She laughs at herself a little, shaking her head—but there’s something off about it. Something sad.
“They were at our estate for a dinner party. Alistair asked me to go for a walk around the property, and you could’ve knocked me over with a feather I was so shocked. And delighted. It was the very first time I didn’t feel painfully ordinary.”
I don’t know if it’s her tone or the look in her eyes—but I find myself bracing. Like just before taking a punch to the gut.
“He kissed me behind the gazebo in the garden. And it was nice. And then he kept kissing me . . . but it became not nice. When I told him to stop, I remember thinking he must not have heard me, because he just kept right on like I hadn’t said a thing.”
I taste sour in the back of my throat and my stomach twists.
Abby’s voice drifts away, going airy and thin. Not her lovely voice at all—but the memory of it. A ghost voice.
“So I said it louder. I looked him right in the face. But he . . .”
“He what?” I bite out, harsher than I should.
Abby lifts her shoulder, shrugging in a way that breaks my heart into pieces. As if her next words aren’t going to cost her.
“Well . . . he insisted.”
The meaning of what she’s saying stabs deep. Touching a lethal, primal part of me that’s capable of terrible things—that wants retribution.
Because emotion doesn’t give a shit about reason. And caring about someone has nothing to do with logic. And I want to slash and burn and destroy, because once upon a time someone hurt her . . . and I wasn’t there to protect her from it.
Abby sniffs, staring at the bubbles floating on the bathwater.
“Afterwards, he stood me up and straightened my clothes and plucked the twigs from my hair. And we went back into the house.”
“What happened then?” I ask, softer now.
She looks at me from big, dark, bottomless eyes. Her face is pale as marble and her voice is flat as stone.
“We had dinner.”
And I want to kill someone. I want to kill everyone—and lay their corpses at Abby’s feet like an ancient offering. Alistair Lipton and his father and her parents and every cunt who was at that dinner party and didn’t see. Couldn’t tell. How the fuck did they not see her?
I swallow down the gravel in my throat.
“Did you ever tell anyone?”
“Yes . . .” She nods. “I just told you.”
It’s like my lungs have been hit with a sledgehammer, forcing out all the air, making it impossible to breathe.
“Abby—”
“Don’t. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Devastated.” She tucks her knees under her, moving to me. “Don’t look devastated. It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter. I’m fine now.”
Now.
She’s fine now.
My hands clench into fists beneath the water and I yearn to make the Red Wedding look like a fucking garden party. Because Abby should’ve been more than fine—she should’ve been safe and happy and sublime—for always.
But I force my features to relax and my muscles to release, and I nod for her, just for her—giving her what she wants.
Because there isn’t anything I wouldn’t give her.
“All right, love.”
The water sloshes over the side as she shifts, curling onto my lap. I wrap my arms around her, holding her close—but not too tight. Just enough that she feels me, that she knows I’m here, that she knows she’s safe.
Abby’s cheek rests against my chest.
“I’ve had relationships, Tommy,” she insists.
“I’m aware,” I answer softly.
“I’ve been with men—I’ve been with you.”
“Very, very aware.”
“It doesn’t change anything. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
My head snaps to look at her.
“Of course there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re perfect, Abby.” I cup her cheek in my palm, stroking. “Extraordinary.”
Something about the word tugs at her, captures her, makes her eyes go liquid and shiny. I don’t know why . . . but I know I want to find out.
Because this is more than an arrangement. More than convenience or fun or stress relief. More than fantastic, filthy fucking. It’s all of that—but it’s not just that. Not anymore.
I don’t think it was ever just that for me. I think that’s what I told myself, what I agreed to, so I could have her.
This brilliant, beautiful girl.
But now . . . I want to keep her. And fuck me sideways, I hope she wants that too.
“Do you really think so?” she asks.
I press a light kiss to her forehead, to the apple of each cheek, and to the very tip of her nose.
“Absolutely.”
My hands stroke up and down her spine.
“I knew it the first time I saw you.”
“When you had a concussion?” she reminds me cheekily.
“Yeah, when I had a concussion.”
“I’m not sure that’s the compliment you think it is.”