Forever Us Read online

  Contents

  Also by CC Monroe

  Dedication

  Disclaimer

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  FOREVER US

  Copyright © 2017 by CC Monroe

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Edited by Kayla Robichaux

  Cover Design, Interior Design & Formatting by Jersey Girl Design

  ISBN-13: 978-1978421172

  ISBN-10: 1978421176

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, story lines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental.

  Always and Forever Series

  Always The One

  Always Us

  Forever The One

  Forever Us

  Loving Ben Cooper

  Steal You (Coming Soon)

  How vain is it to dedicate a book to yourself? Well, I'm doing it. I never imagined I would've made it this far, that I would've shared my own personal story so deeply through Lana and Kingston. But I did. So many demons, so much pain, so much agony, was shared in the process of writing their story. But then again light sprouted at the end of that very dark tunnel, and I found my happily ever ending.

  I didn't know if I was ready for the world to see this side of Lana and Kingston, but as you read this dedication rest assured that now, more than ever, I am ready for you to say goodbye to them with me. I'm ready for you to see the end of their story.

  So Sierra, CC Monroe, here is the end to the couple that meant the most to you. I'm proud of you, I believe in you, and I see the change in you.

  *Warning: Novel contains subject matter that may cause emotional triggers.

  If you or someone you know is in danger, please reach out.

  You are not alone.

  To make a donation to the National Domestic Violence Hotline:

  https://support.thehotline.org/hotline/support-the-hotline

  “Push, baby. It’s okay, just push,” Kingston’s voice echoes, but it doesn’t register with me. I feel my hips separating and body-numbing pressure deep in my back. I didn’t have time for an epidural, and the pain is more than what I could have ever anticipated. The books, opinions, all the stories—pale to the absolute torture wrenching my body apart. I can’t feel my legs as I prepare to welcome my son into this earth. Battling my body to work the way it needs to seems beyond unbearable.

  I bear down, breathing out, squeezing my eyes shut with my hand gripped around Kingston’s, but nothing happens—no baby.

  “Lana, you’re doing great. Give me one more push on three. We see the head. Count with me. One...two...three.”

  I use what little strength I have to move mountains, it seems. I push hard with the most effort my weakened body has and I hear it; I hear the words I’ve been dying to hear.

  “That was good. Just give me one more big one, Lana. He’s here,” Dr. Barrett reassures me, and desperate to see my son, I bare down, but this time, I do so with every last ounce of strength I have in hopes this really is the last one.

  “That’s it, my queen. You got this. Bring our son home,” Kingston encourages next to me, one hand gripped to the point of breaking in my clenched hand, while the other runs through my hair, trying to bring me comfortable solace.

  With that last push, I hear angels sing, my desperate ears no longer starving for what I’ve wanted since the moment I learned of his existence. Our son.

  His cries are loud and groggily, I do my best to catch a glimpse of him, but he’s instantly swarmed by nurses. His voice is calling for me to come get him, calling out to his mother for safety. Why didn’t they give me my son?

  “We need to get him to the incubator. Let’s cut his cord STAT,” the doctor rushes out with authority as he stands over our son, speaking to the nurses as if I can’t hear what he’s saying.

  I catch a brief sighting of Princeton and my heart rate spikes. What do they mean? He’s a big boy, so why are they taking him away from me? I feel myself working up into complete hysteria as I squeeze Kingston’s hand tighter in my damp palm.

  “Kingston, where are they taking him?” I start to move, the pain below my waist far less prominent than the suffocating, anxiety-ridden panic that’s clawing at me.

  “Baby, relax, they’re going to keep him safe. Just lay back. Okay?”

  “No! I want to see our son!” I wail, looking up at him as if he has lost his damn mind. That’s our boy, and I don’t know if him being calm is to settle me, or if it’s because he doesn’t care that our child is being dragged away without us even getting to touch him.

  Either way, neither of those things is sitting well with me.

  “Ma’am, we have a protocol and we need to make sure his lungs are fully developed. Please relax. We will get him situated while we get you taken care of.” The nurse at my feet fails to make me feel better.

  “I don’t care about me. I want to see my son. Kingston, tell them to give me our son!” I look back up to Kings and tug at him with desperation. My heart is beating a mile a minute, my body feeling like it’s going into shock. The tears come out of me with a hot, acidy burn. I want to see my baby. I need to touch him and confirm on my own that he is here and well.

  “Baby, I want to see him too, but he needs to be put in the incubator. We need to make sure he is healthy,” He coos gently, but I only sob harder, clinging to him as I see small tears seeping from his eyes.

  “That’s our baby. I want to make sure he’s safe. My baby!” I wail up into Kingston’s neck as he comes to my level and embraces my still-shaking form. I try desperately to draw comfort from him, but how can I when the one thing I need to make me feel whole is being ripped away from me? Like my only lifeline is being severed.

  What felt like only moments was really hours when I woke up in the hospital, ready to give birth. Blacking out is the last thing I can recall before waking up in extreme pain and being prepped to deliver. All because a small manila paper with just a few sentences and an impact of a thousand armies touched my hands. Joel is free. Joel was never really gone, still living, but still an imitation of death—out of sight, out of mind. The nightmare I ran from tirelessly, even in my wakeful moments, is now a tangible reality.

  I can’t believe he’s free already, that he now has the power to get to me whenever he wants. Restraining order, protection order, all that shit is nothing to him. I lived in the shadows of that monster, saw the things he was capable of, felt the wrath of what he can do. Now my son is here, and more than my safety, I fear for his. Princeton is mine to protect, and when Joel was locked up
and just a mere absent thought, it didn’t invade my every waking moment. But now that he’s free and has the power to not only hurt me, but to hurt my child—it’s a fresh slap to my face.

  As they leave the room with my son, I feel that tangible fear even more so. They dragged away our boy, leaving us in this room feeling empty. What happened? How did we get here? What was hours that felt like minutes, now turns into seconds that feel like decades away from my son.

  The pit of loneliness and fear creeps in as I wallow in this hospital room with Kingston. Being poked and prodded as I become numb, his crying mingles with mine. This feeling seems desolate; a void deep in me where my son should always be feels empty. Everything comes flooding back in at once, the pain, the fear, the blame. All of it reaching in me and pulling out my insides.

  How will I go forward when I just hit a landslide?

  My son. I need my son.

  It was all a blur tonight. Lana falling into my arms as she passed out after reading the letter. Catching her limp body against me, then seeing her water break as Jeff called 911. I couldn’t do anything but panic. It became clear she passed out and was quickly sent into premature labor.

  Being rushed through the motions of the rest of the day has my mind reeling and just now starting to catch up. Lana crashed after the medicine kicked in and I haven’t left her side. Jeff and Becky went with Trey and Shayla to get some food, and my dad is on his way now. But staying right fucking here with my queen is the only thing I want to do. I saw the terror in her eyes when they took away our son. And I know damn well she’s going to wake up and see he’s still gone, which will throw her into another fit.

  I understand. I want to get us to the incubator so we can see him, but we aren’t allowed to yet, and I will wait until Lana wakes up to go with her. Until then, I have a moment to think about everything. The doctor let me know that Prince is already farther along in his development, so they don’t believe he will need to be in the incubator for long. Which has been the best news to receive. I just wish Lana was awake to hear it. Maybe it would help her anxiety settle.

  I hate the reason my son and my girl are in this place—him early and fighting like a strong little warrior, and Lana a wreck over not being able to touch and see our baby—is over Joel. Lana was sent into labor because of that fucking letter. Joel is out; he’s no longer behind bars. The day snuck up on us, most likely because we’ve been wrapped up in the new house, prepping for baby, and more that the sudden loss of Joel’s presence was easy to forget.

  His letters stopped, the harassing too, but just knowing now that the only thing keeping him from coming to Lana or near my family is nothing but a lousy piece of paper puts me on edge. I have no doubt I can protect her, but all it takes is one minute for me to fall short or not be all in for him to get a hold of her, of our son. One little unneeded blink or unexpected turn of my back, and he could have my world and more in his hands.

  I try my best to not think of that, to not let it eat me up, but it doesn’t work. We have a child now, a precious life I have to fucking protect. This also presents a whole new list of setbacks for Lana. I was prepared for her to be taken aback a little when he was released, but if it was any indication of what’s to come after tonight, her setback may be a complete bulldozer to her walls.

  “Kings?”

  I look down at Lana’s drowsy form, she looks exhausted, drained, every bit afraid.

  “Hey, baby.” I lean in, kissing her forehead.

  She smirks, but it doesn’t reach her heavy, dejected eyes. “Where is he?” She starts to sit up, wincing when she pushes herself too far. I lightly lay her back with a gentle hand.

  “Mama, lay still. I’ll get the doctor then we’ll get you up and we’ll see our son.”

  She nods, gauging me. She looks unsure, like she can’t trust me.

  “I need to see him, Kingston. Please.”

  “Okay, just a second, baby.” Standing up, I kiss her forehead one more time and go in search for Dr. Barrett. When I find him, he comes into the room, checking her out, all while she sits there like stone, looking toward the door like she’s searching for Princeton, waiting for him to appear.

  “Okay, your vitals are normal. Let’s get you a wheelchair and we will take you in to see little man.” Dr. Barrett smiles. I return it, but once again Lana shows no emotion. Her anxious body is willing us to move faster. She wants to get there, and I hope when we finally see him it will ease the edge.

  Helping her into the chair, we roam down the hall under the fluorescent lights that make everyone and everything look bleak. Entering the dimly lit room, we see all the machines surrounding the dome in the center. Instantly, I feel my tears coming on as Lana slowly lifts from the chair, bringing her hands to the glass. She begins to cry, her body shaking as I stand behind her.

  “Lana, no need to cry. He is doing quite well.” Dr. Barrett stands on the opposite side of us. I look down at Prince, paying close attention to his chest as it rises and falls steadily. The smile on his face widens then shrinks over and over again. He looks healthy, besides all the fucking tubes going into his nose and mouth and the patches attached to his tiny chest.

  I feel like a failure, watching my newborn son fight and my woman moan in pain as she watches our life lie in a bed with nothing but beeping machines attached to anywhere his little body can fit. That sudden fear I can’t protect my own comes worming its way into the forefront of my insecurities. Luckily, Lana speaks and distracts me for just a few minutes.

  “Then why is he in there?” she asks, irritated.

  I rub her back and kiss her head, attempting to pacify her.

  “This is a precaution. He came out weighing seven pounds and four ounces, which is healthy. We have him in here to monitor the lungs. We want to make sure they are mature enough. Think of it this way: he has sticky balloons that fill with air when he inhales, and when he exhales, they collapse repeatedly without any complications, and so far, so good. If he goes a full forty-eight hours without any issues, he will be ready to go home.”

  “Has there been any issues so far?” She presses for more, watching Princeton with intensity.

  I watch him and listen all at the same time, thankful when the doctor lets us know that nothing looks wrong and once again reminding us this is all precautionary. He looks perfect. He looks just like me. I know babies tend to not look like anyone till they’re a couple months old, but he has my eye shape, my nose, my lips. He has Lana’s dimples though, her deep ones whenever she smiles. He looks flawless, like an angel, softening my insides.

  His tiny hands twitch every few seconds, his little toes curling whenever Lana talks. That’s when I see it; he smiles whenever her voice is heard. It may be a tic or a reflex, but it happens whenever she speaks, and that’s good enough for me.

  “Lana, look how he smiles when you talk. Say something; he can hear you.”

  She looks away from the doctor, then to me over her shoulder with a gentle smirk. Looking down, she starts to speak.

  “Hey, baby. Mama misses you. You look so handsome. God, I can’t believe how handsome you are. No I can’t.” The sound of her cooing, the sound of her talking to my son, has my heart slowing. Holy hell, that is beautiful.

  “Look how goddamn perfect he is, Lana. God, thank you for my son.” I repeat thank you a few times as I kiss her temple, closing my eyes as the remaining tears fall. This is our first moment as a family. I just wish I could be touching him, skin-on-skin with him. Or better yet, watching him skin-on-skin with Lana.

  But if this is all we have, I won’t complain. I just want him healthy and safe and ready for home, same with Lana.

  For two entire days, I had to watch my little boy lie inside a bubble. It was suffocating not being able to hold him and make nothing more than hand contact. We finally made it home a few days ago, and I haven’t stopped holding Prince. Kingston has been rushing around to get the hospital bag unpacked and me as comfortable as possible, all while still getting some wor
k done.

  In the hospital, I hardly slept, constantly hearing Prince cry, except it wasn’t real; it was all in my head. When I finally did get some sleep, my eyes would shut and all I could see was Joel carrying Princeton away from me. My nightmares no longer focused on my safety, but that of my son.

  My anxiety has been spiking. I feel on edge constantly, and I feel volatile when anyone but myself gets near my son—even Kingston. Not sure what it is that makes me overly protective and anxiety-ridden, but I’m just hoping it passes.

  Joel’s out, free from his chains and on the loose to do whatever he wants to me, to my family. My no contact order still stands, but that piece of paper can’t do anything. What would I do? Hit him with it? Detective Henson insists he believes I’m fine and he has proof that Joel settled somewhere in Southern Utah, further making him believe I’m not in harm’s way.

  After the last time Detective Henson talked to Joel and I filed a report with Seattle PD, he backed off. But is this just an act? A way to throw me off his trail? Or am I simply overthinking everything? I hope it’s the latter. If not, then I have every right to stay on edge like I am.

  “Hey, baby, has he eaten yet?” Kingston enters the nursery, taking up the doorway with his large frame. Wearing his basketball shorts and his black tee, he readjust his snapback on his head, putting it on backward, showing me more of his tired face. He stayed up with me the entire time I was there, sleeping on the stiff hospital couch whenever I finally got some sleep.

  “No, he won’t latch, Kingston. What’s wrong with me?” I huff, overwhelmed suddenly with the fact that Prince has not been nursing since he was born. Maybe two times has he latched, and every other time, he has had to take my pumped milk. The doctor said it’s normal, but I can’t help but feel foreign, like my own son hates me. My milk isn’t what he’s rejecting; it’s me.