Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,23

shake my head slowly, remembering that surreal night—well, early morning. “It was about two a.m. She woke everyone up, including the newly hired housekeeping staff—whom she immediately accused of stealing the pills for themselves. When Prim pointed out that both women were already grandmothers and had no need for prenatal vitamins, Lily swung the accusation her way.”

“Oh, my.” A burst of air leaves Ella, as if she’s been holding it in on my account. Her gaze probes across my face. “What did Prim do? What did you do?”

“The only thing we could. Made her some hot cocoa, rubbed her feet…somehow got her calmed enough to fall asleep. Then we compared notes—and weren’t surprised to learn we shared the same suspicion.”

Everything about her goes still. “That Lily’s vitamins were not really vitamins.”

“Yeah.” I grimace. Hard. It’s the first time in at least three years that I’ve heard it put into words, and it feels like running full-speed onto a splintered lance. “But we still couldn’t be sure. Those suspicions felt like more than suspicions—but accusing my pregnant wife of disguising her designer drugs as prenatal vitamins…” I drag a hand through my hair. “I’m a driven man, especially when it comes to finding the truth, but…”

But what?

The words hang in the air, unspoken but damning. Just like their answer.

But even I draw the line between being a bastard and an asshole.

No. That’s not it. I’ve had no trouble embracing my inner asshole since I was a kid—on the day Damon decided to embrace his.

“This time, I wasn’t ready for the truth.”

Yeah. There it is.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“And was it?” And dammit, why does her voice have to be the silk in this filth, towing despite the quicksand calling as a perfect escape? “The truth?” she persists. “Was that what was happening? What Lily was really doing?”

I should nod. Get it over with—slog through this sludge, face the crap on the other side—but my neck is too busy helping my spine stay straight. “Prim and I compared notes, confirmed our instincts matched—but neither of us had the stomach for the dirty work, so I found someone. Hired him to keep tabs on Lily for a week.”

“‘Tabs’.” Her eyes bug a little. “You mean to follow her? Everywhere?”

I nod. “Interesting fellow…by the name of Conchobar Hodgkins.”

Her gaze jumps wider. “Hodge?” Resettles at once, as the logic takes hold. Though he’s now one of the steadiest fixtures in my life, I know virtually nothing about his before he arrived that day. Probably a good thing.

Looks like the same thought hits Ella before she presses, “So what did he find out?”

My hand tightens into hers. “That our intuitions were all correct.”

“By the powers.” Her free hand, threading into my hair, shakes almost as hard as her whisper. “But…why? How could she have—”

“Endangered her life, as well as that of our unborn child?” I shirk from her touch. It feels too good, and I have no fucking right to feel good right now. “Because that wasn’t how she saw it.” I rise. Turn around. Order myself to peer at every jagged edge jutting from the window frame—to let it gouge me open, along with everything I’ve confessed—to finally let in the pain too. Doesn’t work. My psyche clings to the safety of distance. “Her depression sucked the control from her,” I grate. “And the only times she ever was in control were when she drank.”

“And when you took the liquor away—”

“She turned to something else.”

“Oh, Cassian.” It’s rough with emotion as she gains her feet too—though feels my need for distance, and keeps hers. “What…did you do next?”

“At first? Nothing.” My shoulders drop. “Not the best choice, I know…but I was tired, Ella. So fucking tired of it all. The rehab she ran from. The chemicals she ran to. The secrets she kept. The lies she told.” Another step closer to the window…as another confession burns at my lips. The most hideous one of all. “I spent a few days just wallowing. Wondering if her ‘love’ for me was just another one of those lies. If she’d ever meant, even remembered, any feeling she’d professed for me. If our child and I were even worth fighting for.”

Rasped words in Arcadian from the woman behind me—sounding like a prayer—before she murmurs, “And you confronted her with all that?”

“Damn straight.” I don’t rein any of my growl back. Replaying the story has brought all the ugliness back, but crossing the mire is my only hope of ever reaching the other side.