Chapter Twenty-Three
Huxley
By the time I pull into the garage, Grace is breathing evenly, her head resting limply against the window. She exhales softly through those perfect lips, but the bloody crust in the corner reminds me what she suffered earlier.
Fucking asshole.
I should’ve slammed Nelson’s face into the wall until they were both completely flat, then kicked him until his ribs collapsed. I’ve never felt a fury this intense, like burning claws ripping into my gut.
I shut the car off and regard Grace, hating it that she has this effect on me. How is it that I sometimes forget what a manipulative bitch she is? She trapped me—and the baby inside her is the death knell to my bachelorhood, and more importantly, the freedom to choose my own wife.
Shoving aside conflicting emotions, I reach over to shake her awake, then stop. She’s sleeping soundly, and there’s no point disturbing her.
I hope we can agree to be kind and courteous to each other.
With a sigh, I climb out, open the door on her side and pull her into my arms, holding her like a princess.
Just what the hell is wrong with me? The proper course of action would be to tell her to walk inside herself. Her legs aren’t broken.
She sighs and nestles close, her warmth and softness arousing a protective instinct I don’t know I had.
Grace Lain is a danger to my emotional equilibrium.
Still, I don’t force her to walk. I carry her inside to the master bedroom suite and lay her on the enormous California king. She looks so small and delicate on the cool gray sheets. I take off my jacket and drape it over the back of an armchair. She shifts a little, as though seeking a comfortable position.
I pull her up, then reach underneath her top and undo the clasp of her bra. She lets out a relieved breath and leans into me until her unbound breasts are crushed against my arm. The contact sends my blood sizzling. Lust crackles across my skin, and I grit my teeth. I’m not the type to take advantage of a recently abused and exhausted woman. Not to mention pregnant. Regardless of how much I loathe the situation between us, Grace merits consideration for her condition, and the baby deserves the best I can provide.
Reciting the Bill of Rights to distract myself, I change her into a nightshirt that is among the things Madison sent to the house. Then the housekeeper, of course, put everything into the closet in her usual orderly fashion.
Done . I step back, willing my body to settle down. Grace turns her head, showing the injured cheek. It’s going to swell and hurt like hell if I don’t do something about it. A pack of ice would help, but that would disturb her.
What are my options? I stand thinking for a moment, then rummage through the medicine cabinet. There must be something…
Bingo.
I pull out a tin of ointment that Griffin gave me. Apparently it works wonders for bruises, as well as joint and ligament pain. He special-orders it from an elderly pharmacist in Thailand for its non-greasy texture and lack of scent.
I go back to the bed and carefully spread the thick, translucent white cream on Grace’s cheek. My effort pays off—she doesn’t move at all.
With her entire demeanor relaxed, she looks even younger than she is. Her features are so delicate. Nelson’s meaty paw shouldn’t have been anywhere near her.
My phone buzzes from my jacket pocket. Annoyed, I snatch it up and see that I’ve missed ten calls from Mom. Concern pushes away mild exasperation. If she’s calling like that, it’s urgent.
I go into the walk-in closet and close the door to avoid disturbing Grace. “Yes?”
“What have you done?”
“A lot of things. Can you be more specific?” I ask, giving her a break, since she sounds frazzled.
“Nelson is trying to make me take over a case, a shitty one he’s bound to lose.”
“So?”
“The client is guilty as hell, and Nelson shouldn’t have taken the case. But he’s an idiot and the client is apparently a friend from college. Frat brothers.” She sounds like she wants to murder someone.
On a different day, I might be more sympathetic. But right now, I have no patience for the Huxley & Webber drama. Not my circus, not my monkeys. “Just say no. Problem solved.”
“I can’t. He says the reason I have to take it over is because you ‘brutalized’ his face. He has to go to court tomorrow, but he’s saying he can’t go looking like this.”
My phone buzzes and a photo of Nelson pops up. His eye is swollen shut already. Black and red mottle his forehead, cheek and jaw. A corner of one lip looks torn, although it’s difficult to tell.
Should have slammed him harder. Then kicked him until he learned his lesson, so running to my mother would never occur to him.
“It appears that he must have accidently rammed his face into the wall a couple of times,” I say with a hint of regret.
“Was your hand on him at that time?” she demands, her tone all lawyerly and suspicious.
“Not on his face, no. Just his hair.”
“Huxley!”
I tug at my tie, undoing it, then unbutton the vest and shrug out of it.
“You’re going to apologize and smooth his ruffled feathers.”
“If I see him now, I’ll finish what I started. And break his ribs to boot.”
“Hux—”
“Hold on a minute.” I step out quietly and snap a shot of Grace’s face, then send it to Mom.
“What the…?” Mom’s gasp rings in my ear as I return to the closet. “What have you done?”
“ Mother! ”
“Nelson did this?”
A beat of silence. “You think I did it?”
“You were upset with her. Don’t think you fooled anybody. Even Emma was worried.”
Damn it. Not Emma. “Nelson did it. I don’t hit women unless they physically attack me. And usually not even then.”
Mom sighs. “Are you pressing charges? A civil lawsuit?”
“I’ll have to discuss it with her when she wakes up.”
“Let me know.”
“Why? You going to take her case?”
“She’s going to be my daughter-in-law, so—”
“Don’t even think about it. You’re too tight with the Webbers.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I’m being smart. I don’t trust you to destroy him the way I want to.” I lay it on thick. Whenever I tell her she can’t be trusted to do something, she goes overboard to prove me wrong.
“You gotta be kidding,” she mutters. “I’ll deal with Nelson.” She hangs up.
I strip down to my boxer shorts, then head out to the bedroom. My phone buzzes again. What now?
–Emmett: Is it true you beat the shit out of Nelson?
What the fuck? He went crying to my brothers, too?
–Me: I wouldn’t characterize it exactly that way. If I’d really beaten the shit out of him, he’d be too busy being hospitalized to complain to anyone.
I text that and slide gently under the sheets to avoid disturbing Grace. I paid an arm and a leg for this mattress, but the movement still might jostle her.
–Noah: What’s going on?
–Emmett: Grant and I were having dinner with Andreas Webber, and he got a call from Nelson’s wife. She was so hysterical, Grant and I could actually hear the conversation.
–Grant: It sounded like Hux broke something. On Nelson.
–Sebastian: I thought you were upset with Grace, not Nelson.
–Nicholas: He’s too civilized to resort to violence.
I thought the same until I saw Grace’s face.
–Grant: Why would Nelson’s wife accuse you like that though?
–Me: Maybe because I gave him a taste of his own medicine.
–Griffin: HE HIT YOU??????
His outrage is palpable through the text. Busy as Griffin might be with his academic career and triplets, he will find time to beat the shit out of anybody who touches one of us. He’s vicious, probably chews rusty nails daily to toughen up. And he’s always been grumpy—not even marrying the sunniest woman on earth has improved his disposition.
–Me: Not me, Grace. So I hit him back.
–Sebastian: What a piece of shit!
–Grant: Only once?
I can already see the next line before he sends it: What’s wrong with you?
–Me: Twice.
–Emmett: Should’ve broken his hand.
–Nicholas: Both hands.
–Noah: I thought you hated her.
My irritation flares at the reminder. I know I hate her, and I reacted uncharacteristically, like I did two years ago in the rain. But seeing her get abused snapped something inside. The way she makes my protective instinct go overboard is perplexing and unsettling. Still, I felt what I felt—period.
–Me: Yes, but just because I hate her doesn’t mean he gets to touch what’s mine.
–Grant: What’s mine, huh?
–Emmett: Did you rip your shirt and pound your chest, too?
–Me: Fuck you.
–Sebastian: Did you break anything when you hit Nelson?
–Me: No. I didn’t actually hit him, per se.
–Nicholas: What did you do?
–Me: Kind of made his face collide with a wall a couple of times.
–Noah: That’s all?
–Noah: Told you Huxley hated her.
–Me: Shut up, Noah.
That asshole is trying to get me to admit something I’d rather not. He’s probably trying to get revenge for how I made fun of him for his inability to get croissants from his baker babe.
–Sebastian: When Karl hit Luce, I broke his ribs.
Competitive, as usual. I narrow my eyes.
–Me: It was Griff’s kick that did it.
–Noah: If Hux wanted to break Nelson in half, he could do it pretty easily. But he didn’t. Like I said, he hates her. Doesn’t care that much.
Noah’s wrong. My eyes slide to Grace, and I flex my hand around the phone. I care too damn much, and that’s the problem.