There wasn’t a shred of fury in it.
Instead, it was tortured.
Slowly, Belle’s head tilted back and she looked at his face.
It was ravaged.
“Again and again,” Jack’s voice throbbed.
Her heart clutched.
“Jack –” she whispered.
“Again and again.”
“Jack, stop it.”
His hands retraced their path up her back, her shoulders, her neck to frame her face.
“Again and again,” he whispered.
Tears filled her eyes and spilled over. “Please, stop it.”
“I’ll kill him.”
“Jack, stop.”
“I’ll f**king kill him.”
“Jack, please.”
Jack’s neck bent, his forehead touched hers and Belle watched his eyes close as he murmured, “He hurt you.”
“It’s over,” she whispered.
His eyes opened but he didn’t lift his head even as both his thumbs slid along the wetness at her cheekbones.
“Your Dad thought I hurt you,” he said softly.
“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Belle assured him quietly. “They’re protective of me now.”
His head moved a scant inch away. “Why didn’t you tell me, poppet?”
She swallowed and admitted, “I didn’t want you to think badly of me.”
He shook his head and a humourless smile touched his mouth before he said, “You should have told me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said in a barely there voice then, frightened out of her mind but needing to know more than needing to give into her fear, she asked, “Are you angry with me?”
Jack didn’t answer.
His hands left her face and his arms closed around her so tight she lost her breath.
“Does that,” she wheezed over his shoulder, “mean you’re not angry?”
His mouth at her ear, he replied, “Yes, it f**king well does.”
Her body relaxed into his and her arms slid around his waist.