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“I just got back a little while ago. And it was…complicated.” No one here knows much about my old life, aside from maybe Everett, who would have done my initial background check all those years ago. But I don’t plan on divulging anything else right now.
For now, I just need to get used to the idea of being married again.
I don’t know why I hang up without telling Wynter about Isla, especially because I think they would get along like a house on fire. None of the family will judge me for the age difference or even the reason we got married, seeing as Storm is twelve years older than Ayvah, Rayne is ten years older than Emerson, and Elijah literally kidnapped Snow and blackmailed her into walking down the aisle. But maybe I just don’t have the right words yet. And I’m not sure when I will.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ISLA
Istare at the bed as he leaves the room.
One bed.
I’ve never slept beside a man before. And the first will be my husband. The husband I didn’t choose or even have an opinion on.
Nausea rolls over me and tears gather in my eyes. This is a nightmare. I can’t think of any other way to describe it, and my eyes dart to the bathroom in case I need to make a run for it to empty the small amount of contents in my stomach.
I haven’t really eaten since Bree was almost taken by Spade’s goons, and for the first time I’m feeling the weakness from the lack of nutrition in my body.
I look over my shoulder the way Doc went and sigh. I guess this is my house now, maybe I could make us both something to eat.
Cooking is one of the only things that my mother taught me before Aunt Clarissa died, and it’s the only way I can feel close to her now that she’s almost unrecognizable.
I step to the doorway and pause when I hear Doc on the phone. Maybe I’ll just wait until he’s finished on his call so he doesn’t think I’m eavesdropping.
“I just got back a little while ago. And it was…complicated.” His tone is flat, no emotion at all in the words he’s spoken. About me. I’m a complication.
The tears I’ve forced down push their way to the surface, and I back into the bedroom toward the bathroom before he can come back.
I close the door quietly and turn the lock before sliding down the hardwood, curling my body into itself.
Hot tears fall against my cheeks until they’re coming in rough sobs that steal my breath.
I’ve never felt so helpless and so alone.
I’m not sure how much time passes before I can get myself together, but I splash water on my face and stare at myself in the mirror, determined not to let Doc see just how much his words hurt me.
They weren’t meant for me after all, and honestly, they’re not exactly news.
He didn’t plan for this any more than I did. We’ve both been thrust into a marriage we don’t want, and it’s unfair of me to expect him to be jumping for joy about it considering I’m far from doing the same.
And yet his words still burn as they make their way through my body. I’ve felt unwanted for so many years, and the fact that in my new life things will be no different…it breaks my already demolished heart just a little bit more.
I take a deep breath, hesitating for too many seconds before I finally open the door and meet a cold, empty room.
Did I really expect anything different? Did I think Doc, the cold-hearted man who was the reason my aunt was stolen away from me, would really give a fuck if I were upset?
I shake my head and wander out toward the living area, only to find him in the kitchen with a glass of scotch in front of him. It’s still full as he stares out at the city below.
Part of me wants to turn around and go back to the bathroom so as not to interrupt his thoughts, but I refuse to walk on eggshells in a home that is supposedly mine as well now. It’s not like we signed a prenup, so I guess technically half of it is.
“Can I get one of those?” I ask, my voice more broken than I had hoped.
He frowns. “You’re underage.”
I scoff and roll my eyes, moving farther into the room. “If I’m old enough to sign my life away, I’m old enough to have a drink.”
He watches me for a moment before he reaches up and pulls another tumbler from the cupboard above his head. He turns back to me and pours two fingers of whiskey and pushes it across the counter.
