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“H-he said I didn’t smile enough, that his parishioners would start to wonder why he had taken such a miserable bitch as a wife. So, he gave me a little reminder to k-keep smiling.”
Now you’ll always remember to smile, won’t you, Cherry?
Charity gritted her teeth against the memory of Blaine’s refined voice. How he had enjoyed hurting her like that. He had straddled her chest and pinned her arm down, using his superior strength to keep her helpless and subdued. She had barely registered the agonizing pain, shock and adrenaline shielding her from the worst of it. But seeing it afterward; she shuddered at the recollection. In a marriage filled with degradation after degradation, somehow, this had felt like the worst of it. This brand had been exactly what he had wanted it to be. A mark of complete and utter ownership.
It had obliterated the last remnants of the old, carefree Charity. After that she had been Blaine’s creature. Humiliated and terrified of doing or saying the wrong thing. Of setting him off. Because his loss of temper and control had always been her fault. For so long, she had truly believed that. And his parents—his mother—had perpetuated that lie.
Blaine’s a good, kind man. You bring out the worst in him. Maybe if you’d stop making him so angry, Charity. If you were more aware of his needs.
“Hey,” Miles’s assertive voice forced its way into the unwelcome recollections, drowning out her former mother-in-law’s pseudo-sympathetic advice. His touch was gentle as he cupped her jaw and lifted her face until she met his eyes. “There you are. Don’t go back to that dark place, Charity. Okay?”
“You’re still naked.” It was the first thing she could think of to say, and he smiled. Not one of the warm, generous smiles she was borderline addicted to, but a polite parting of his lips.
She didn’t like it, but she appreciated the effort.
“And you’re still topless,” he pointed out.
She gasped and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Why don’t you grab a shower?” he suggested. “I’ll fix dinner tonight.”
“You will?” She couldn’t quite contain her skepticism and he smiled again. This time it was a warmer and more like the ones she was growing so dangerously dependent on.
“This I have to see.” It was a weak attempt at levity after the intensity of the last half hour, but his smile deepened.
“Wiseass. Prepare to be awed by my culinary prowess. And—” he stopped abruptly, and his eyes widened as he seemed to realize something. “Fuck, Stormy must be starving.”
He strode to the door and jerked it open to find Stormy sitting in the hallway. The dog got up, shook herself, and wagged her tail before trotting into the room and climbing into her basket. She turned a few times before snuggling down with a contented sigh. Miles watched her with some consternation on his face, apparently having expected more fanfare or fuss from the pup.
Charity smiled, the sight of the dog alleviating some of her anxiety and tension.
“I’ll grab that shower,” she mumbled, and left the room. She was already out in the hallway when his voice stopped her.
“Charity?” She still loved the sound of her name on his lips. She smiled quizzically, wondering why he had halted her progress. But he didn’t return the smile. Instead, he stared at her with an intensity that should have unsettled her.
But didn’t.
“Yes?”
“You’re a strong and capable woman and more than able to physically kick my arse any fucking time you damned well please,” he said, his words concise, and his voice no-nonsense. “But I will never, ever, give you any cause to defend yourself against me.”
She gulped, and her eyes flooded at the unexpectedness of the vow.
“I know that, Miles,” she whispered, unable to control the wobble in her voice. “I know that. But…it’s still good to hear it.”
Charity was busy repinning her hair when her phone buzzed. She dropped her arms in frustration, allowing the mass of hair to tumble down again and reached for the phone, expecting to find a message from Faith.
Meet me in the den. Dress comfortably. Mrs. Cole’s services not required. Leave her behind.
She grinned, feeling like a teenager preparing for her first date. It was unbelievable how much their relationship had altered in the last twenty-four hours.
The last text exchange between them just above this newest message, dated a year and a half ago, was ample testament to that change:
Dinner for eight tonight. Formal. 6 pm.
Very well, sir. Any special dietary requirements?
None.
