twisted beneath him.

Her wet hair spilled across the pillow, her breathing coming fast. Fitzgerald held firm, though the sight of her struggling beneath him was doing absolutely nothing to help his concentration.

Then he lowered his head and rested his forehead against her shoulder.

The fight slowly drained out of her. His breath warmed her damp skin. For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

“I never meant to hurt you, Sammy,” he murmured. His voice had lost its usual arrogance. “I apologize.”

He pressed a quiet kiss to the bare skin beside her collarbone. “I won’t hurt you again.”

“Liar.”

Samantha tried one last time to pull free. Fitzgerald held her easily. Then, abruptly, she stopped.

“All men are lying bastards,” she muttered.

Something in her voice made him loosen his grip. He released her wrists. Instead of moving away, he rested his cheek against her shoulder and pressed another lingering kiss to her cheek.

Samantha turned her face toward him.

“Is this about him, Sammy?” Her eyes met his.

Tears were already slipping down her cheeks.

“Get up.” She pushed at his shoulder. “Why am I the only one naked?”

Fitzgerald lifted his head. He was still very much on top of her. A slow, wicked smile curved his lips.

“I have no objection to being naked with you.”

“Fitzgerald—”

One piece of clothing landed on the floor.

Then another.

Samantha stared at him in disbelief as he calmly undressed, leaving the evidence of his shamelessness scattered around the bed.

“You are an absolute pervert.”

There was no real hatred in her voice anymore.

Fitzgerald slipped an arm around her waist and drew her against him. This time, he rested his cheek against her chest, listening to her heartbeat.

“He wanted your money, Sammy.” His voice was quieter now. “I want you.”

Samantha scoffed. “He lied. You lied. Both of you are liars.”

Her voice cracked. She had trusted that other man. Trusted him enough to bring him home to her family. Trusted him enough to accept his ring. And he had betrayed every bit of that trust.

Tears slipped down her cheeks again.

Fitzgerald didn’t tell her not to cry. He simply held her. His warmth against her skin was strangely comforting.

“You found him and agreed to marry him two years after we…” Fitzgerald stopped.

The words tasted bitter. He had spent years thinking about her. Years eating apples like a deranged man whenever something reminded him of her. And while he had been doing that, she had found someone else.

What if that man had not been a fraud? What if he had actually been good to her?

She might have married him. She might have had children with him. She might have built an entire life with someone else.

And Fitzgerald… He didn’t want to think about what would have become of him.

Samantha looked down at him. “You told me you couldn’t give me love.”

Fitzgerald averted his eyes. “He’s dead.”

Her brows drew together. “No, he isn’t. He’s in prison.”

Fitzgerald went still. Then he understood. “You’re sure?”

“My father said he could arrange a visit if I wanted one.” Samantha’s expression tightened. “How did he die?”

“There was a riot in the prison.” Fitzgerald’s eyes darkened.

Now it made sense. The Preston family must have waited until Samantha had moved on before making certain the man could never return. He had deserved whatever fate came to him.

At least, that was what Fitzgerald told himself.

Samantha studied his face. “Are you sure you didn’t have him killed?”

His eyes met hers. “I wanted to.”

She stared.

“But when I looked into him, I found out he had already died.”

She was silent for a moment. “A riot,” she murmured.

She knew what that meant. That would be the official report “died in a prison riot”. Someone like Fitzgerald knew there were ways to arrange an accident.

“Doesn’t matter,” she whispered.

And, strangely, it didn’t. She didn’t care anymore. In a way, it was better that he was gone.

“Back then…” Fitzgerald lowered his face into the curve of her neck.

Samantha tensed.

His voice came muffled against her skin. “I was diagnosed as a psychopath.” He gave a humorless little laugh. “They don’t call it that anymore. Antisocial personality disorder. ASPD.”

Samantha turned her head to look at him.

“I was told I couldn’t express love.”

Her expression softened. “That’s why you broke up with me?”

Fitzgerald’s jaw tightened. “I believed them.” His arms tightened around her. “I believed you would be better off without me. I believed you didn’t matter to me.”

He swallowed.

“I even convinced myself I had forgotten you.”

His voice dropped.

“Then I heard one name.”

Samantha knew immediately.

“Preston.” He nodded. “And suddenly everything I’d buried came back.” He drew a slow breath. “Everything.”

Samantha’s heart clenched. She couldn’t bear to see him like this. Her hand moved instinctively over his back. Her fingers found the familiar skin beneath his shoulder blade. There was still that little mole.

And lower down, the faint scar he had gotten as a boy when he had fallen from a swing and landed on a rock.

Five years… She hadn’t touched him in five years. And she still remembered him by touch. That realization made something inside her ache.

“You were always weird,” she whispered.

Fitzgerald raised his head.

“But you’re not a psychopath.”

His brows drew together.

“You obviously can empathize.”

She brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead.

“Remember those boys who bullied me?”

His expression changed.

“I remember.”

“I got hurt.”

“And I dealt with them.”

“You did more than that.”

Samantha smiled faintly.

“I saw your face when you saw my blood.”

Fitzgerald looked away.

“You were furious.”

“I was possessive.”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“You felt my pain. I could see it.”

Her fingers traced his cheek.

“You weren’t angry because someone had hurt something that belonged to you. You were angry because someone had hurt me.”

He said nothing.

“You put me before yourself.”

“But the doctors—”

“Doctors are wrong all the time, Fudgie.”

He blinked.

She gave him a tiny smile.

“You’re just a man who wasn’t hugged enough as a boy.”

Fitzgerald froze.

Not hugged enough.

Such a simple explanation. Almost absurdly simple.

But… Was she right?

He thought of the years before her. The cold rooms…The clinical voices… The endless explanations of what he was supposedly incapable of feeling.

Then he thought of Samantha. Her arms around him… Her warmth… The strange quiet that settled inside him whenever she held him.

And… Catherine Preston’s hug. He had felt different afterward. After that it had become impossible to ignore the emptiness he’d once accepted as normal.

Maybe Samantha was right.

Maybe there had always been something inside him that had simply never been given the chance to grow.

“Sammy…”

His hand drifted over her smooth skin.

“Lately, I haven’t felt like myself.” He looked at her, and for once there was no arrogance in his eyes. “Sometimes I don’t know what I am anymore.” His fingers curled gently around hers.

“But I know one thing.”

She waited.

“I don’t feel lonely when you’re with me… So, let’s get married.”