CHAPTER9
Violet
Wow.
Leon didn’t tell his family he married me.
Why doesn’t that surprise me?
I don’t know what’s more humiliating, the fact that I’m not worth mentioning or what coming home drunk on your honeymoon implies.
Both are true. I’m not worth mentioning and Leon would rather get drunk than face me. I get that he hates me. I just didn’t want him to give such an impactful demonstration to the world. Call it pride, but it’s all I have left, all that prevents me from losing face and falling apart. It’s all I know how to do well. I know how to wear a mask and pretend. I don’t know how to be cut open in public for everyone to witness my shame. Even Gus only humiliates my mother in private. At least he grants her the pretense of respect in public, allowing her to always leave the house with her head held high.
Leon lies motionless on the bed. He groans when I take off his shoes and protests when I unbuckle his belt, but I manage with some difficulty to remove his jeans. I find paracetamol in the bathroom and feed him two pills with a big glass of water. Then I pull the covers over him and settle with a blanket on the loveseat in the corner. I don’t want to invade his space when he’s not lucid, and I don’t want to sleep in the spare room because I’m worried he’ll get sick in the night and drown in his vomit. Letting him die will solve some of my problems, but I’m not capable of murder by turning a blind eye. The guilt that has moved into my heart to stay won’t let me.
The loveseat is uncomfortable, and my sleep is restless. When dawn breaks, I’m tired but grateful to abandon my futile efforts of trying to sleep. I make coffee and bring a mug upstairs that I leave with two painkillers on the nightstand. My gaze falls on the box of diamonds still lying where I left them. For all I care, they can stay there and gather dust forever.
I’m about to go for a shower when Leon stirs. He turns onto his back, throwing one arm above his head. His bicep bulges in the T-shirt, the circumference of his muscle huge. Manly veins run under his tanned skin. The dusting of dark hair on his arms adds to his masculinity. His thick, curly hair is tousled, his fringe falling over his forehead.
Lifting his dark lashes, he stares at me with those eyes that remind me of dark and bitter beer. He looks fully awake and vigilant. The only sign that he passed out drunk last night is the bloodshot whites of his eyes.
A strained moment of silence passes.
He sits up, looking at the undisturbed side of the bed. “Where did you sleep?”
“Good morning to you too.”
Scrubbing a palm over his face, he says, “It’s not a good one, so yeah.”
“For that, you only have yourself to blame.”
“Here it comes.” He faces me, giving me his full attention. “Lay it on me.”
“It’s not my place to preach.”
He kicks off the covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “That’ll be a first in the history of womankind.”
“Sexist much?” I cross my arms. “What you do with your time is hardly my business.”
“Right.” He chuckles. “I should’ve guessed that’s how you’ll choose to look at it, but you’re wrong.” Fixing me with a hard stare, he continues, “We’re married. It’s every bit your business. Or have you forgotten?”
“It’s difficult to forget if I’m living in your house.”
He stares at me for a beat. “You haven’t answered my question. Where did you sleep?”
They should name a brand of beer or whiskey after his eyes. “On the loveseat.”
“You spent all night there?” He sounds angry. “That’s not good for your back, not to mention your hip. I bought a good mattress for a reason.” He adds in a darker tone, “Besides, your place is in my bed.”
“It felt wrong to encroach on your space when you were passed out.”
He considers the statement, working his jaw. After a moment, he says in a quiet voice, “It won’t happen again.”
“You’re free to do as you like.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter. “I brought you coffee. Thought you might need some.”
He glances at the nightstand. His gaze fixes on the blue box, but he doesn’t mention the diamonds.
Taking the mug from the nightstand, he holds my gaze as he fastens one hand on the undercurve of my ass and drags me closer. He doesn’t break our eye contact when he takes a sip of the coffee. The warmth of his palm seeps into my skin. The look in his eyes is possessive and challenging, daring me to step away from his touch.
I choose my battles wisely. Picking a fight after last night isn’t a good idea, not because I’m afraid of conflict but because I’m afraid of talking about why he went to a bar. If we do, he may mention the reason he drank himself into a stupor, and I’m too ashamed to face my part in the reason he got plastered.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he says, his voice husky. “And for taking care of me last night.”
His roughness always turns me on, but his gentleness makes my stomach flip over. His tenderness is much more potent. The undeniable truth is that regardless of how he touches me, it doesn’t leave me unaffected. It makes my body come alive in ways it never has, not for myself, my fantasies, or another man.
I swallow. “You’re welcome.”
He puts the mug on the nightstand and straightens slowly, dragging his hand over my ass and pausing on my lower back. A hairbreadth of space separates us. If he applies the lightest pressure, my body will be pressed against his. The thought alone sends goosebumps over my skin. My lower body heats as I imagine the potential of our stance. If he pulls me against him now, I won’t be able to resist.
Because I want this.