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Remembering the way he’d talked to her as he’d touched her the night before, Beatrice felt a little warm. She cleared her throat. “He’s very sexual.” Admitting it made her want to bite off her own tongue.
Vespa shrugged. “Not for me. And that makes him safe.”
Beatrice’s stomach tightened at the flash of emotion she saw on the woman’s face. If she hadn’t been watching her so closely, she doubted she’d have seen it. “Vespa, are you scared of men?” she asked softly.
Vespa’s glare was back. “Fuck off! I’m not scared of anything.” But her arms folded over her chest in a defensive way. “We’re not talking about me. The lap thing only happened because Montrell asked me to be all buddy-buddy with you, and I got annoyed and overdid it and lost my balance. That’s all.”
“He what?” Beatrice blinked at her.
Vespa rolled her shoulders. “Not an excuse, though. I won’t get carried away like that again. He’s married, and I’m happy for him.” Her gaze locked back onto hers. “You could be nicer to him, though. He’s a good guy.”
Beatrice ignored the reprimand. She didn’t disagree. “He wants us to be friends?”
Vespa snorted. “It ain’t going to happen.”
“Definitely not,” Beatrice agreed.
“But I can say when I’m wrong, and my behavior was wrong today. So… sorry.”
Beatrice still didn’t like Vespa, but it was getting harder to hate her. “Apology accepted.”
Vespa nodded once. “Good.”
As the silence between them fell, they both looked away. Beatrice remembered the expression Vespa had worn at the Di Salvo estate, and her lips twitched. “Do you need another hug or something?”
Vespa groaned, finally reaching for the door. “Fuck off!” she repeated, stomping away.
There really were Coronellas still gathered in the hallway. Not that they’d been pressed against the door or anything, but Vespa hadn’t exactly been whispering.
Beatrice ignored them, even Montrell, as she slipped up to her room. Being alone in the middle of a crowd of people had always been easy for her. She listened, gathering tidbits she could use, but she never got involved.
But when she’d been at the bottom of the stairs in the Di Salvo estate, everything had paused. She’d stood beside Montrell often in the last few weeks, but in that moment, it was as if she could feel his shoulder against hers, even if they weren’t touching at all.
More than anything, she’d wanted to comfort him, though that would have never worked. She didn’t even know how to comfort herself. If he’d even needed to be comforted at all, which she still wasn’t certain about, it was better that he had Vespa for that type of thing.
Still, for the first time, she hadn’t been thinking about herself at all. She’d become so damn self-involved that it made her sick. She’d needed to, Beatrice reminded herself. That’s how she’d survived. And here she was, still alive, but with no idea how to live at all. She was too scared to feel anything.
Like she had the night before, Beatrice studied herself in the mirror. She didn’t like what she saw. She hadn’t for a long time.
The person who had quietly asked her husband if he was okay was another side of her. She kind of liked that person. If she got closer to Montrell, if she let him care about her, would she be able to reciprocate? Could she ever love anyone? She didn’t even love herself. Especially not the part that wanted to curl up at the thought of returning to Montrell’s room. He’d warned her. He’d make her feel again.
Feeling anything was hard. The ice and emptiness were easier.
Her mind continued to race in circles as night fell. The nightgown she’d left in the shower had been removed and washed. She found it folded in her dresser. She wondered if Giulia had been the one to do it, and if Montrell’s cum had still been on it.
The silky nightgown felt good to slip on. She dragged off her underwear like she had the night before, and she slipped on her bracelets again, adjusting them just so over her scars.
Deciding to go to him was the hardest part. Beatrice had hated being raped. She’d had no choice in the matter. But having the choice be all hers was a different sort of pressure that she didn’t like either.
Montrell had said he liked to be in control. She wondered what it would be like to let him be, even their first time had been at her instigating.
She shouldn’t get her hopes up. The night before was likely an aberration. It wasn’t as if she was getting wet thinking about her orgasm. She’d been honest with Montrell: Her body didn’t ready itself for sex anymore. It had been let down too many times in the past.
He had that slippery lube, though, and thinking about the lube made her feel something. Not turned on. She pictured how disgusted her previous husband would have been if they’d ever tried to use it. He’d been the fastidious sort. That’s why his cousin had felt so confident raping her ass. Her husband didn’t like to be dirty. In fact, he hadn’t ever forced himself inside her mouth. There were too many germs in saliva. Blood was fine—he’d raped her while she was on her period as punishment for not getting pregnant—but he had never wanted her dirty mouth on him.
She wondered when she would be free of the memories. Probably never.
The hallway was quiet as she slipped out of her room and into the one next door. Montrell didn’t stir this time. He was snoring the loud, deep rumbles of someone truly asleep.
