Then she said something.
“I’ll just… head to bed,” she told him.
He didn’t say a word.
She turned to the hall.
“Fifteen months,” Prentice said.
She turned back to Prentice.
“Pardon?” she asked.
“Fifteen months we were together and you didn’t say a f**king word. We spent every minute we could together when you were here and when you weren’t we spent every minute we could talking and you didn’t say a f**king word.” Isabella felt her heart start beating faster but Prentice wasn’t finished. “Did you give a f**k about me at all?”
Bile started climbing up her throat, she ignored it, clenched her hands in fists and simply replied, “Prentice.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You didn’t. If you did, you would have f**king shared your life with me. At least part of it. You didn’t share f**k all. I was in love with you, I asked you to marry me, for f**k’s sake, and I didn’t even know you.”
Her heart stopped beating faster and started slamming against her chest, her nails tore fiercely into her palms and her eyes flew to the stairs.
“Prentice, the children,” she warned.
“Tell me now,” he demanded.
Her eyes jerked to him and her heart stopped.
“What?” she breathed.
“All of it, Isabella. Tell me now.”
“But… why?” she stammered.
He leaned forward at the waist and clipped, “God damn it, tell me now.”
Isabella could take no more.
“Why?” she snapped, throwing her unclenched hand through the air. “What does it matter now?”
But he wasn’t paying attention to her. His eyes had followed her hand.
“Jesus,” he muttered, anger out of his voice, gaze still on her hand. “You’re bleeding.”
She quickly looked at her palm, saw he was right and closed her hand into a fist. As she did this, he advanced so he was close.
Very close.
She tipped her head back to look at him and declared, “It’s nothing.”
His head was bent toward her hand, his fingers closed on her wrist and he said, “Elle, you’re bleeding. Let me look.”
Isabella blinked, feeling the name only he used wash over her like she hadn’t had a bath in decades and that name was warm, clean water.
“Open your hand,” he ordered, his thumb insistently pressing on her fingers, he looked distractedly over his shoulder to the kitchen and asked, “Did you break a glass washing up?”
“It’s nothing,” she repeated.
His head came back around and he lifted her hand between them, thumb unrelenting, trying to open her closed fist.