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“How dare you,” I spit in his face, too angry to say any of the other shit that’s going through my head because disgust swells in my throat and makes it impossible for me to get any words out coherently.
“Christopher!” Arabella tries to pry my hands from the collar of his shirt.
“How dare you use our child to hurt her. How fucking dare you…”
“Christopher!”
I give her what she wants, because I need her to tell me what I want to know. Seems like a fair trade of sorts.
His fucking neck for the motherfucking truth. But that’s not to say that it’ll stay this way.
“Fine.” Letting go of Benedict, I push him down onto one of the sofas. From the scowl on his face as he fixes his collar, tugging on the cuffs of his shirt to straighten himself out, it’s obvious he wants to retaliate.
He won’t though. Temper is a distasteful thing to Benedict Gladstone. He prefers cool aloofness and a good grind of teeth, but I don’t plan on dentures until I’m well and truly old. So I’d rather show who I am. Because if you’re going to fuck with me, you need to know I’m not going to spread my hands and take it like a fucking imbecile. Or worse, a motherfucking doormat.
It’s not me. We both know it, and he hates it.
“He doesn’t leave.” I point the order at Murphy without deviating my gaze from Benedict.
Murphy moves to the suite door, shutting it before he situates himself in front of it, facing the suite, his eyes firmly on my father-in-law with a scowl that makes his distaste for him well and truly known.
I don’t have to say anything when I start for the bedroom. Arabella follows behind me quietly. The way her silent footsteps follow me, it feels like I’m the one who was just chastising her for something she didn’t do. I feel like the cunt that was preying on her emotional vulnerability.
Fuck, I should’ve done more than crease his collar.
The bed is still unmade and the curtains drawn. The steam coming from the bathroom is so thick that it makes it difficult to breathe with the humid heat. It’s like a motherfucking steam room in here, and I’m already feeling on edge, so the uncomfortable heat…
“Shit! I completely forgot about the shower.” Running past me as I hold the door for her, she heads straight into the bathroom.
Closing the door, I follow her, and as she shuts off the water, I open the windows to let some of the fog out.
It’s only then I actually realise that she’s still wearing the shirt from last night. Her short hair is a tangled mess around her jaw. The shorter layers framing her face are frizzy with the humidity in the air, and despite all my anger, all I can think is how fucking gorgeous she looks.
For once she looks her twenty-seven years, younger actually. Without all the make-up, a soft heated blush filters through her olive skin. Her curls are beginning to coil through her short lengths, and as she sits on the toilet, all I can think is how much I want to hold her.
It seems like a silly task, but I go about pouring her another bath, like the one from last night. One she might actually enjoy while I take care of the situation I walked into.
“What are you doing?” she asks as I pour some of the bath shit the hotel has lying around.
“Making you a bath.” I’m not exactly an expert on this pampering stuff, but I figure if there are bubbles it’s all good. “I’m taking care of my wife, because she’s clearl
y been neglected, and she needs to understand that she is important. And loved.”
“You don’t need to do that.” She nods at the bath.
Sitting on the edge, I focus on her and all the things I feel for her. Love, hate, disappointment, awe, guilt…so many feelings. Good and bad and ugly, they all culminate to one thing—adoration. This woman is my religion.
I would go to war for Arabella. I would nuke this goddamn fucking world for her.
“I do,” I tell her as she continues to watch me. “It’s the only thing that’s stopping me from going out there and killing your dad. He’s wrong. I’m not going anywhere.”
Any other time, I would’ve undressed her and helped her into the bath, but whatever’s happened today has left her open and raw. She might not be crying, but she has that lost look on her face.
Closing off the tap, I turn my back to her. “Get naked and get in.”
The shuffle of her undressing and then the sloshing of the water as she follows my instruction tells me when it’s okay for me to turn back to her.
Her shoulders only just rise out of the bubbles, and the way in which she keeps brushing at her hair tells me how restless she is.
