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‘Anyway. I kept waiting for things to calm down, for him to go back to “normal”, but that became the new normal.’
‘He beat you?’ The question is asked softly, but I hear it loud and clear, despite the background noise of the busy bar.
Another waitress appears, placing a platter down on the edge of the table. Neither of us look at her or it; I’m simply aware of it in the periphery of my vision.
‘Beat me? Yeah, I guess you could call it that. He controlled me. Manipulated me. Pulled my hair. Broke my wrist. Locked me in our bedroom for two days straight and refused to let me eat or drink anything.’ I lift my eyes to Noah’s face now, finding the whip of strength that compelled me—finally—to leave Aaron. The look on his face robs me of breath.
There is such understanding there. Such a look of empathy that I feel I am speaking to someone who understands. ‘I never thought that could happen to me. I’m strong and smart and I come from a close-knit family. They all adored Aaron. From the outside, we had the perfect life.’ I grimace. ‘Such a cliché.’
‘Fucking bastard,’ he says after a moment.
‘Yeah. Anyway, once I was pregnant, I knew I couldn’t take the risk any more. I’d let him treat me like a punchbag for years, but what if he did that to our baby? I’d tried to help him. I’m a therapist, for Christ’s sake, surely I should have known what to say or do...’
‘You can’t help some people,’ Noah says with authority, and I wonder if he’s speaking about himself or someone he knows.
‘I learned that lesson,’ I admit.
‘Do you ever see him?’
I shake my head. ‘I have a restraining order. Not that I need it. He’s in prison. A week after leaving me, he strangled a prostitute. Put her in a coma for six months.’ I swallow. ‘Attempted murder—fifteen years.’
‘Jesus.’ Noah doesn’t touch me and he doesn’t offer me platitudes, both of which I appreciate. I need to absorb the fact that I’ve just told someone my deepest secret. And that I’m still standing.
Well, sitting, technically.
He doesn’t say anything for a really long time and I wonder if I’ve spooked him. There’s a reason I usually keep this stuff to myself.
‘I don’t know why I told you that,’ I say, shaking my head so that my hair fluffs against my cheeks. ‘I don’t generally...’
He lifts a single finger to my lips, holding it there to silence me.
‘I asked.’
I swallow. I don’t know why but the simple explanation is somehow important.
His finger lifts higher, running over my cheek, and I instinctively blink my eyes shut as he moves his finger higher, to the ridge of my brow. To the scar that is roughly six years old.
‘His handiwork?’
I forget about the scar, most of the time. It is just a part of me now. One of the many bumps and indents that have formed on my body over time. Some from ageing, many from Aaron.
I nod slowly and Noah swears harshly under his breath. ‘I want to kill the fucker.’
A frisson of something like danger rolls over my spine because I don’t for a second doubt he means it. That he would—and could. His virile strength is a huge part of his appeal, but I want him to use that strength for pleasure, not pain.
As if sensing the surge of fear and adrenaline that rushes over me, he smiles, a smile that is sexy and charming and draws me back to the moment. I reach for my champagne and sip it, no longer self-conscious or nervous—no longer analysing the faults of my fate. I am simply surrendered to it.
‘Sometimes you sound very Australian.’
He arches a brow, reading my comment for what it is: a distraction.
‘I am Australian,’ he says dismissively and surprises me then by leaning forward and pressing a kiss to my eyebrow, to the scar that marks my flesh.
My heart turns over in my chest and my danger sensors flare.
With a sixth sense that perhaps my emotional health depends on it, I smile thickly and continue, ‘When did you move here?’
‘To London?’ He pulls back, reaching for his beer and sipping it before topping up my champagne. ‘About five years ago.’
