She definitely wasn’t going to open that door and show him just how bad things really were. How badshereally was. What if she lost his interest, or his esteem lowered?
She’d rather him think her a rude, moody curmudgeon than to know her body was broken and she was lying here, helpless as a baby, unable to do the simplest of tasks.
Hiding the truth was always better. Never show weakness.Never. It had been her mantra for as long as she could remember. Long before Bean or becoming a Wynchester. This was nothing new. Elizabeth had learned to grit her teeth and hide before she was three feet tall. Maybe younger.
It was difficult to remember those days. Or rather, she’d tried so determinedly to forget them, to refuse to succumb to the memories, that it was all now a blur of pain and tears and the sharp crack of the back of a hand.
I don’t see anything wrong with you. You’re lying. I’ll give you something to cry about.
And then, when they finallyhadbelieved her… That day had been so much worse.
She shook her head to clear it. Concentrate on the ceiling. That was safer. Make your mind cold and gray and blank, just like the slabs of stone all around you. Don’t think about the past. Don’t think about the pain. Worry about your stretches. You know they help. Try it again. You can do this.
Horse hooves thundered outside the castle. Her head pounded along with it.
She turned her head toward the window, then squeezed her eyes shut. Reddington. Six days sooner than agreed. He was relentless.
And she couldn’t do a bloody thing about it.
Wetness coursed down her cheek. She really had let everyone down. Sweet Miss Oak and all the children who could have been living in comfort right now, if Elizabeth could get off her arse and find the will. She’d even abandoned Stephen, who had no experience at all with duels or defending himself against an army of Crumps.
In short, she was ruining everything for everyone. Reddington would win. And it would be all Elizabeth’s fault.
Loud knocks banged at her door. Each strike caused her splitting head to blare with pounding pain.
“Go away,” she whispered, her jaw clenched tight. She wished she’d had a chance to finish her new book on war strategies. A good offense could help in moments like this.
The pounding grew louder.
“Elizabeth?” came Stephen’s voice. “Answer me!”
“Go away,” she gasped, then rallied her strength to say it loud enough for her voice to carry. “Go away!”
A key turned in the lock and the door flew open.
Stephen burst into the room in obvious panic, face pale, eyes wild. “Elizabeth! What happened?”
She struggled up onto her elbows, and earned a horrific muscle spasm for her labor.
“Get out!” she screamed. “I didn’t invite you in! This is a gross invasion of privacy.”
“Are you injured?” He ran to her bedside and began patting her body, each touch setting off new paroxysms of excruciating agony.
“Go. Away.” Her vision blurred, half from pain, and half from involuntary tears caused by him witnessing her fragility like this. “You’re hurting me.”
“But what’s wrong with you?” he asked plaintively, clearly at a loss.
What’s wrong with you?
Wrong with you.
Wrong.
Her body occasionally failed her. Yes. No sense denying the obvious. But she didn’t want to bedefinedby her disability. Forherto be the problem, rather than the flare-up. For Stephen to stop looking at her like a goddess and treat her like an invalid. For eyes that had heated with sexual intent to fill instead with pity.
Just like he was doing now.
23
