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“Bea?” His voice held a question. “Did you—”
She cut off his words with her lips. It would be fine, she told herself, counting on the numbness that had filled her.
Instead, memories flared within. She’d thought she’d forgotten. The ghost of who she had been fluttered in her memory, confident and certain of what she wanted. She’d been the one to push him onto the couch during their engagement period. She’d taken what she wanted because she’d been sure he had wanted it too. More than that. She had actually wanted it.
No heat rose from the kiss they shared. It was too buried in ice and fear.
Fear that there was no way it could be as it was.
His hands came up to her shoulders, making her stiffen in panic, a panic she’d been seeking.
She was no longer empty. The awful thing she’d become writhed inside.
He pushed her away gently, his face lifting from hers.
Montrell had always made her feel small. Once upon a time, that had added to his sexiness. She’d reveled in how delicate that had made her feel.
Her husband had been nowhere near as big, but he’d shown her what it meant to be physically weaker. That there was nothing sexy about it.
As Montrell’s hands continued to cup her shoulders, the panic spread. His body threw her into shadow. Instinct had her lashing out, just as she always had.
Every time she had fought, things got so much worse.
The flood of adrenaline made her blind. Her throat closed on the building scream. She couldn’t let it out. If she screamed, he’d only choke her. It was worse when he choked her because sometimes her body responded.
The grip on her shoulders had dropped, and no one was hitting back, even though she punched and jabbed. She blinked as her body slowed. Her punches had hit flesh. Montrell hadn’t been wearing a shirt, and his broad barrel chest was hairier than the smooth muscle of others she’d seen. The skin was red where it shone through the hair.
The corner of his mouth held blood, and red was veining within the white of his right eye.
“It’s okay,” Montrell was saying through his split lip. “It’s okay, Bea. It’s only me.”
There was no ‘only’ when it came to someone like Montrell. She took a step back from him.
He did nothing to stop her. The pressure of his hands before had panicked her, but he’d meant to push her away, not drag her deeper into her spiral.
“Not like this,” Montrell said, his eyes still so fucking kind. There was no sexual intent there at all.
The deadness returned, making her cold all over.
“But if you need to keep hitting me, I have no problem with that.” It must have hurt his lip, to spread it in his standard grin. “You’re here for pain. I get that. So come on. Let me have it.” He motioned with his hand.
Beatrice stepped back again.
The creases appeared near his eyes as he continued to smile. “Sex, though, that won’t be about this. Not about pain. If you come for that, it’ll be because you want to feel good.”
She shook her head, but the words behind the denial were still locked in her throat.
Turning, she ran from the room, suddenly relieved by her continued numbness. It was safer. They both had to accept what she had become.
Montrell made his way back to the outbuilding. Vespa was still there, cleaning the room. The bodies were gone.
“You could have had the boys clean up,” he said, bending to pick up a bloody knife that remained on the floor.
Vespa was rearranging the other instruments on the metal table, her fingers precise as she lined them up. “I don’t mind it,” she said, but her fingers continued to fiddle.
“I didn’t expect her to not kill the third.” Montrell frowned at the bloody fingerprint on the blade he held it between two fingers. “I almost didn’t move out of sight in time.” Beatrice had asked him to leave. He’d only been able to make her think he had.
“She realized it with the second.” Vespa scowled down at the tray. “That it’s not going to bring it back. That nothing will.” Her eyes shifted to Montrell. “You can’t fix her.”
