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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.
