Chapter 4
Montrell wiped his damp palm against his slacks before raising his hand. He paused without rapping on the door. It had been a while since he’d felt nervous. The last time had been when his father was still alive.
No, that wasn’t true. He’d been more than nervous when Beatrice had dragged him into one of the rooms in her father’s house and let him put his hands on her. As a young woman, she had brimmed with confidence and passion when she’d all but jumped him. He’d been scared he’d devolve into a two-pump chump because of his level of excitement.
That was a completely different set of nerves, though; ones that had nothing to do with standing outside her bedroom door now, all these years later.
He rapped his knuckles against the wood, then stepped back to give her space when she opened it. The click of the handle made his mouth go dry.
Beatrice stood there, still fully dressed despite the late hour, though her feet were bare. There was something almost vulnerable in the way they looked.
The opposite could be said about her eyes. They were dull, stone slabs that stared through him.
Montrell cleared his throat. “We should talk.” They hadn’t; not really, beyond their wedding vows.
Her lips pursed, and then she pushed her bedroom door all the way open. “Be honest about why you’re here.”
Montrell was normally honest. He frowned at her, but he didn’t step forward. “Why do you think I’m here?”
“Not to talk.” She turned her back to him, padding over to the bed. Once there, she stared down at it for what felt like a full minute. She finally faced him again. Her expression was so damn remote. “Don’t expect this to be like it was. I’m not the person I used to be. She’s gone.”
“You’re right in front of me, Bea.” Only she wasn’t, and he knew that. He ran his hand over his too-long hair.
“It’s fine that you came.” Her fingers rose to the top button of her dress. “I’d rather you understand how it’ll be.” And she started undoing them.
Montrell saw only the bruises at her neck. It made it easier to turn his back on her. He had to clear his throat before he could say anything. “This won’t work. We can’t talk here with the bed doing all the talking. Meet me in my office when you’re ready.” He took a step, then hesitated. He still hadn’t given her a tour of the estate. “Downstairs, all the way to the right,” he told her, then took off for it.
He didn’t really have an office. He hated the damn things. Instead he had a conference room, where most often his boys piled inside and Vespa perched in a corner, keeping an eye out. He stalked behind the comfy chairs he’d had brought it, ones big enough for his bulk to settle in without making them scream in protest. Pacing wasn’t enough to loosen the tightness in his throat. How many times had her husband strangled her to the point of bruising? The question wouldn’t leave his mind.
He”d told her to come when she was ready, and he had meant it. She surprised him by not taking too long. He hadn’t quite gotten his thoughts sorted when she appeared in the doorway. She’d put on the scuffed-up heels from Vegas and done some sort of touch-up to her makeup. It made her eyes seem even more remote.
He crossed to her, pushing the door shut behind her. It brought his chest to almost touching hers, and he half expected her to flinch away. The stillness her body adopted seemed to vibrate instead. He was the one to back off and wave for her to pick a chair.
“I prefer to stand,” Beatrice said, her eyes focused on him.
Montrell nodded as he chose his own seat, two arms’ lengths away from her. “Whatever you want. That’s why I wanted to talk. To see what you wanted out of this thing.” His hand moved to indicate him, then her.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Thing? You mean the marriage you forced on me?”
He didn’t flinch. “I guess I did.” He wouldn’t apologize for it either. They belonged together. He’d felt that way ever since she’d pushed him down on her father’s couch, but he had let himself forget. At that time, she’d seemed like she agreed. “It was for your protection. That’s the only forcing I’ll do. I don’t rape women.”
“We consummate this thing, or we don’t. That’s all up to you. But you have the Coronella name now. That’s worth something.” He tried to catch her gaze, but she wouldn’t look at him. Her gaze skittered away. She stared at the far window, which was dimmed by the twilight that had fallen outside.
“My father didn’t think so. If he had, he would have let me marry you.” Though she crossed her arms, holding them tight and protective against her, her words had softened toward the end.
The term she’d used, ‘let,’ smothered the lingering doubts he’d only recently realized he had, but he needed to be certain. “And you, Bea?” he asked. “Did you want me? Or the Albanian?”
Her eyes slanted toward him. “You think I would have—” Her lips pressed together again, and she stared down at the large redwood table.
Heat and shame filled Montrell. He had acted like a fool after he lost himself in her. He’d ignored all the signs Vespa had pointed out, and then, when Santino Lucchese’s words and his own insecurities had taken over his mind, he’d decided Beatrice had used her body to trick him.
Beatrice swallowed. “I’m a daughter of La Cosa Nostra,” she said. “I do what I’m told.”
Perhaps her giving herself to him back then had been tainted. Perhaps she had been following orders.
It didn’t matter. It didn’t change the fact that she’d been living in hell ever since. “Not anymore,” he told her.
Beatrice lifted her head.
“As my wife, you’ll do whatever you want.”
She blinked. “What I want?”
Montrell nodded. “Giulia told me about you offering to cook and clean today. About how she stopped you.” He shrugged. “If it makes you happy, you can do that, but only if it makes you happy. You’d rather lounge around all day in your room? Do that instead. Want to try to make me broke? Go shopping all you want. All I ask is if you leave the house, take some Coronellas with you. You’re not a prisoner, but the Albanians are out for blood.”
She paled at the mention of the Albanians, but it was too important not to bring them up.
“Don’t worry, we’ve already spilled more of their blood besides that shoot-out in Vegas. I won’t be through until they pose no more risk to you or mine,” he promised.
Her eyes snapped to his. “And if I want to be the one to kill them?”
The heat had banked down to a warmth that swirled in his stomach. It felt a little like hope. “Just tell me when, Bea. Me and my boys and Vespa will be beside you all the way. I want this marriage to mean freedom for you. Freedom to do whatever you damn well please.”
Her eyes seemed to sharpen under the fluorescent lights. “It’d please me to torture them. My husband… What happened in the hotel was an accident. His death should have been slow and painful and—” She broke off, closing her eyes.
Montrell’s throat tightened. He’d been imagining that she’d taken her vengeance. Instead, she’d been cheated of even that. “Will anyone do? Or do you have someone in mind?”
“His cousins. They—” She shook her head, swallowing. “No. I can’t say it.”
“And you never have to.” Montrell leaned forward. “I’m being very serious here, Bea. You say what you want, share what you want, do what you want, fucking be what you want.” Her gaze met his again. “That’s what being my wife means.”
Her tongue came out, licking her lips nervously. “As long as I’m yours, right? That’s the deal?”
“No, Bea.” Montrell held his hand out palm up, his wedding band reflecting the light. “I’m yours. Use me as you want.”
“I don’t want you. That’s the problem.” She sucked in a breath. “I’m not going to want to have sex with you. This can’t be a true marriage.”
“Who says? We get to define our marriage.” Montrell left his hand extended, staring at the band. “Sex is on your terms. If it’s none, it’s none.” Saying it wasn’t as hard as he’d thought. He always flushed a bit when he lied, and he hoped his beard covered it. He wasn’t lying, not exactly, but he wasn’t being honest about what he wanted either. He couldn’t help thinking about how it could be between them, and he had hopes for the future, even if it was years into the future.
Instead of looking relieved, Beatrice’s eyes had narrowed. “Because you’ll have other women?” she asked.
His eyes searched her face. He doubted she’d believe she was the last woman he’d been with. His hand was the only thing keeping him company, all to thoughts of her. They had been angry and bitter thoughts at first, but then the sting had faded, leaving pleasant memories in its place.
“Is that what you want?” he asked. “Me fucking other women?”
She bit her lip, and his tension began to ease—until her words followed. “What if I want to fuck other men?”
His eyes squeezed shut as he swallowed the instant refusal. He forced them open, finding her own gaze locked onto his face. “You admitted it yourself, Bea. The Albanian raped you for five fucking years. I can only imagine what that’s like, and I wanted to kill the man, too, spreading it out over as many days as I could. Fuck, I wanted to resuscitate him to do it all over again. But he’s already dead.” He forced himself to take a breath and let it out slowly. “Only you know what you need to do to heal. If you decide you need to fuck everyone you find, I’ll try to accept that. I even promise not to kill them, as long as they don’t hurt you.”
“You’re lying,” she said.
“I’m not.” Montrell’s lips twisted. “Though it’ll be hard to watch. I don’t trust anyone with you. I know my boys, though. They wouldn’t hurt you if you want to start there.” He tried to force a grin and decided to be completely honest. It fit him better. “I’ll be jealous as hell, and I’ll likely stomp around in a scary way. I want you for myself, Bea, but I want you to want me.”
Her arms tightened. She leaned back against the wall. “And there it is.”
“There what is?” Montrell frowned, confused.
She looked away. “Sexual pressure.”
“Hell no!” His palm curled into a fist. “It’s just me not giving partial truths, but I won’t fucking pressure you. Let’s agree here and now, the only way sex comes up between us again is if you come to my room for it. It’s completely off the table in all other interactions between us until then.”
She shook her head. “You said ‘until.’ Like you’re hoping.” Her eyes were back to dull stone. “It’s never going to happen.”
“I’m a big boy, Bea. Let me worry about my cock. In your mind, I can not have one.”
Her eyes softened a little as she let out a surprised snort.
He grinned back. “Consider me sexless for now. I can handle it.”
Her expression looked almost thoughtful. Like she was considering the prospect.
It was the first time she hadn’t appeared worried since their reunion.
“Go get some rest.” His voice softened from its typical bellow to take away any hint of an order. “And tomorrow, start doing whatever the hell you want.”
Beatrice hesitated, then turned toward the door. When she glanced back, she flashed a hard smile that tilted those full lips of hers and gave him hope because it was a hint of the girl she was. “You might regret this.”
She strode away before he could reply. Montrell leaned his head back as he gave his chair a little swivel. Would she make him regret it? He looked forward to seeing her try.