Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
Kenna’s sudden loss of consciousness unsettled Smith.
Last night he had been relieved to retreat to the bedroom and leave her here in the living room. Eager to escape her disturbing presence. Tonight her energy was…off. She seemed utterly defeated.
It concerned him.
Yes, he had wanted her emotions to be more accessible, had wanted her to feel comfortable and safe enough with him to allow herself to be vulnerable in his presence.
But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t a willing capitulation.
It was a brutal defeat.
The strong outer shell which had protected her vulnerabilities had been eroded through brute force and attrition. And without it, she was diminished, fragile, too gut-wrenchingly exposed.
This wasn’t what he’d wanted. He’d been willing to walk away. To leave her to her jealously guarded secrets.
He still was.
Having her here, like this—so small and bruised and broken—wasn’t what Smith wanted. She was too damaged, and he feared that all he’d do was fuck her up even more if she stayed here any longer.
His concerned eyes traced her features, so still in sleep. She was stunning. He’d always thought so. Not what one would call conventionally beautiful. But she had strong, arresting features that drew his eyes and kept them lingering on her face a beat longer than was acceptable.
He’d always been unable to resist the mysterious depths of those beautiful, serious gray eyes with their unique blue striations. And her wide, mobile mouth, made for kissing even though she rarely smiled.
He’d enjoyed the mystery of her at first. Had eagerly anticipated peeling back all her layers to find the woman lurking beneath those grave features. Before their marriage he’d found it challenging to coax even the smallest of personal details from her.
But after their marriage and the miscarriage, it had become emotionally taxing, then frustrating, then exhausting to have to wrestle even the tiniest scrap from her.
Getting the woman to talk about herself, about her feelings, had been like drawing blood from a stone and he’d begun to wonder if there was anything there to uncover.
He winced as he recalled saying something similar to her just before he’d left.
He had been harsh. Perhaps even cruel.
But he had panicked when she’d stood there in that bathroom and so guilelessly talked about making another baby.
The most intimate exchanges they’d had in weeks had been to pass each other the salt across the breakfast table. He’d pictured them trapped in an endless, stagnant loop, only this time with an innocent child thrown into the mix, and he’d known that he couldn’t do it.
So he’d lashed out, said terrible things. The words had stemmed from his roiling frustration and come from a place of absolute truth.
But he could have been kinder. She’d stood there, taking his vitriol with visible shock on her face, but he’d seen more than that. He’d seen pain. And the memory of her expression of betrayal and hurt had haunted him for weeks.
She’d always seemed so impervious to basic human emotion.
So resilient.
But that night when he’d been so unforgivingly cruel had revealed the vulnerable woman beneath the cool, polished veneer she presented to the world.
Despite what he’d learned and seen, he’d walked away from her. Convinced himself that she would be fine, that she would shrug their marriage off as a stupid mistake. Something she hadn’t wanted to start with. And she’d move on. They both would. A simple, painless divorce.
Only she’d shown up here, a messy kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions flitting across her face from one moment to the next. He had seen her stubborn, scared, hurt, relieved, angry, turned on, and devastated, over the last twenty-four hours.
Her comments had been self-deprecating, sarcastic, funny, and flirtatious.
It was a bittersweet sample of how it should have been between them. But it was too little, too late. There was no going back. He refused to go back.
He stared down at her sleeping profile, her hair a silken mess as it half obscured her face. She was bound to get a crick in her neck with her head resting on the hard arm of the couch like that.
He gently stroked a strand of glossy hair away from her cheek, fingers lingering on her soft skin. She didn’t move. Again he worried about her utter stillness.
He shook his head, impatient and angry with himself. It was no longer his place to worry about her. They were woefully mismatched. Had been from the very beginning.
He should have listened to her when she’d argued against marriage. But he’d been so certain of his decision, so sure of them.
He straightened, withdrawing his hand from her face.
He’d been a damned fool.
He went to bed, but not before gently moving her head to a pillow and throwing a light comforter over her curled-up body. Her knees were hanging over the edge of the couch.
He swore beneath his breath as he caught himself wondering if she was comfortable.
He didn’t care.
She shouldn’t have come here in the first place and ought to be grateful that he’d deigned to have her on his couch for two nights in a row.
Consciousness returned slowly.
Kenny blinked the blurriness from her eyes and found her eyes trained on a watercolor painting on the wall across from her.
Was that a caterpillar? Reading a book?
Odd.
As awareness returned, Kenny began to realize that she was warmly and comfortably cocooned in a marshmallow. No, not a marshmallow, a really, really luxurious goose down comforter.
She sat up, enjoying the susurration of the fabric as she moved. It was one of her favorite sounds. It always made her feel safe and relaxed.
But as she took in her surroundings in confusion, that feeling of security rapidly evaporated to be replaced by unease.
She was on a bed. And she was absolutely certain she’d fallen asleep on the couch last night.
Her head swiveled wildly as she belatedly checked if she was alone on the queen-sized bed. The other side of the bed was empty. Not even a dent in the pillow. The covers were flat and undisturbed.
She’d clearly spent the night alone.
Which meant that Smith must have taken the couch. The uncomfortable, hard couch which was much too short for a man of his height.
Granted, it had been too short for her as well. But she was more slender and took up less space.
She pushed the rustling covers aside and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her toe was throbbing gently, uncomfortable but not as painful as yesterday.
Smith had thoughtfully left both the cast and the cane right next to the bed for her and she quickly protected her foot before grabbing the cane and making her way to the door.
It had been left slightly ajar and she tugged it open to peer into the still gloomy living area of the cottage.
If the light was any indication, it was quite early. Just after sunrise. Probably around six a.m. The back of the couch was turned toward the bedroom door, so she couldn’t see Smith, but she could hear the occasional light snore, and could see his long, bare feet dangling over the arm at one end.
She quietly made her way around to that side of the couch and her heart stuttered in her chest at the sight of him. He was on his back, head turned toward the coffee table. One arm was over his stomach and the other was flung above his head.
He had a lightweight blanket draped over his thighs and bunched around his waist.
His mouth was slack, slightly open, face completely relaxed.
He was wearing a pair of loose-fitting black and gray plaid pajama pants.
No shirt.
Her throat went dry at the sight of that chest. The sprinkling of fine golden hair on his pecs that trailed down between his abs and thickened a little as it approached his groin.
In the beginning, before the pregnancy and their marriage, she’d loved running her lips, then her tongue down that trail. Had enjoying taking little bites of the sensitive flesh of his abdomen on her way down to his beautiful, straining cock.
His body had been her very finely crafted instrument and she had played it to perfection.
After their marriage, though?
No intimate contact until after the miscarriage. And then when they’d had sex again, it was different. The intensity and urgency were missing.
His lovemaking had been skillful, diverting, and ultimately—as she’d now realized—lacking in any real passion.
All these months, Smith had merely been going through the motions. She cringed and died a little inside as she recalled him implying that he’d gotten more pleasure from his own hand than he had from their so-called “lovemaking.”
She now understood why.
She traced her gaze over his features once more and turned away. So familiar to her, she knew them like she knew the back of her own hand.
She winced and froze when her cane hit the coffee table with a muffled thump. He snorted softly and shifted with a quiet groan.
When he didn’t wake up, she released the breath she’d been holding, took another step and slammed straight into the side table, sending the tall lamp wobbling precariously.
“What’s happening?” Smith’s sleep-roughened voice asked. He sounded groggy and confused.
Kenny screwed her eyes shut. She squared her shoulders and turned to face him.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Why are you on the couch?”
“Because you were on the bed,” he grumbled without a hint of irony. He sat up. “You okay? In pain?”
“I’m okay. It doesn’t hurt as badly today. I don’t think the painkillers have worn off yet.”
“Okay.” He paused as if trying to gather his thoughts and pushed his fingers through his already messy hair. “I’ll get breakfast started and—”
“No, Smith. Stop it. Please. You don’t have to do anything. It’s bad enough you…” She stopped abruptly and shook her head.
“Bad enough I what?”
“You’ve done too much for me already. You didn’t have to move me to the bed. Why did you do that?”