Chapter 17
In the bathroom, Beatrice slipped on the robe she had bought for herself, wrapping it tightly around her damp skin. More water dewed the top slope of her breast, but that part of her was sexy. It was the scar tissue to the sides and below that she was trying to ignore. The slices of the knife had healed to leave crisscrossing lines of white and pink. There were two from where he had stabbed deeper, and the tissue there was slightly raised; one on the far left side and the other underneath that same breast.
She wasn’t ashamed of the scars, not exactly; not like she was ashamed of the lines on her wrists that the robe’s sleeves covered. Those reminded her of how far she could fall. The damage to her breasts was all for feigned slights she’d supposedly made by flirting with others. Each time her husband believed the lies, he would carve her breasts as punishment. It was a way to make her less beautiful, but in a way few people could see because a beautiful appearance had been very important to him.
Her prior husband, she reminded herself. He was dead and gone.
And the cousin that had started the accusations was gone as well. By her own hand. She’d thought she’d accomplished it in Vegas, but there was no mistake now.
She paused in the act of squeezing her face cream into her hands, staring at herself in the mirror. Her husband was dead. His cousin was dead. And still she stood, trying to forget. She was letting them have the upper hand.
The cream smeared the tie of her robe as she pulled it free and let it fall down low enough to catch on her elbows. She studied her breasts in the mirror. They were full and firm and flawed. She had never hidden them away from her prior husband—let him see the damage he had caused—but when Montrell had offered to focus his attention on her breasts, she’d wanted to hide.
The way he looked at her was so similar to the way he always had. Like she was gorgeous and not flawed at all. If she showed him too much, she was terrified his interest would turn into gentle pity.
She hated that she was pitiable. She’d rather he hate her than pity her.
Beatrice pulled the robe back into place before resuming her moisturizing routine. She didn’t skimp on makeup, and she wouldn’t skimp on the aftercare either.
At least the smell of gunpowder had been replaced with the jasmine scent of the cream and lotion she preferred.
When she stepped out into her bedroom, it wasn’t empty. Montrell hovered in the doorway. She expected to feel a sinking feeling inside. He had finally had enough of waiting and had come to her bedroom for what he should have taken long ago. Her mind should have latched onto the cynical inevitability of it all. She expected to feel angry. He’d promised that he wouldn’t come to her for sex. That she could be the one to come to him.
None of those negative emotions rose, though. Desire didn’t flare either. All she felt was relief that the choice was no longer hers.
Montrell wouldn’t hurt her. Moving forward was the best path to take. He was her husband, the one she would be with from now on.
It was starting to sound real. Or maybe that was just the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears.
“I shouldn’t have come,” Montrell said, turning in the doorway.
“It’s fine,” she heard herself say. “You can stay. Close the door.”
He hesitated. The last of her tension eased when he pushed the door shut and the latch caught.
Montrell turned toward her again, his eyes as warm as they’d always been, even narrowed in doubt as they were. “You could have died today.”
She nodded toward his arm, the fresh bandage there. “You were the one who ended up shot. Did Vespa torture you while patching you up?”
His lips twitched within his beard. “A little. She mainly lectured me, but that’s torture enough.”
Beatrice couldn’t return the smile. She didn’t feel nervous, but she wasn’t relaxed enough for the teasing to penetrate her mask.
Montrell’s feet moved forward, carrying him to her. He stared into her eyes, as if searching for something. “She was too relieved to give me much of a hard time. Things could have ended up worse.”
“They always can,” Beatrice said. “That’s a part of this life. There’s danger and loss. We can never be too careful.”
He leaned down, and his beard tickled her forehead as he kissed her there. “I still want to be careful. You don’t have to lose faith in me. I keep my word. I’m not here for sex.”
She blinked as he pulled back to search her eyes. “You’re not?”
He shook his head, his arms twitching at his sides. “I came because I needed to see you. To hold you, if you’re all right with that. I want your breath against me to remind myself this is real. They came for you, but you’re still alive.”
Beatrice had no words. No one had ever wanted to just hold her. Her father had been too busy with work. Her first husband had been more likely to hit her than hug her. She stared at Montrell, and her throat was too tight to give him the permission he seemed to be waiting for.
Instead, she inched forward, laying her head against the broad chest in front of her.
He took that as consent, and his thick arms came up to wrap around her, gentle but also firm.
She expected to feel caged. Trapped. But that wasn’t what she felt. Inside her chest, there was a loosening that made it even harder to breathe. Leaning into him, she tried her hardest not to cry.
“I’ve got you, Bea,” he murmured.
The sob caught her off guard. It sounded weak, pathetic. Her tears flooded free, and she could do nothing to prevent the embarrassing mewling sounds she was making as she began to soak his shirt.
Montrell’s arms dropped, which made perfect sense. Of course he was disgusted. But she experienced only a moment without his warmth. He lifted her in his arms and strode to the bed. When she would have pulled away, he clutched her against his chest.
“Trust me?” he asked.
She hesitated but then wrapped her arms around his neck as he lay down with her still held against his chest.
Even though she was sprawled over him, his hands didn’t wander in a sexual way. He held her, his large hands so gentle as they skimmed up and down her back. He simply let her cry.
When she began to quiet, his murmured words filtered in.
“You’re safe, Bea. You’re here and alive. No one will hurt you.”
Her face felt too hot and tense, and she couldn’t breathe through her snotted-up nose. She started to lift away, her sudden snuffle the least sexy thing she could imagine.
“No, I’m not done holding you. Wipe your nose on my shirt.”
The absurdity of the suggestion dragged a laugh out of her as she did just that. At least it removed the dripping feeling beneath her nostrils.
Her arms tightened around his neck. She let her fingers play with the ends of his hair. “I’m not sure why I cried. I’ve never needed to before.”
His arms pulled her a little tighter against him. “You always needed to, Bea. I’m glad you were able to let go.”
Her fingers continued to brush over him as she let her eyes shut. “I’ve often felt numb. If you’re looking for loving sweetness, that’s not me. I’m a cold person, Montrell.”
He shook his head, causing her fingers to rub along the skin of his neck as his hair shifted with the movement. “Protecting yourself doesn’t make you cold. I don’t need you to be anything but yourself.” His chest moved with his long sigh. “I’m so glad you didn’t die.”
The tightness of her squeezed-shut eyes eased as she rubbed her face against his chest. Montrell hadn’t showered. His shirt still smelled of gunpowder, and his button pressed into her cheek.
She might really be able to fall asleep lying on top of him. She’d never slept with another person before. Not that she remembered.
There was an ache in her stomach as she worried over leaving so much unsaid. It felt like lying by omission. She didn’t want Montrell to love the dream of who she used to be.
Her hands dug into his neck as she realized she wanted Montrell to love her as she was. She wanted love—an emotion that wouldn’t last.
“Bea?” Montrell asked, his slowly rubbing hands pausing.
“I wasn’t crying because I almost died.” That was the truth, but it also told him nothing. Her eyes started filling with hot tears again.
His hands resumed their slow massage. “You were the target today. That Albanian was waiting to kill you. What did he do to you, Bea?”
She lifted her head and tried to push herself free. Montrell’s hands remained on her back, not letting her run away. His eyes locked onto hers as his arms flexed. Then he released her, using a hand to brush her wet hair behind her ear. His eyes never strayed from hers.
“You don’t have to tell me. I could tell that you wanted to kill him. Needed to.” He sighed, letting his hands drop to the bed. “I’m sorry. My own anger almost took that from you.”
She studied his sorrowful eyes, wishing they would smile instead. He had been angry, she remembered. His face had been set into almost a snarl as he’d glared down at the Albanian and continued to slam his fists into his face, over and over again. Montrell had been furious, but it had been for her, not at her. And she hadn’t felt frightened of him at all.
Instead, she’d moved closer to him to kiss him. The memory stung. “You didn’t want me to kiss you.”
Montrell snorted. “Oh, I wanted it. I just didn’t think I deserved it. I failed to protect you, Bea.”
She shook her head, the wet strands of her hair trailing over her back and making her shiver. She lowered against all his warmth, no longer wanting to run. “I protect me,” she said. “I don’t blame you, Montrell.”
His body relaxed beneath hers, and she realized for the first time that Montrell wasn’t as confident as he seemed.
“The Albanian I killed today never hurt me. Not directly.” She paused as Montrell’s arms wrapped around her, swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat. Her breathing evened out as his touch covered her back in warmth.
“He was the youngest cousin. The other Albanians liked to rag on him because of that. He never acted angry, and he went out of his way to greet me in the beginning. He seemed nice and a little shy. So I greeted him back with a smile.”
She stared at the far door, no longer wanting to close her eyes.
“Apparently, smiling was flirting. He told my husband I’d been coming onto him all along. All for thinking he was nice. He wasn’t nice.” Her fingers curled into Montrell’s shirt. “After all he claimed, my husband wanted to punish me. That night was the first time he stabbed me.”
Montrell’s hands jerked, then shifted in a gentle caress, up and down her back.
“I didn’t want any of my glances or smiles to be misconstrued, so I stopped giving them to anyone after that, but that didn’t stop the cousin from lying. When he caught me alone, he would whisper the lies he was going to tell my husband. And my husband believed him every time.” She let her breath fan over Montrell’s chest, taking a deeper one. “He stabbed me other places, but he was purposeful in how he carved up my breasts. They have scars now.”
Montrell wrapped his arms around her and pulled her higher, tucking her face against his neck as he held her tight. “If it bothers you, we can look into what could be done.”
His heated skin soothed her. “Will it bother you?” she asked.
“They’re a reflection of all you’ve been through, not a reflection of you.” His lips brushed over her hair. “But it’s not about what bothers me. If you hate to look at them, then we can do something about that. Anything you need is within your grasp, Bea.”
She shook her head, bumping his chin. “I can’t—”
“You don’t have to decide right now. I just want you to know you have choices. You can ask for absolutely anything, and I’ll try to make it happen.”
Her hands snaked behind his neck again. The way they pressed between him and the pillow would likely numb them, but she almost wanted that. “You keep saying things like that, and my mind goes blank. It makes me feel like nothing,” she admitted. “I have no idea what I want.”
“You’re not nothing, Bea.” The words rumbled beneath her ear. “You’re everything.”
Her eyes closed as she tried not to argue with him. When she thought of scars, it wasn’t her breasts she worried most about. “I once thought I didn’t want to live.”
And suddenly she couldn’t breathe because of how tightly he held her.
Her throat felt clogged. “I realized I was wrong. I want to live. More than anything.” Pushing the words out was one of the most difficult things. “I just don’t know how.”
His hands roamed over her, soothing and grounding all at once. “You’ll figure it out. Give yourself time.”
The way he continued to touch her drew out the last of the tension from her body, and, even though she wanted to cling to the moment longer, she slipped into sleep instead.