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Her prior husband, she reminded herself. He was dead and gone.
And the cousin that had started the accusations was gone as well. By her own hand. She’d thought she’d accomplished it in Vegas, but there was no mistake now.
She paused in the act of squeezing her face cream into her hands, staring at herself in the mirror. Her husband was dead. His cousin was dead. And still she stood, trying to forget. She was letting them have the upper hand.
The cream smeared the tie of her robe as she pulled it free and let it fall down low enough to catch on her elbows. She studied her breasts in the mirror. They were full and firm and flawed. She had never hidden them away from her prior husband—let him see the damage he had caused—but when Montrell had offered to focus his attention on her breasts, she’d wanted to hide.
The way he looked at her was so similar to the way he always had. Like she was gorgeous and not flawed at all. If she showed him too much, she was terrified his interest would turn into gentle pity.
She hated that she was pitiable. She’d rather he hate her than pity her.
Beatrice pulled the robe back into place before resuming her moisturizing routine. She didn’t skimp on makeup, and she wouldn’t skimp on the aftercare either.
At least the smell of gunpowder had been replaced with the jasmine scent of the cream and lotion she preferred.
When she stepped out into her bedroom, it wasn’t empty. Montrell hovered in the doorway. She expected to feel a sinking feeling inside. He had finally had enough of waiting and had come to her bedroom for what he should have taken long ago. Her mind should have latched onto the cynical inevitability of it all. She expected to feel angry. He’d promised that he wouldn’t come to her for sex. That she could be the one to come to him.
None of those negative emotions rose, though. Desire didn’t flare either. All she felt was relief that the choice was no longer hers.
Montrell wouldn’t hurt her. Moving forward was the best path to take. He was her husband, the one she would be with from now on.
It was starting to sound real. Or maybe that was just the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears.
“I shouldn’t have come,” Montrell said, turning in the doorway.
“It’s fine,” she heard herself say. “You can stay. Close the door.”
He hesitated. The last of her tension eased when he pushed the door shut and the latch caught.
Montrell turned toward her again, his eyes as warm as they’d always been, even narrowed in doubt as they were. “You could have died today.”
She nodded toward his arm, the fresh bandage there. “You were the one who ended up shot. Did Vespa torture you while patching you up?”
His lips twitched within his beard. “A little. She mainly lectured me, but that’s torture enough.”
Beatrice couldn’t return the smile. She didn’t feel nervous, but she wasn’t relaxed enough for the teasing to penetrate her mask.
Montrell’s feet moved forward, carrying him to her. He stared into her eyes, as if searching for something. “She was too relieved to give me much of a hard time. Things could have ended up worse.”
“They always can,” Beatrice said. “That’s a part of this life. There’s danger and loss. We can never be too careful.”
He leaned down, and his beard tickled her forehead as he kissed her there. “I still want to be careful. You don’t have to lose faith in me. I keep my word. I’m not here for sex.”
She blinked as he pulled back to search her eyes. “You’re not?”
He shook his head, his arms twitching at his sides. “I came because I needed to see you. To hold you, if you’re all right with that. I want your breath against me to remind myself this is real. They came for you, but you’re still alive.”
Beatrice had no words. No one had ever wanted to just hold her. Her father had been too busy with work. Her first husband had been more likely to hit her than hug her. She stared at Montrell, and her throat was too tight to give him the permission he seemed to be waiting for.
Instead, she inched forward, laying her head against the broad chest in front of her.
He took that as consent, and his thick arms came up to wrap around her, gentle but also firm.
She expected to feel caged. Trapped. But that wasn’t what she felt. Inside her chest, there was a loosening that made it even harder to breathe. Leaning into him, she tried her hardest not to cry.
“I’ve got you, Bea,” he murmured.
The sob caught her off guard. It sounded weak, pathetic. Her tears flooded free, and she could do nothing to prevent the embarrassing mewling sounds she was making as she began to soak his shirt.
