His brow furrows and he stares at me for a moment.
I remain quiet, having said all I have to say. It strikes me as perhaps a little sick that even though I’m raw and aching, even though I’m vulnerable as hell and he could strike me down with a single well-placed word right now… at least I have his attention.
His hot, intense gaze never leaves my face, like he’s trying to burn through my physical layers and see inside my mind, to search it for anything I might have done wrong since I won’t open my stupid mouth and tell him.
Finally, after searching fruitlessly for answers I won’t give, he reaches for me. My heart thuds against my chest as his fingers clamp around my bicep, then he gets a better hold on me and tugs me across the bed until I’m fitted snugly against his side, right where I’m supposed to be.
“I don’t hate you, Alyssa,” he says softly.
Curling my arm around his waist and looking up at him, I ask, “Not even a little bit?”
“Not at all,” he promises.
I can finally breathe again, hearing that. I know it doesn’t change anything about how we’ve been since he caught me in the barn with Theo, but it makes me feel better nevertheless.
“Good. I don’t ever want you to hate me,” I tell him, snuggling closer.
Brant tightens his strong arm around me, pulling me against his chest and kissing the crown of my head.
He doesn’t say a word, though.
He doesn’t offer a single promise that he’ll never do that.
25
Alyssa
They say your wedding day is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, but I don’t think a shotgun wedding like mine was quite what they had in mind.
When Brant first commanded our engagement, it didn’t feel like one. For one thing, he was both the groom and the man holding the shotgun, and how does that even work? It was no overprotective, old-fashioned male relative of mine forcing Brant down the aisle; it was Brant himself.
The problem is, as vehemently as I rejected her proffered words of wisdom at the time, I think Bri might be right—I don’t think Brant trusts me, I’m not sure he likes me anymore, and I am quite sure he no longer wants to marry me.
Bleak thoughts to be having as the near-stranger who is supposed to be my future sister-in-law curls my hair and tugs it into a perfect up-do for my walk down the aisle. Obliviously, she talks my ear off about how she never thought her loner brother would tie the knot with anybody, and how I must really be something special.
I met Brant’s other sister at the Fourth of July party when he introduced me as his fiancée, but she was already knee-deep in wine coolers by that point.
Today, everyone’s focus is on me, and I hate it. I especially hate it because I’m absolutely miserable, and I can tell by the strange looks people keep giving me that they’re noticing.
Today was supposed to be wonderful and romantic. For weeks I’ve daydreamed about how today would go, and never once was it anything like this.
When I woke up this morning, Brant was already gone from our bed. Not so unusual since he’s an early riser and I’m not, but I had hoped for some pre-wedding cuddles to ease my jitters—especially because avoiding me and freezing me out seem to be his favorite hobbies these days.
I thought for sure the dark cloud would pass and we would snap back to how we were before that day in the barn, but Brant isn’t bouncing back.
Bri was right. I was wrong. I should have known that. She’s known him for a hell of a lot longer than I have.
Thinking about how miserably lonely Brant can make me with very little effort, a cold wave of fear washes over me. It’s not fear of any physical harm he would ever inflict on me, but a more sinister kind of harm he could inflict a little at a time. Less noticeable, but every bit as soul-crushing.
He’s given me a sneak peek of it lately, and I haven’t even formally committed myself to him yet. Maybe he’s doing it on purpose. Maybe he’s trying to scare me off. Maybe he doesn’t want to marry me anymore and he’s just too goddamn honorable to say so.
“It’s about that time,” Brant’s bubbly sister, Crista, sing-songs, walking around the chair and smiling at me. “You look so pretty.”
I don’t feel pretty. I force a smile anyway, not wanting her to think I don’t appreciate her efforts. I know on a superficial level, I do look the part of a pretty, blushing bride, but I don’t feel like one, and that’s what matters.
“Thank you,” I tell her, lowering my gaze as I sit forward and climb out of my chair.