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“Apparently, smiling was flirting. He told my husband I’d been coming onto him all along. All for thinking he was nice. He wasn’t nice.” Her fingers curled into Montrell’s shirt. “After all he claimed, my husband wanted to punish me. That night was the first time he stabbed me.”
Montrell’s hands jerked, then shifted in a gentle caress, up and down her back.
“I didn’t want any of my glances or smiles to be misconstrued, so I stopped giving them to anyone after that, but that didn’t stop the cousin from lying. When he caught me alone, he would whisper the lies he was going to tell my husband. And my husband believed him every time.” She let her breath fan over Montrell’s chest, taking a deeper one. “He stabbed me other places, but he was purposeful in how he carved up my breasts. They have scars now.”
Montrell wrapped his arms around her and pulled her higher, tucking her face against his neck as he held her tight. “If it bothers you, we can look into what could be done.”
His heated skin soothed her. “Will it bother you?” she asked.
“They’re a reflection of all you’ve been through, not a reflection of you.” His lips brushed over her hair. “But it’s not about what bothers me. If you hate to look at them, then we can do something about that. Anything you need is within your grasp, Bea.”
She shook her head, bumping his chin. “I can’t—”
“You don’t have to decide right now. I just want you to know you have choices. You can ask for absolutely anything, and I’ll try to make it happen.”
Her hands snaked behind his neck again. The way they pressed between him and the pillow would likely numb them, but she almost wanted that. “You keep saying things like that, and my mind goes blank. It makes me feel like nothing,” she admitted. “I have no idea what I want.”
“You’re not nothing, Bea.” The words rumbled beneath her ear. “You’re everything.”
Her eyes closed as she tried not to argue with him. When she thought of scars, it wasn’t her breasts she worried most about. “I once thought I didn’t want to live.”
And suddenly she couldn’t breathe because of how tightly he held her.
Her throat felt clogged. “I realized I was wrong. I want to live. More than anything.” Pushing the words out was one of the most difficult things. “I just don’t know how.”
His hands roamed over her, soothing and grounding all at once. “You’ll figure it out. Give yourself time.”
The way he continued to touch her drew out the last of the tension from her body, and, even though she wanted to cling to the moment longer, she slipped into sleep instead.
Chapter 18
Montrell ran a hand over his face as he sat in the conference room among his men, waiting for Beatrice. He’d run away before she’d woken up. He’d had to. His cock was raring to go first thing in the morning, and he hadn’t wanted to make their time together about that.
No, he’d been perfectly content to hold her all night. To wrap her up in his arms and let her feel safe. To let her cry. It felt like a sign that she was finally understanding she was free.
He hadn’t wanted to shower that morning. He could smell her all over him, but under her inviting floral scent was the lingering odor of gunpowder from the ambush, and he knew that if he smelled that too keenly, he would get angry all over again.
He hoped there’d be more Albanians wandering around to kill.
Beatrice strode into the room in her sexy heels and another one of her slit dresses. This one hugged her curves. The way the material clung to her breasts reminded him of what she’d told him the night before—how her husband had literally carved her self-confidence away.
There would never be enough hell for that man to burn in.
As his gaze slid away, he noticed her bare arms, and a frisson of need ran through him. Her arms were pressed into her sides, partly hidden behind her delicious curves, but he could tell the pearl bangles were absent. She’d been clinging to those bracelets ever since they’d left Vegas, and judging by the way she hid her arms, she felt their absence.
But they were still missing. Beatrice was taking another step to move on.
And Montrell wanted the hell out of her in that moment.
He dropped his hands to his lap after scooting his chair closer to the table. Clearing his throat, he grunted, “Vespa,” in hopes she would take over while he got control of himself.
His friend raised an eyebrow but knew him well enough to start talking. She provided insight into the Albanian movements they had missed.
Montrell tried to pay attention. Beatrice was in no way ready for him to order everyone out and spread her naked on the table for him to devour, so he needed to stop thinking about doing just that.
When he was finally able to tune into the talk, he reminded himself to ask Vespa to give him a rundown of what he’d missed later. Wiping out the last of the Albanians was top of his list of priorities.
The scowl on Beatrice’s face made him realize she had just as high of a need for more blood as he did.
