Page 35 of The Boxer’s Belle

“So you want me to stay?”

She ignored the instinctive jolt her heart gave. In her most imperious tone, she explained, “I want you to do as I’ve asked. If you can achieve those things from London—by all means.”

Instead of the too-knowing look she expected, something different, softer, washed over his features. “I can do that.”

A wave of relief lapped at her chest—washing away the panic. That tension that had appeared entirely without her permission—now set free by… No!

Her heart clenched. Not again. She could not possibly survive it again. Why did this man have such a hold over her? Why did her body respond to his words and his… Him?

She cleared her throat. “See that you do,” she ordered before spinning on her heels, ignoring the chuckle that followed her retreat—and the answering warmth in her chest.

With far too much effort, she maintained a steady pace until she was certain he could no longer see her. Then her feet carried her away—instinctively making their way through the familiar copse of trees.

The wooded area was long overgrown with tricky roots and vines. But she knew it the way she knew the letters of her own name. Even now, it took little thought to navigate the path.

The dower house was the only ruin on the Blackwood property that could not name her father responsible. Bella could not name its last occupant, but age and neglect had reclaimed the property long before she’d found it.

Ignoring the inches of mud claiming her hem, she set foot into the clearing with a gasp.

She hadn’t seen the house—hadn’t even thought of it in years. Small and claimed by vines, the stones were caked with decades of filth, but the sight still made her breath catch.

Because just there, on that patch of grass just beneath the hawthorn tree, West—fresh off his first win in the ring and shuffling his feet in the mire—had presented her with a carved silver hairpin dagger. In that moment, she’d fallen just a little bit in love with him. She’d fallen the rest of the way in the weeks that followed. When, day after day, she’d practiced pulling it free from her hair, then slashed and stabbed at him as he played at villainy, and he met her with laughter and a biting wit.

Her heart had fluttered each time he approached her here, forgotten by the real world. But even then, she hadn’t dared to dream of anything more—anything real—between them.

Her position as lady of the house afforded her more choices than some women—particularly at a young age. But those were false choices—couched under the weight of her father’s expectations and financial ruin. Bella had made precisely two choices of consequence in her life—the night she offered herself to West in the stables and the day she wrote to Ben of Father’s plan to hurt Eliza, all those months ago.

The second, she had little cause to regret. The first… Much as she wished to, she’d never regretted that either. She could not say the same about the morning that came after.

She plopped down on the little hillside—just out of the muck—and gathered a butter-yellow sprig of toadflax between her fingers. The blue-green, stringy leaves were familiar in her hand, the faint, sweet scent a comfort.

Just once—a few weeks before the night her father had offered her to Draycott—while she had still retained the privilege of naivete, she and West had sat just here. And he’d woven together the stems of several blooms, forming a surprisingly adept floral crown that he’d plopped on her head with grand ceremony.

When it flopped to one side, he’d straightened it with an “I have you.”—the first. Those eyes, clearer than the sky and filled with something even Bella’s cynical heart knew as nothing but love, had stolen her heart. The mutinous organ had clenched and refused to release—beating only the letters of his name.

Precisely the same way it had just moments before, and every other time he’d said those words. Because impossibly desperately, she wanted to believe him. She wanted more than anything to allow herself to fall and trust that he would catch her—that he could love her.

CHAPTER 9

West’s fists ached in the familiar way that came only from thoughts too loud for the heavy bag to quiet.

The usual release, fulfilment, eluded him. It had happened more frequently in the months since Bella’s attack. His fists could no longer keep the memories at bay. The days all seemed so meaningless—the next fight, the next purse—in the face of what he could have lost.

Bella.

Bella, whose hand he’d held for nearly a quarter of an hour as he waited breathlessly for her eyelashes to flutter open.

Draycott’s second attack had shaken West to his core. He was no stranger to head wounds—he knew full well the possible consequences. And for those eternal moments, he’d had to wonder if his Bella would ever wake—ever insult him again.

They’d been dancing closer to each other in the days that preceded the masquerade. She’d come to him for protection when Draycott had arrived in town. And he’d hoped… But when it mattered, truly mattered, she went after the villain on her own. Because she didn’t—couldn’t—trust West. And it had nearly cost him everything.

During the days of her recovery, he had longed to crawl inside her skin. It was the only way to keep her safe—from everyone but himself. When Ben had returned with the news that his father was dead, West had done the honorable thing. Bella was safe, and healing, and finally free from the crushing threat of Ambrose Sinclair—free to live, for the very first time.

So he’d stepped away.

He’d let her go and every day after was a monotonous, colorless waste.

But West was a selfish letch and couldn’t resist when Benedict offered him a vibrant, varied, Bella-filled world.