An Improper Ever After (Elliot & Annabelle 3)

“What’s there to know?”

“Elizabeth said one of the wait staff found you at the bottom of the stairs.” I didn’t hear the rest of what she said over the panic roaring in my head.

“Then you know what happened.”

“Belle…”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m banged up, and I’m tired.”

Part of me wants to push until she tells me everything, but she feels so small and fragile in my arms. I notice a new bruise on the back of her neck, stark and ugly on the otherwise smooth skin. I’m afraid if I push too hard, she might shatter.

A hotel staff member opens the door with a warm greeting, and I climb out first and help my wife. Her hand is too cool to the touch. If her injuries shock the attendant, he doesn’t show it.

Our overnight bags are whisked away, and we’re immediately checked in. A sharp-looking woman in a black dress escorts us to our suite on the top level. She glances at my wife, but doesn’t comment. Belle stares at the floor the entire time, unblinking. But I can sense her mind working. I just wish I could figure out what what’s going on inside.

“If anything’s not to your liking, please don’t hesitate to let us know,” the woman says in a robotically calm voice as she opens the door to show us in.

The suite is sumptuously appointed with pale, thick carpet, a plushy sectional sofa and an armchair before a huge TV. In the corner is a modern writing desk with a graphite-gray ergonomic chair. I immediately notice several vases of fresh flowers, which perfume the air delicately. Recessed lights set dim keep the large space looking intimate and almost romantic. Through the open, arched doorway, I see the bedroom; there’s a huge California king with pristine white covers turned down invitingly. The light from the bedside tables casts a satiny sheen over everything.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

“Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Reed. Enjoy your stay.” The woman disappears.

My wife lets out a long sigh. Her legs wobble as she steps further into the opulent suite. Tired of watching her trying to be strong, I sweep her up. She lets out a small cry and immediately wraps her arms around my neck. I start carrying her toward the bedroom.

“Elliot…” She blinks up at me, eyebrows pinched together as though she’s made up her mind about something. “I think someone pushed me.”

Everything stills as I try to grasp what she’s trying to say. The notion that somebody might’ve meant to harm her never crossed my mind. “You mean…at the stairs?”

“You probably don’t believe me.” The words are barely audible. She bites her lower lip. “Sorry. Doesn’t matter.” She speaks more loudly this time. “It was an accident.”

At first I don’t understand. Then it hits me, a shock like I’ve been backhanded. She didn’t want to tell me the truth because she didn’t think I’d take her word for it. My whole body tightens in reflex, but I consciously relax, reminding myself of the tumble she took. I don’t want to cause her any pain. “It wasn’t an accident if somebody pushed you. You should’ve told me earlier.”

“Doesn’t matter. Won’t find who did it.” Her words come out almost garbled, and it’s hard to make out what she’s saying.

She’s right about one thing. We probably won’t find the person who did it, unless one of the serving staff or servants happened to see something. But that isn’t what stokes my anger. It’s the way she turns from me, even though she’s claspe

d in my arms, and the deep shame and disgust I feel for myself at the circumstances I find myself in, the shitty situation in which both of us are mired.

I lay my wife on the bed and strip off her dress, then suck in a sharp breath.

Her injuries are evident—the tender skin starting to bruise around her shoulders, back and hip. Her right knee is going to be at least a medium blue. My body throbs as though I’m the one who rolled down the stairs and had the injuries. If she’d fallen headfirst, she could’ve died. My hands unsteady, I pull the sheets over her before I lose control and demand that something be done about the fact that she’s suffering. She passes out almost immediately. I push her crimson hair away from her face with shaking fingers.

I stand and yank off my tie, my hands rough. I reach into the minibar and help myself to some whiskey, keeping an eye on Belle as she sleeps.

The alcohol dulls the sharp edge of my initial fury. I’m still pissed at the way she behaved, even though I recognize her reaction wasn’t entirely without justification. After all, since Paddington’s report I’ve done everything in my power to convince her how little she means to me.

I swirl the liquor around in my glass. I’ve been trying to convince myself Belle holds no significance in my life. Hearing the truth from her lips hasn’t been my primary concern. I’ve wanted to prove to myself that it didn’t mean anything that when Paddington dropped the bombshell, that my anger came from the fact that she lied and misled me, and that her professions of love were most likely a form of manipulation. I didn’t think once about my grandfather’s painting—the initial reason for our contract marriage.

And that was unacceptable. Unthinkable.

I didn’t want to be that vulnerable to someone.

But now…

I watch her broodingly. Her mumbled apology hurt because it was said in such a sad, resigned voice. I have to accept the truth. I was furious because I’d been thinking something more permanent—maybe even a forever—with my wife. There aren’t many women I find admirable…and out of those, Belle is the only one who makes my blood boil with desire.

She’s worked so hard to build something for herself and her sister. And her pride… I laugh softly. She’s so damn proud she basically told me to go fuck myself when I offered her three thousand bucks for a night of sex. You’d think that after two years of poverty, she would have jumped at a chance for such easy money.