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A tear slipped silently down Isabel’s cheek, and I brushed it away with the pad of my thumb. “I’ve been so scared,” she whispered. “And lonely. I thought I was going to lose all of you.”
“You could never lose me,” I promised. Gently, gingerly, cautious of my abused ribs, I pulled her toward me for the kiss I had been desperate for since the moment she walked into my hospital room. I felt her sigh of contentment as she melted against me, and I cursed my body for being too weak to take her right there. I wanted her so badly I ached with it, but such matters would have to wait. For now, I would have to content myself with her body in my arms, her soft lips against mine.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing heavily. “I really should call for a doctor now,” Isabel said, blushing furiously. “Someone needs to check on you.”
I rolled my eyes, but allowed her to page for a doctor, who told me nothing I hadn’t already gathered. It would be a long road to recovery, but now that I had woken up, signs were good that I would recover fully. Isabel’s eyes shone with relief when he left.
“There,” I said. “Didn’t I say I’d be fine?”
Isabel nodded, chin trembling. “I would like to show you something,” she said, suddenly shy. “I don’t know if you’re going to like it.”
“There’s nothing about you I couldn’t like,” I assured her.
Isabel smiled, but her eyes were troubled. She retrieved her laptop from her bag and hugged it close to her chest. “I’ve been writing while I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,” she said. “About you.”
“Well, that’s what you came to the castle to do,” I said, bemused. “To write an article about me, right?”
Isabel shook her head. “This is longer. A book, I think. And I don’t know… Well. I’d like you to read what I have so far, before I continue.”
I took the laptop from her, hands trembling, and began to read.
On first impression, Jacques Martin is a formidable man. Standing at roughly six foot, six inches tall, it’s easy to see how he got his stage name, “The Beast.” But behind that carefully constructed tough-guy persona is a man who has been through hell and back.
I looked up. Isabel had a book in her hands, which she clearly wasn’t reading. “Isabel,” I began, but she cut me off.
“Don’t tell me what you think,” she said. “Not until you finish it.” I kept reading.
I was stunned. Isabel told a story I barely recognized as my own, of a young boy who had been abandoned and betrayed by those who were supposed to love him, who nonetheless forged his own path and created a life he could be proud of. When I reached the point I’d been dreading, that terrible night with Agatha, I found that she’d framed it not as a failure, a fall from grace, but the trauma of the boy’s past finally catching up to him, the moment when he realized he needed the help of those who loved him.
There is no doubt that The Beast has fought many impressive battles in the ring, but the greatest battle of his life has been fought outside it. This is the battle that is still ongoing: the fight to see himself not as irreparably broken, but as a complete man worthy of love. To see that, one only needs to see the intense loyalty of those around him, six men who would do anything to help the man who is as close to them as any brother. With their help, The Beast may someday see that he is the man they know him to be.
I looked up, speechless. Isabel had completely dropped the pretense of reading her book and was watching me closely. “I know you didn’t want me to share anything too personal…” she started. I shook my head, cutting her off.
“It’s... ” I was at a loss for words. “Is this really how you see me?”
“Of course it is,” Isabel said simply.
I set the laptop aside gently. “Come here,” I said, opening my arms to her, and Isabel melted into me once again.
26
Isabel
Jacques was finally out of the woods, but it was still about a week before his doctors were satisfied enough to discharge him from the hospital.
I spent every moment of visiting hours by his side, until the nurses kicked me out each night, smiling knowingly. In the evenings, I sat at the kitchen table at home and worked on my book, buoyed by Jacques’ unexpected approval.
My father puttered around me, sometimes talking, sometimes not. It was good; he was almost his old self again. My siblings had made themselves fairly scarce since his return home.
Likely, they were feeling guilty for having our elderly father placed in a psychiatric hold and sending my murderous ex-husband after me. As far as I was concerned, they could stay away forever.
