Chapter 19
Beatrice made it all the way to her room before she realized she’d run away. She’d run from Montrell.
He’d kept her safe the night before. He’d let her cry and had held her tight. No one had ever done that for her. She’d been disappointed to wake up alone.
But when his hands had slammed on the table and he’d barked his order for everyone to leave, instinct had kicked in. Montrell had seemed angry, and she’d fled to the sound of something breaking behind her.
Her hands shook as she reached for the pearl cuffs she’d stared at for quite a while that morning before leaving them on top of her dresser. Tugging them into place made them feel more like handcuffs, but they perfectly hid the scars.
Montrell’s eyes had locked onto the scar in the conference room. Then they’d shuttered in a way she’d never seen before. When she’d mentioned not wanting to be alive, there had been a moment when Montrell had held her too tightly, but then his hands had become so gentle, and she’d felt safe and accepted.
When he’d actually seen the scars, he’d been angry. Anger never fed into gentleness, not in her experience. It fed into destruction, just as it had today.
But Montrell hadn’t taken his anger out on her. She reminded herself of that fact as her fingers brushed over the bracelets, making sure her scars were covered. She forced her feet to carry her out of the room.
She wasn’t afraid of Montrell, but repeating that fact in her head didn’t slow her heartbeat as she headed down the stairs.
The night before, she’d thought he understood, so she’d tried to leave her wrists bare for the first time since she’d earned the scars. But she hadn’t prepared him for them, hadn’t admitted to them. Wanting to die was different from trying to take your own life. She’d understood that when she couldn’t do it. Not that she blamed others who tried, or even succeeded in making the choice. She understood how they could, but when she’d faced her moment of choice, a yearning and euphoria had hit her. The razor had gone limp in her hands, and a sense of helplessness had followed because she was going to have to live in hell a while longer. Her husband had found her while she was grappling with her emotions, and he’d tried to finish what she started.
If she hadn’t hated him before that moment, it would have sealed that feeling for her. He’d proven that he controlled even that decision. The fear from him taking her choice away had made her cling all the more tightly to life.
She wanted Montrell to know that.
As the conference room door loomed closer, her steps slowed more and more. Not even her heels made a sound. She expected to hear more crashing inside. Instead she heard his voice, filled with so much emotion her own eyes filled.
“I wish I’d been the one to kill her husband.”
Beatrice knew that. Her hand rested on the door as she tried to gather the courage to open it.
“You always did have a savior complex,” she heard Giulia say.
Her stomach dropped. Montrell was protective and supportive and giving. He often put himself last. Not on purpose, but because he put everyone else first.
She’d realized that, but the idea that that was all it was for him, a habit, took away her nerve. Her hand dropped to her side as she tried to breathe through the disappointment.
The voice she’d been trying to quiet inside her mind spread, the one that told her Montrell hadn’t been holding himself back. No, he just didn’t want her that much. She could be anyone. Perhaps she was one in a long line of women he had saved.
Once he fixed her, would he go looking for someone else?
The joke was on him. She was too broken to fix.
Beatrice breathed through the pain of her thoughts. Voices drifted to her through the door, something about dinner and being able to talk.
“But Montrell,” Giulia was saying, her tone the same one Beatrice had heard from one of her nannies when she was young. She’d missed that scolding tone when the woman had gone away. “You have to be honest with your wife tonight.”
Beatrice bit her cheek, hard. Did that mean Montrell had been lying to her? Montrell, who was honest to a fault? And lying about what?
“Eavesdropping?” Vespa asked from behind her.
When Beatrice turned, she expected the other woman to be scowling at her.
“You never hear good things listening at doors, you know,” she said quietly instead. Her eyes looked sad as they drifted to the door. “He doesn’t lose it like that. Not that I’ve seen. Know what it’s about?”
Beatrice’s mouth felt like it was full of paste. “Didn’t you ask him?”
“I’m no good with shit like this. That’s why I got Giulia.” Vespa’s arms were crossed almost defensively. “Surprised to see you here. Don’t you think—”
The door behind Beatrice opened. Giulia’s eyes narrowed on them as she pulled the door shut behind her.
“I thought better of you two,” she reprimanded.
Vespa’s smile was more of a grimace. “No you didn’t. Not of me.”
“Don’t do that, Vespa.” Giulia’s eyes had softened despite her hard words. “You always sell yourself short.” Vespa looked away, andGiulia’s gaze shifted to Beatrice. “I take it you heard my invitation to the restaurant tonight?”
Beatrice nodded.
“Run away if you want. But if you decide to come, I’d like to have your favorite dish waiting. Have something in mind?” Her lifted eyebrow seemed to dare Beatrice to answer.
She swallowed. “Carbonara,” she said. “But only if you make it with guanciale.”
Giulia scowled at her. “Who do you take me for?” She swept past, muttering about the younger generation before stopping in her tracks, her finger wagging at Vespa. “Don’t you go cleaning up his mess for him.”
“Oh, come on, Giulia,” Vespa whined.
Giulia’s face softened. “Don’t make things too easy on him, at least.”
Vespa grinned. “No one’s ever accused me of being easy.”
Giulia’s bark of laughter softened her face. She didn’t start muttering again as she walked away.
Beatrice continued to stare after the older woman until she disappeared from sight.
Vespa tilted her head toward the door. “You need to see him first? I can wait.”
Beatrice hesitated but shook her head. “No.” She wondered again what he could be keeping from her. Her hand went to the cuffs on her wrist, which felt heavier than ever. “No,” she repeated.
Vespa shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s what dinner is for. Enjoy. Giulia’s cooking is the best.” She turned to the conference room and stomped inside, the door shutting much more loudly than it had when the older woman had closed it.
Hearing Montrell’s rumbling voice from inside made Beatrice’s feet race away. Dinner was still several hours away. There was plenty of time to focus on the right makeup and outfit that would create the armor she needed. She and her husband were long overdue for a discussion about what their marriage could become—if they let it.
They were almost through the antipasti, and Montrell still hadn’t been able to find more than a few inane words to say. Part of it was because he’d nearly swallowed his tongue when she’d come down the stairs. She was wearing a dress he hadn’t seen, black and plunging and showcasing her incredible legs. Her hair was piled in some messy twist that he wanted to plunge his hands into and scatter. It made the elegant arch of her neck look delicious. He wanted to bite her there and forget dinner altogether.
He’d ushered her to the car for an awkward ride to the restaurant so he wouldn’t give in to his urges. Instead of complimenting her or talking at all, he stared at the pearl bangles that had returned to her wrists. He couldn’t look away, hoping that somehow he’d find the words to explain that his reaction wasn’t because he was judging her. It wasn’t really about her at all.
He’d been angry at himself for being less than he wished he could be.
As he lifted his water glass, he accepted that Giulia had been right. His mother had done quite a carve-out of his self-confidence despite the smile he showed the world.
“Bea—” he started just as Giulia came out from the kitchen.
Giulia had closed the place early, as she’d promised. The small restaurant never had a ton of customers—mainly because the hours weren’t consistent and the neighborhood knew who ran it. His family brought some protection to the businesses there, but that didn’t mean they wanted to sit with the Mafia boss, who used to be a frequent visitor.
He liked the checkered tablecloths, the jaunty arch over the entrance, the scarred, wooden chairs that easily held his frame, and, of course, Giulia’s care. He wished he’d brought Beatrice there more in the weeks they’d been together.
Her flawless face looked so damn remote despite the red lipstick she’d painted on. He’d rather see her relaxed and smiling.
Giulia gathered the plates from the first course with a frown in his direction.
He pulled at his collar, knowing he was screwing up without the reminder.
“Perhaps soup. To warm things up,” Giulia said.
Beatrice shook her head. “The main course, please, Giulia. And a bottle of white wine with two glasses.”
Giulia raised an eyebrow at her, flicked a glance at him, and headed to the back.
Montrell wasn’t worried. Giulia knew well enough that he didn’t drink.
Except when the door swung open again, she had two glasses. She smacked down the wine key in front of him before stalking away. “I’ll feed you both when I’m good and ready,” she called back as the kitchen closed behind her.
Beatrice’s gaze was on him, and it made his hands less skilled at working the stupid corkscrew. “I’m no good at this.”
“There’s no rush,” she said, her eyes thoughtful as she watched him finally pop the cork out.
He filled only one glass, pushing it toward her.
“And you,” Beatrice said, tilting her chin toward the other glass.
Montrell shook his head. “You know how I get.”
She lifted the bottle herself, pouring him a hefty glass. “I’m counting on it. Seems to me you need a little loosening of inhibitions, since you still haven’t asked me what you brought me here to ask.” The bottle thumped harder than he expected as she set it down. She lifted her own glass. “Drink, Monty. Then we’ll address the elephant in the room.”
He hated when she called him that. The white wine tasted worse than he remembered as he chugged half the glass.
Beatrice lifted an eyebrow as she sipped hers.
He set the wine down, reaching for her limp hand on the table. His fingers skimmed over the pearl bracelets. He’d never studied them before, and he realized she was wearing two on each wrist, each with ten bangles welded together. They were more like some sort of expensive medieval armor than jewelry.
“It’s my fault you’re wearing these again, isn’t it?” Montrell asked around the lump in his throat.
Beatrice’s other hand tightened around the wineglass, her pinky curling around the stem. “I’m sorry that—”
“Don’t fucking apologize to me.” Montrell wished his voice wasn’t quite so gruff when she pulled her arm from his grasp.
Beatrice set her glass down. Her fingers were shaking as she took off all four bracelets, lining them up along the edge of the table. She turned her arms over, and the healed lines along the insides of her arms made Montrell want to break something again.
She studied the scars, not looking at him. “The sight of my wrists upset you. It is upsetting. Especially if you’re not prepared to see them.” Her jaw tightened, and her head dipped. “I thought I’d been clear the night before, but I realize now that I was too subtle.”
Montrell reached out, sliding a finger along the length of one line. He could feel the scar, but he was more focused on the tremor than ran through her as her eyes met his. “These scars are proof of what you’ve been through. You don’t need to hide them from me. I’m sorry my outburst made you feel that way.”
“They’re hideous. And weak.”
“You are not fucking weak!” Montrell’s hand curled around her forearm when she would have jerked away. “Seeing these scars made me even more ashamed for not chasing after you five years ago.”
Beatrice’s hand gripped his arm in return. While his fingers could have practically curled around her arm twice, hers barely skimmed the sides of his. “We haven’t talked much about what happened back then,” she said.
“I was a butt-hurt idiot; that’s what happened. Your father told me exactly what he thought of my lack of pedigree, made it out as if you felt the same, and I believed the lie.”
“How do you know it was a lie?” Her eyes searched his.
“You told me yourself.” Montrell let his fingers stroke the soft part of her skin. “He didn’t let you marry me. That means you wanted to.” He couldn’t help the wave of heat that crawled through him as other memories surfaced. “Besides, you gave yourself to me. And you weren’t shy or hesitant in the way you took me.”
Her lips tightened into a red slash. “That wasn’t enough for you to come after me back then.”
“I convinced myself your father was behind it. That he told you to use your body to trick me. I told you, I was an idiot.”
Her eyes closed. “I didn’t know. Not until the wedding, when you weren’t there.”
“And I regret the hell out of that. I should have killed your father and taken you home with me. I should have saved you back then.” He sighed as his fingers continued to try to soothe her; to soothe them both. “Me being half-Irish was already a chip on my shoulder among the families, and your father pushed those buttons hard. My tantrum today? It was realizing how much my own insecurities cost you. I hate myself for that.”
Beatrice shook her head. “You’re not responsible for what happened to me.”
“I took your virginity, Bea. Happily. Then I left you to face the consequences.” Montrell still wanted to beat himself up for it.
She shocked him by huffing out a laugh. “That part didn’t matter. Well, not to him. My husband—” Her fingers tightened on his arm as her lips twisted. “The Albanian didn’t even notice.”
Montrell felt dizzy as his fury returned. The prick had hurt her enough on their wedding night that he’d thought she was a virgin? Had he made her bleed? Montrell pulled away to reach for his water, but then he tossed the rest of the wine back instead. Fuck, that wouldn’t relieve the heat that was taking him over.
“I thought he needed an excuse to hurt me in the beginning too. I tried so hard to please him back then.” Beatrice reached for her own wine, barely managing a sip before she put it down. “I was wrong. He made up plenty of reasons.”
“The reports painted a harsh picture of what you’d gone through. I thought I understood. But seeing those scars…” Montrell ran his hand over his beard, pulling on it hard. “I realized I still didn’t understand a damn thing.”
Beatrice’s head tilted. “Reports?”
“The Di Salvos had a connection with the doctor the Albanians used. They gifted me with reports of your medical procedures as a sign of faith. I know how many broken bones, blood infusions, and fucking resuscitations you went through. At least, what the doctor would admit to. And then I went to Vegas.” The wineglass was empty. He drank water instead.
She blinked at him. “You really did come to Vegas to rescue me.”
“Rescue and marry. I’d planned to murder your husband first. That part of the plan hit a snag.”
“But you weren’t there by chance, taking advantage of the circumstances?”
“Hell no! I found out what your life was like, and I came after you.” He leaned forward, his elbows falling to the table harder than he’d intended as the wine started to kick in. “I swear to you, I didn’t know until recently. If I had, I would have come sooner.”
He blinked to take in the vision in front of him. Beatrice wasn’t gifting him with that small semblance of a smile. Instead, her lips spread in a full one that made his heart stutter.
“You came for me. Thank you, Montrell.”
If he hadn’t already been in love with her, his heart would have tumbled from the way she looked in that moment.
His breath seized. He loved her, and she was still just trying to figure out if she could trust him.
She made it worse by leaning across the table and brushing her lips softly against his. Too softly. His hand found the back of her head as he pulled her tighter and devoured those gorgeous-as-sin lips. She made a little moan of surprise that had him thinking about sweeping a hand over the table and laying her on it to feast on.
Giulia’s timing was perfect, like usual. When she cleared her throat, Montrell let Beatrice go. It was harder than he would have liked, and he realized he was just past tipsy already.
He forced himself to focus on the tantalizing main course. “Carbonara? You don’t make this often.”
Beatrice tensed, and his eyes leapt to her like they wanted to. She had the most delicate flush. His mouth watered, but not for the food. “You don’t?” she asked.
Giulia grinned at her. “Only by special request. Enjoy.”
Montrell was disappointed when Giulia returned to the kitchen. Her presence was stabilizing. Having a woman who was basically his mother there would help keep his libido in check.
Now that he realized he was in love with his wife, the urge to make love to her was nearly overwhelming. Which was too damn bad. She wasn’t ready for that.
He filled his mouth with food instead of what he really desired.
Seeing her scars each time she forked a tiny portion to her lips helped the rest of his slightly inebriated body relax.
The dinner was too delicious to fit in much conversation. Though Montrell’s plate was clean by the end, Beatrice put her fork down when hers was still halfway full.
He nodded toward her plate. “You should eat more. I remember you used to have a bit more heft to you when you were younger.”
Giulia had come out to clear the plates and smacked the back of his head. Hard. “You don’t talk to women that way.” She cursed at him in Italian as she grabbed both plates.
Beatrice’s expression was remote again. “It turns out I’m the opposite of a stress eater.” Her hand moved to her wine.
She’d poured him another glass during dinner, but he’d been too afraid to touch it. And still he’d put his foot in his mouth.
“Don’t listen to him.” Giulia indicated the food. “I’ll box up all the extra I made.”
Montrell leaned forward. “You were gorgeous then, and you’re gorgeous now. Because of who you are, Bea. You’re amazing.”
Giulia sent him a more approving smile as she disappeared into the back.
Beatrice turned her arms over. It was as if she was placing the scars between them; he hated that idea. “So amazing, aren’t I?”
His hands closed over both arms, and he felt her scars against his palms. “These bring no shame to you. If you want to try to remove them, and the ones on your breasts, we can do that, but I don’t see either as bad. The opposite. They prove how hard you had to fight to be here.” His finger danced over the end of the scar, halfway up her forearm. “You’re alive. I love how full of life you are.” He swallowed.
She shook her head. “I’m not.”
“You still are. It’s true, you used to live louder. It’s why the scars hit me so hard. They’re proof of how much worse it was and how trapped you were to choose that escape.”
“I didn’t choose it.”
Her words were so soft he doubted he’d heard them. As his fingers stroked her arm, he leaned farther across the table, not caring that his elbow landed in a spill he’d made. “What?”
Beatrice swallowed. “I thought I wanted to. But there in the bathroom, I couldn’t. My—” Her chin trembled before she stiffened it. “He found me. He slit my wrists.”
Montrell’s hands tightened on her as a wave of fury rolled through him. He worried he was hurting her, but he couldn’t force himself to let go. Not yet.
Her words were tumbling out now. “It was because I almost took the decision from him. He wanted to prove that it was his choice, not mine. I would have bled out in that hotel, but his mother had traveled with us, and she was worried about what would be said. Besides, she hated me. Death would be too good for me. She told me that. I almost bled out anyway. That was probably one of the transfusions you read about.” She choked out a laugh. “The bracelets? They were because he hated seeing the scars. He put them there, but he was embarrassed by them. Each time he saw my arms, he’d punish me, so wearing them became a habit.”
And finally Montrell could release her. He was on his feet, his body shaking. He threw the first bangle at the goddamn wall. Each that followed hit harder. They were durable things. Only a pearl or two scattered as they fell to the ground. “You’re not fucking wearing them again.”
He instantly regretted it. He’d made it about his own anger again. Sucking in a breath, he tried to soften his expression, but he doubted he’d succeeded when he looked at her.
Beatrice appeared to be frozen. At least she wasn’t running from him.
He crouched beside her. “I’m sorry. If you want to wear them, we’ll get you new ones to wear. Whatever you need.”
Her hand trembled as she reached out for his cheek. When she cupped his beard so gently, he felt like he was the trembling one.
“Is this really all a lie?”
Montrell’s hand grabbed hers when she would have pulled away. His hand was shaking. “I’d never lie to you, Bea.”
Her brow creased as she searched his face. “I heard Giulia. She told you to be honest with me.”
Frustration rumbled in his throat, but not at Beatrice. “I’ve always been honest with you. I wouldn’t build our marriage on lies.” He forced himself to let her go, unsurprised when she pulled her hand away. Beatrice perched on the cusp of flight, and he wanted to hold to her fast.
Instead, he rose and stumbled back a step. His hands shoved through his hair. “Giulia just knows me too well. She knows I’ve been holding myself back.”
Beatrice’s face fell. “Oh,” she whispered.
“Fuck, please don’t think I’m pressuring you. I’m more than happy with how far we’ve come.” His hand covered his eyes, worried that he’d see pain in hers. Or worse—obligation. “I’ve tried to be honest, but I don’t want you to think my need for you is something you have to solve.”
“You need me?”
The quiver in her voice gutted him. “No!” He swallowed because he’d said he wouldn’t lie. “I mean, fuck, yes, at some point I need to bury myself inside you and find heaven again, but no, I’m not asking for that right now. There’s no rush.”
“Montrell!” she snapped. “Look at me.”
He forced his eyes to find hers, letting out a breath when there were no tears in her eyes. Locking gazes was good. She’d see he was serious about not wanting to rush.
“You could have had me,” she said. “That first night I came to you.”
“No!” Montrell realized he’d shouted at her, but she hadn’t flinched. His was the jaw that tightened. “Not like that. I took exactly what I wanted that night. I have no regrets.”
Remembering the way she had orgasmed made him hard him all over again. His hands clenched at his sides.
Beatrice rose from her chair. “You know, it’s difficult sometimes. Me being in charge of this. You said you prefer to be in charge.” Her head tilted to the side as her eyes drifted down to linger on his obvious erection. “Are you really holding back?”
Oh, he was fucked, but in the wrong way. She was going to push herself. For him. He tried to find the logical path out of his predicament, but he couldn’t lie to her. “Of course I’m holding back!” His strangling cock could vouch for that. “Of course I fucking am, but it doesn’t matter! So I work two out in the shower instead of one. It’s plenty of orgasms. And I imagine your sweet cunt every time.”
Her eyes flew back to his face.
He took a full breath. “Hell, imagining you orgasming is enough sometimes. I came the first time you did. Don’t you remember?”
She licked those red lips of hers. Whatever lipstick she wore was magic. “I do.”
“Please don’t feel pressured to do anything you don’t want to do.”
Her hands dipped under her skirt, trying to distract him.
“Bea, I—” He lost his train of thought as he watched her pull her panties down her thighs until they were loose enough to fall to her feet.
Beatrice stepped out of them in those gorgeous, black heels that had what looked like spikes tipping the point. She crouched, her dress sliding up her thighs, and picked up her panties.
He’d thought his cock was being strangled before. When she moved to him and pushed her panties into his front pocket, he couldn’t hold back his groan.
“I don’t feel pressured. Maybe I should.”
“No, Bea—” Montrell bit his tongue as her hand cupped his cock. The wine from earlier swirled in his head and his belly as he tried to think.
Beatrice pressed her body to his, her hand trapped between them. Which was fine. More than fine. If she started rubbing him, maybe he’d disgrace himself instead of forcing her down on the nearest table and fucking her into it.
He couldn’t do that. But God, he wanted to.
She lifted on tiptoe, her lips brushing his ear. “I want to give up control to you. Don’t hold back.” The small bite to his lobe was so fucking sexy that he groaned again. “Do whatever you want to do to me.”
His brain was short-circuiting, but at her words the image from earlier rose. “Whatever I want?”
“Yes. You have my permission.”
And he couldn’t resist. He lifted her against him, striding to the nearest clean table. He didn’t care about food stains, but Beatrice would. His arm swept off the place settings, plates breaking on the ground and the candle flying. Luckily it wasn’t lit.
Beatrice clung to him as her eyes flew wide. Fuck, that shocked look on her face was delicious.
“Giulia—”
“Knows how to read a fucking room,” he growled, placing her on the table and taking her mouth. His own was greedy and hard and demanding. She froze at first, but then she was kissing him back, and damned if she wasn’t also greedy. Beatrice wasn’t scared. She wanted this. She’d given him permission.
He still wanted to make sure. He’d already positioned himself between her legs, and there was no doubt she felt his erection pressed against her.
“I have your permission? Anything I want?” Montrell searched her eyes.
Her hands tightened around his neck, then loosened. She melted back against the table, her legs spreading wider as she looked up at him. His heart clenched when she tried to smile but couldn’t hold it. “Yes. Consider me yours for the taking tonight.”
“No, Bea.” She gasped as he hauled her ass closer to the table’s edge. His hands stroked over her thighs. “I’m yours. Never forget that.” He pushed her tight skirt up to bunch around her waist. With her legs splayed, his view of her pussy gave him a head rush. He growled, feeling almost feral as he pushed her dress even higher, liking it when her bare ass was against the tablecloth. “I came here to eat. So tonight I’m feasting on this sweet cunt of yours.”
She let out a sound that prompted him to look away from his prize. Her eyes were wide. She was back to looking vulnerable, and he ran his hands along her inner thighs in an attempt to soothe her. “You can still say ‘no,’ Bea. You can always say ‘no’ to me. Now. While I’m enjoying the hell out of you. When I’m eventually inside of you. It’s okay to give up control, but also stop things if they ever don’t feel right.”
She swallowed. “Lean down.”
He leaned over her, stunned when she met his face to kiss him. Her touch was soft again, but somehow the pressure of her lips squeezed his cock even harder as he fought off the sudden binding in his chest. His forehead lay against hers after as he stared into her eyes.
Hers still showed her nerves. “Are you sure using your mouth on me is all you want?”
“All? Like it’s not enough?” His mouth was already watering. “I’m dying to taste you again. To prove that the sweetness I remember wasn’t all a fever dream.”
Her brow wrinkled. “But—”
“Lie there like a good girl and let my tongue fuck you like you deserve.”
Her lips parted on her shocked exhale as he lifted away from her. His hands spread her thighs farther apart as he crouched between them and put his face right where it belonged.