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“Do you trust me?” Montrell interrupted him.
Both men were quick with their assurances.
Montrell withdrew his hand. “Then that should be enough. No doubts. Treat my wife like you would me.”
The Coronella soldier ducked his head as he straightened the collar of his jacket. “Yes, Montrell. I’m sorry.”
Montrell wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders. “Don’t look like that. I know you meant well, and I don’t stay mad.” His grin was back as they turned together. “Truth is, I’m still getting used to this too.”
The soldiers began teasing him as they strolled away together.
Beatrice expected him to glance up at her. He must have seen her hovering there, which was why he’d said what he did. He would want credit for defending her.
But Montrell never glanced her way. It was as if he hadn’t noticed her pressed there against the banister.
Maybe he hadn’t.
She couldn’t help but compare Montrell’s speech to how her last husband had treated her. She’d always been the outsider in the family. It hadn’t been his men he had lectured about respect; it had been her. He’d become frustrated by her inability to curb her personality in the beginning, constantly pointing out all the things she’d done wrong, all the ways she had embarrassed him in front of his family. He’d had expectations for how a wife should act, and she had failed every one of them.
She hoped she’d fail Montrell’s expectations more quickly. Things would only settle when he understood he should have no expectations at all.
Chapter 4
Montrell wiped his damp palm against his slacks before raising his hand. He paused without rapping on the door. It had been a while since he’d felt nervous. The last time had been when his father was still alive.
No, that wasn’t true. He’d been more than nervous when Beatrice had dragged him into one of the rooms in her father’s house and let him put his hands on her. As a young woman, she had brimmed with confidence and passion when she’d all but jumped him. He’d been scared he’d devolve into a two-pump chump because of his level of excitement.
That was a completely different set of nerves, though; ones that had nothing to do with standing outside her bedroom door now, all these years later.
He rapped his knuckles against the wood, then stepped back to give her space when she opened it. The click of the handle made his mouth go dry.
Beatrice stood there, still fully dressed despite the late hour, though her feet were bare. There was something almost vulnerable in the way they looked.
The opposite could be said about her eyes. They were dull, stone slabs that stared through him.
Montrell cleared his throat. “We should talk.” They hadn’t; not really, beyond their wedding vows.
Her lips pursed, and then she pushed her bedroom door all the way open. “Be honest about why you’re here.”
Montrell was normally honest. He frowned at her, but he didn’t step forward. “Why do you think I’m here?”
“Not to talk.” She turned her back to him, padding over to the bed. Once there, she stared down at it for what felt like a full minute. She finally faced him again. Her expression was so damn remote. “Don’t expect this to be like it was. I’m not the person I used to be. She’s gone.”
“You’re right in front of me, Bea.” Only she wasn’t, and he knew that. He ran his hand over his too-long hair.
“It’s fine that you came.” Her fingers rose to the top button of her dress. “I’d rather you understand how it’ll be.” And she started undoing them.
Montrell saw only the bruises at her neck. It made it easier to turn his back on her. He had to clear his throat before he could say anything. “This won’t work. We can’t talk here with the bed doing all the talking. Meet me in my office when you’re ready.” He took a step, then hesitated. He still hadn’t given her a tour of the estate. “Downstairs, all the way to the right,” he told her, then took off for it.
He didn’t really have an office. He hated the damn things. Instead he had a conference room, where most often his boys piled inside and Vespa perched in a corner, keeping an eye out. He stalked behind the comfy chairs he’d had brought it, ones big enough for his bulk to settle in without making them scream in protest. Pacing wasn’t enough to loosen the tightness in his throat. How many times had her husband strangled her to the point of bruising? The question wouldn’t leave his mind.
He'd told her to come when she was ready, and he had meant it. She surprised him by not taking too long. He hadn’t quite gotten his thoughts sorted when she appeared in the doorway. She’d put on the scuffed-up heels from Vegas and done some sort of touch-up to her makeup. It made her eyes seem even more remote.
He crossed to her, pushing the door shut behind her. It brought his chest to almost touching hers, and he half expected her to flinch away. The stillness her body adopted seemed to vibrate instead. He was the one to back off and wave for her to pick a chair.
“I prefer to stand,” Beatrice said, her eyes focused on him.
Montrell nodded as he chose his own seat, two arms’ lengths away from her. “Whatever you want. That’s why I wanted to talk. To see what you wanted out of this thing.” His hand moved to indicate him, then her.
