Page 26 of The Boxer’s Belle

But a worn hand found the handle before hers.

“I have you—it. I have it.” West’s cheeks bore an unusual flush. His eyes glinted oddly in the sunlight.

Bella was asleep. She knew that. She was no longer the girl of eight and ten cowering before the vile man in front of her. The navy settee in this sitting room was now little more than ash.

But her heart still pounded in her throat as she watched Peregrin Draycott’s hand caress her cheek. His thick moustache twitched as he leaned in closer to her. Her hair was half loose, escaping its ribbon and falling around her shoulders.

Even so, her trembling hand snuck up, fumbling for the hairpin that wasn’t there.

“No!”

Draycott stepped in closer, his boot brushing against her bare feet as bile rose into her throat.

Her fingers found not a knife, but a useless chrysanthemum. She stared at it, willing it to become something helpful, practical, anything that might protect her.

“Looking for this?” he asked, drawing her gaze to the glinting silver pin flashing in his grasp. Too-smooth hands drew hers around the handle, tightening his fist around them as he brought their joined hands to his chest.

Together, they plunged the knife into his heart. It slid in easily before pulling free. His cruel laugh surrounded her, a blanket cocooning her in horror.

“I have you. I live in here now, Bella,” he confided, his lips brushing hers—the scent of stale liquor filling her mouth—as he turned the knife in their joined hands and plunged it into her heart.

She shot up with a gasp, hand pressed to her chest.

The door flung open with a clang. Bella jolted again. But her body melted into West’s frame, somehow crowding her before her head recognized him.

Her breath came in harsh pants against his neck. Warm arms held her tight, clutching her to him. His concentrated cedar scent soothed her racing heart.

“Bella,” he whispered—perhaps had done so a few times, inaudible over the pounding of her heart.

West tugged her away from his chest, strong, calloused hands cupping her cheeks in a tender gesture—entirely the opposite of the phantom sensation of Draycott’s hands on her. It took her a moment to recognize that he was brushing away tears with both thumbs.

“Bella,” he repeated, shaking his head before pulling her back against his bare chest. One arm banded about her waist, the fire of his body branded her. West tucked his head in tighter and pressed a kiss to her temple—the one scarred from her second encounter with Draycott.

Someone was trembling, and she wasn’t entirely certain it was her. Or maybe it was both of them.

Tender hands ran along the back of her head, stroking the way one might soothe a frightened dog—she couldn’t even bring herself to be irritated about that.

He pulled her free from his warmth again. His hardened hands found the back of her neck and jaw. Midnight eyes claimed hers.

“You’re safe with me. No one will hurt you, Belle. I have you.”

I have you. A wave of dizziness threatened to overtake her, the words swirling in a wretched tide, threatening to swamp her, drown her.

Ice flooded her veins, and she scrambled back with another gasp.

West wouldn’t pull her from the undertow. He’d nearly drowned her once before. There was nothing to stop him from doing it again.

“Get out,” she hissed.

“What?” A pathetic, devastated note accompanied the question.

“Get out. Get out of my room.”

He stumbled from the bed and to his feet, eyes despondent. “Bella, I wasn’t⁠—”

“Get out, Weston.”

His wide, proud frame crumpled in on itself. He looked small, young in a way he hadn’t in years. Perhaps not since that morning.