Calling for a Miracle [The Order of Vampyres 2] (Siren Publishing Classic) by Lydia Michaels Page B

He would cross this distance stretching between them and repair the bridges that connect husband and wife.
    She waited for him to approach and then apologize to her for hurting her so. She was not a jar of jam to be ignored on a shelf. She shut her eyes and waited for the press of his palm onto her back, the caress of his fingers across her cheek. She waited for any sign that he saw her. She had no doubt he could feel her sadness and pain rolling off of her in waves.
    The sound of the pewter goblet clicking down on the nightstand interrupted the silence. He was right behind her. She could sense him watching her. He had seen she was upset. He would touch her now.
    “I’ll see you in the morning.”
    As if swallowing her whole, a wave of pain caused by his rejection washed over her so completely that with the sound of the front door closing her mouth gaped open in a soundless cry. The silence finally gave way to her gasping breath as she choked on the cold air tripping into her lungs. The pressure in her chest was too tight. There was no room for breath.
    Turning into her fists still clenching the bedding, she pressed her face into the pillows and began to sob. Nothing should hurt this much. What had she done? Why was he punishing her with such indifference?
    A dam had broken around her frayed emotions. She sobbed into her pillows until her cheeks grew chilled and damp from her tears. Sobbing to a point of hyperventilation and disillusion, until hours later, energy depleted, her cries waned into shuddering breaths paced perhaps only one every minute. She watched, body numb, eyes unblinking, as the silver reflections of the moon heated to shades of gold then pink as dawn peeked over the horizon.
    He had not returned to her. The goblet remained untouched on her nightstand. She was exhausted, but knew she would not sleep. She heard Gracie emerge from the room down the hall, heard the sound of pots being heated over the stove. By the time the scent of sausage and eggs filtered up to the second floor of the house, Abilene decided she should rise for the day. However, that thought was followed by her treacherous mind’s snide question. For what? Would anyone really miss her if she did not attend breakfast?
    Gracie had been spending her mornings tending to the baby calves in the barn. She would no doubt head that way as soon as breakfast was finished and the kitchen returned to sorts. Abilene waited.
    Was Jonas eating beside his daughter? He seemed to barely touch his food anymore. Abilene thought of the months after her miscarriages and how her sadness had caused her appetite to lag. The idea that Jonas was perhaps that sad made her stomach clench with guilt. Was this her fault? Was he perhaps finally getting fed up with her inability to bear him more children? Inadequacy was now accompanying her insecurity and sorrow.
    Once she heard Gracie leave for the morning, Abilene finally stood to dress. She meticulously pulled her shift on and pinned her apron extra tight, needing to feel as if something held her. She braided her hair until it pulled and pinched her scalp, hoping the pain would distract her from the ache in her heart. As she reached for her lace bonnet, she noticed her fingers were trembling. Shutting her eyes, she willed her body to settle. She would be a good wife and patiently wait for her husband to once again seek her company. If it took a century, she would abide the pain and loneliness because she had complete faith in Jonas’s love.
    For several minutes she told herself she was a good wife worthy of a husband’s love, but when she opened her eyes and saw the truth of her uncertainty in her still-trembling hand, she snapped. Without thought, she watched the backs of her trembling fingers lash out and smack the goblet off of the nightstand. The heavy pewter cup crashed against the plaster wall, spewing its crimson contents over the surface, and clattering heavily to the floor. She stood, mesmerized, as rivulets of