An Improper Ever After (Elliot & Annabelle 3)

“I don’t see the point.”

“The point is not to live in this…tension.”

“We have less than a year left to go,” I say instead. “We can be polite.”

He laughs dryly. “Polite. Jesus.” All signs of mirth abruptly vanish from his face. “Do you want sex to be polite? Is it politeness that makes you wet?”

Heat sears my cheeks. Whatever I was planning to say disappears from my mind.

“Does being polite make you scream when I fuck you? Is it politeness that makes your tight little cunt spasm around my dick night after night?”

I concentrate on my coffee cup, my hands unsteady. “Don’t be crude. You know I want you—your body.” I need to start framing everything into something clinical and unemotional. If I do it often enough, I might be able to convince myself Elliot and I have nothing worth crying over.

Elliot stops, then drags a hand roughly through his hair. “It’s not politeness that makes me hard every time I see you. It’s not politeness that makes me want to kick myself in the ass for letting you out of my sight last night. It’s certainly not politeness that makes me want to kill whoever pushed you down those stairs.”

My mouth parts. I didn’t know he felt that way about my accident…or anything about me. He’s been so…careful not to betray himself around me in the last few days.

“I’m trying to give you a chance to talk. You said you wanted to make me understand. I’m willing to listen now.” His voice is surprisingly gentle, like that time back on St. Cecilia. “You and I both know our current situation can’t last.”

As gentle as his voice is, something unyielding lies underneath. He’s not going to give up unless I tell him what he wants to know.

I vacillate. But really, what’s the point of not saying anything except to be perverse? He’s already given an inch when he admitted he cared more than he let on. I can bend a bit in return.

“Well…all right. Grayson and I met in Las Vegas, a little over a year ago,” I begin. “He came to see me at the diner where I worked. It would’ve been impossible for him to track me down otherwise, since Nonny and I were living in a shelter.” I exhale, trying to find enough control to get through the rest of the story. Even now I wonder how I could’ve had such poor judgment. “He claimed to work for an insurance company, said there was some kind of allowance payout for me, about a thousand dollars a month. Because I hadn’t collected anything the previous year, he said I could get a little extra, although not in a lump sum. I signed on the dotted lines he pushed my way to get the money.”

“But it was only a thousand dollars a month,” Elliot points out, his tone incredulous.

I give him a sad smile. If I ever need proof of how different we are, I only have to listen to him talk about money. “Elliot, it was a life-altering amount to me. We couldn’t stay at the shelter anymore.”

I don’t think I’ve said anything particularly alarming. I’ve been careful not to. But his eyes suddenly sharpen and his entire body stills, like a predator that just spotted prey and is waiting to pounce.

When I don’t continue, he asks, “What was wrong with the shelter?” in a voice so soft that I almost don’t hear it over the pounding of my heart. Memories of the place never fail to spike my anxiety.

“The supervisor…” I lick my suddenly dry lips. “He…” I search for the right word, but I can’t seem to find it. I blurt out, “He really…liked Nonny.”

Elliot waits, his eyes unblinking and focused, for me to elaborate…as

though I might’ve meant something unusually abstruse when I used the word like. When nothing comes, red slowly mottles his face. He rises to his feet, looking like some kind of ancient colossus. “What the fuck?”

The force of the word actually shirrs the water in his glass. Suddenly ashamed and uncertain, I look away.

“Did he pay for what he did?” Elliot asks in a voice so awful my skin crawls.

“No,” I whisper. “But Mr. Grayson’s money allowed us to leave. And I would’ve sold my soul to keep my sister safe.”

Chapter Eleven

Elliot

Fury swirls inside me like a dark storm, and I can’t stay still. I grip the back of my chair, trying to regain composure, but it’s no use. Giving up, I push away and pace. A need for violence throbs in my veins, and I want to punch something. Preferably the disgusting scumbag at the Vegas shelter.

“And yes, you were right that it was stupid and naïve of me to believe Mr. Grayson’s story,” my wife continues. Her words are weighted with resignation, but she keeps her shoulders straight, her gaze direct. “My gut told me it wasn’t the brightest idea to trust him, but…I ignored it.”

I stop and stare at Belle. What she’s saying is really sinking into me, and I feel like vomiting. Air saws in and out of my lungs, my chest hurts like hell and my throat aches with all the blistering things I want to say but can’t. They aren’t directed at her. No, they’re for me, because I’m such a superior asshole.

Belle’s hands are trembling, and she deposits the coffee cup on the table and drops her arms so I can’t see them anymore. “I hate remembering that period of my life. Every time I do, I can’t help but think of all the ways things could’ve gone wrong for two poor girls with no education, no friends, nothing. I know from experience how bad it can be for helpless girls…”

My gut tightens like it’s been punched. I push a fist against my mouth. I’ve never felt this searing level of hate and disgust, not even for Julian, not even for Annabelle Underhill. Underneath the rage, my heart is breaking for the girl my wife was a year ago.