And now Beau knew. I’d been lying to him. Beau was big about honor. It was one of the things I liked most about him. Loved about him.
He’d take that knowledge as a final, concrete reason to push me away. Because I was a liar. Because I was connected to this … person who didn’t even deserve to be standing on Beau’s stoop, let alone breathing his air.
I should’ve spoken up then. Should’ve said I was anestrangedwife. Areluctantwife. One who desperately wanted to be anex-wife. But I felt small, cold, and my arm was starting to throb. I already knew it would bruise. I made a promise to myself in that moment that it would be the last bruise Waylon would ever give me.
“No, you cannot do whatever you’d like to a woman, whether she’s your wife or not.” Beau’s voice was shaking with a rage I’d never heard in my life. “And if you don’t get your hand off her and your ass off my porch in the next five seconds, I’ll be exercising the rights I have as a homeowner against a trespasser on my property.”
Beau’s voice raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I’d never heard him speak like that before. Had never seen him looklike that. So menacing. Dangerous. His words were not a threat. They were a promise of violence, seconds away.
Waylon—asshole that he was—deduced—rightly so—that their size difference and general stature meant that he wouldn’t win any kind of fair fight he had with Beau.
He scowled at me, squeezing hard enough for me to let out a mew of pain before letting me go with a push, causing me to go tumbling back into Beau’s firm, warm body.
When Beau caught me, holding me close to him, my body instantly relaxed. My jaw relaxed, my heartbeat calmed. His arms only released me to drape a large coat over my freezing shoulders before positioning me at his side, slightly behind him.
“She’s a crazy bitch,” Waylon spat, looking me up and down with a sneer. “You’ll be roped in by the tits, the lips. But she’ll ruin your fucking life.”
Beau’s body became a statue, his arms holding me in place. “Your five seconds are up.”
Waylon snarled before turning and walking to his beat-up pickup idling at the curb.
Though I felt physically safe, the panic coursing through my veins made black spots dance in my vision. I tried to reason with reality, over what had just happened. Waylon was here. In the place I’d found true happiness—with some complications—and he just shat all over it. Ensured that this place would always be tainted by his presence.
Beau walked us back inside, quietly closing the door.
I stared at it, my heart hammering in panic, my eyes prickling with tears. Then I darted my gaze around in horror.
“Where’s Clara?” I was suddenly appalled at the thought of her having heard some or any of that. Clara wasn’t cognizant of the kinds of horrible people who existed in the world.
She understood how cruel fate could be and had ample experience with it. But everyone she’d been exposed to in her short life had been kind, loving.
I didn’t want to be the one responsible for tarnishing that outlook. For bursting the wonderful bubble of love she existed within.
“In her room, headphones on, listening to an audiobook,” Beau murmured, eyes intent on me.
I closed my own in relief, but still shame coated me like oil, aware that Beau had heard enough to direct Clara to her room. He’d heard Waylon call me his wife. He’d seen Waylon in all his glory, realizing that I was a woman who agreed to marry a man like that.
“I’m not crazy,” I blurted, overwhelmed by all the things there was to say right then. All the things I wanted to say.
He searched my face, probing it with a gentleness I hadn’t thought Beau capable of.
“I’ve learned two things. Never believe a man when he says a woman is crazy, and always believe a woman when she says a man is dangerous.”
“I didn’t say he was dangerous.” I tilted my head in confusion. The last thing Beau needed to know about Waylon was his past. But then again, he now knew where I lived.
The intense way Beau peered at me pinned me to the spot. “You didn’t need to.” Slowly and pointedly, he pulled the jacket—his jacket—from my shoulders, exposing my arms.
He looked furious, lips a flat line as he focused on the red, throbbing spot on my upper arm.
“He do that often, Hannah?” he asked quietly. “Did he mark you often? Bruise you?”
The menace threaded through those soft words sent chills down my spine. Beau was standing too still. I knew Beau wouldnever hurt me in a million years, knew his fury was directed toward Waylon, but I couldn’t help but be filled with shame.
I opened my mouth to lie. Then to tell the truth. Which was worse? Which would hurt less?
A knock on the door had me jumping. I cursed myself for looking so skittish. So fragile. So in need of rescuing with no hero to be found.
“Don’t move.” Beau’s eyes slid to the door, his voice harsh and authoritative yet comforting.
