"And then what? Where are you going to go once you get to the train station?"
"I'm going home."
"Home." The word came out flat and empty. Hollow. She made the mistake of looking at him. Her heart slammed into her chest at the pain she glimpsed in his eyes and she quickly squelched it, buried it under the flash of anger that seized her.
Pain? What right did he have to feel any pain?
But maybe she had only imagined it because he blinked and whatever she thought she saw in his eyes was gone, replaced by that cold distance she had noticed earlier.
"This is your home."
"No, it's not."
"We're married."
The laughter escaped her, the bitter sound dully echoing around the quiet room. His brows snapped low over his eyes and he straightened, pushed away from the doorframe.
"You think that's funny?"
No, she didn't. It wasn't funny at all. "The marriage isn't real and you know it."
"The hell it isn't. That marriage license in my room says it is."
"And that's not worth the paper it's printed on. It's a joke. It's always been a joke and we both know it." She took a deep breath, felt it catch in her chest.
Show no emotion. Disappear behind the wall.
God, she wanted to. Needed to—but it was hard. So damn hard, when the emotions were so close to the surface. The humiliation. The pain. The regret. The sickening realization that she had started to believe, just the tiniest bit, that something might be different this time. That there was the smallest chance that maybe, just maybe...
She shoved the faint glimmer of hope to the farthest recesses of her heart, watched as it flickered and died under the weight of reality. She took another deep breath and forced a smile she didn't feel to her face—but she couldn't quite meet Ben's gaze when she spoke.
"Don't worry, I won't ask for anything in the divorce. In a few weeks, it'll be over and nobody will even remember me. Then you can get on with your life and go back to your girlfriend—"
"She's not my girlfriend." He took a step toward her, ran one hand through his hair then dropped his arm to his side. "Is that what this is about? What happened back at the bar?"
"No. Of course not." The lie fell from her lips but the words were ruined by the tremor in her voice. She cleared her throat and stared at a spot over his shoulder. "I'd like to leave now, please."
"Can we at least talk first?"
"Why? You don't owe me any explanations—"
Ben closed the distance between them so fast that she took a hasty step back and collided with one of the suitcases. His hands closed around her shoulders and she flinched—not because his touch was painful, but because it was gentle. Not because his eyes flashed with anger, but because they glimmered with pain and desperation that took her breath away.
"She's not my girlfriend, Natalie."
"I said you didn't owe me—"
"Yeah, I do. You're my wife."
She opened her mouth, ready to tell him it didn't matter, that she wouldn't be his wife for much longer, but he kept talking.
"Her name is Stacey and yeah, we used to date. A long time ago."
"You did more than just date."
The muscle quivered in his clenched jaw but he didn't deny it. Should she be grateful for that much, at least? That he had enough sense not to lie about what had been so painfully obvious? Maybe...but the stinging pain she felt wasn't gratitude—it was jealousy. And how pathetic did that make her?
"It was a long time ago, Natalie. I haven't seen her in over a year and I sure as hell have no interest in picking up where we left off."
"It didn't look that way to me. From where I was standing, it looked like you were very interested." Damn her voice for breaking. Damn her for saying too much. And damn her for letting him see how much she had noticed and how much it had hurt.
"I should have walked away. Should have never stopped to talk to her." His gaze softened as he watched her, some unknown emotion flashing in the depths of his eyes and threatening to pull her in. Natalie lowered her gaze, her stomach clenching in surprise and despair and need when she caught sight of the wedding band circling the finger of his left hand.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, Natalie."
"I'm not—" The lie lodged in her throat, refusing to fall. She struggled to get the words out, to shield herself against his searching gaze. She didn't want him to know she'd been hurt by what she saw. It made her too vulnerable, too weak...and it would let him know she cared. That was the last thing she could let happen.
She cleared her throat and tried to step back. "I need to leave—"
"Don't go. Please."
Her head jerked up at the desperation in his voice. And oh God, what she saw in his eyes, for just that brief second when their gazes met, was enough to twist her heart. Pain. Regret. And worse...loneliness.
Much like her own.
She leaned toward him, didn't know why. To offer comfort? Maybe...but how foolish would that be? It would be no different than a sheep giving comfort to the wolf—right before the wolf devoured it.
Natalie caught herself at the last second, pulled her gaze from his and shook her head. "I have to—"
"Not yet. Not...not until we talk. After that, if you still want to leave, I'll take you. I'll help you find a place and pay for it—"
"I don't want your help."
He spoke right over her, his words coming faster, as if he was afraid she'd push past him and storm out before he could finish talking. "Someplace nice, so I won't worry about you. And if you decide you still want a divorce, I'll give it to you. With alimony. I won't fight you on it."
Natalie bristled at the words. Was that what he thought—that she wanted his money? That this was nothing more than some kind of play to get him to pay her? That she had turned Brandon into the police only so she could run her own con without him and keep the money for herself?
She started to brush his hands from her shoulders. To tell him she didn't want his money. That all she wanted—
No! No, she wouldn't allow herself to go there. Refused to allow the thought to completely form. That weak, little whisper in the back of her mind wasn't true. It couldn't be true.
And the hope of the little girl tucked away deep inside, the little girl who wanted only to be loved for herself, was nothing more than a mirage.
But she couldn't move fast enough, not when Ben gently grasped her chin and tilted her head back. She froze, wondering if he was going to kiss her.
Hoping he wouldn't.
Hoping he would.
He did neither. Instead of brushing his mouth against hers, he tilted her head toward the light streaming in from the hall. His dark brows lowered, forming an angry slash over eyes that glittered with sudden anger.
"Who hurt you?"
Chapter Nineteen
Who hurt you?
Ben regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth. It was an asinine question, one he didn't need the answer to because he already knew: he had been the one to hurt her. The sadness in her eyes, the pain and the hurt, were his fault. He'd seen the expression in her eyes back at Mystic's as soon as he turned around, could feel her strong emotion through the distance that separated them. The look of horror. Of disbelief and surprise.
Of betrayal.
And he'd seen the way those emotions had morphed, changing and twisting into something even worse: acceptance. Like she had expected him to run off with the first woman to approach him.
Like she deserved no less.
He had started after her only to be stopped by Stacey's grip on his tie. She had actually laughed, made a comment about the poor little girl who didn't understand how life really worked. Ben had stared down at her, disgust rolling through him.
Disgust at Stacey, for being the bitch she'd always been.
Disgust at himself, for not realizing it soon enough.
He'd pushed her away, held his hand up to show her the ring on his finger. "
That's my wife."
Stacey had stared at the band, anger and jealousy flashing in her blue eyes. Then a sly smile had parted her full lips and she leaned forward, traced the edge of his shirt with one long nail. "Too bad. It's obvious she doesn't know how to keep you happy or you wouldn't be here talking to me, would you?"
The words slammed into him, twisting his gut with the bitter realization of what he'd done. Of the way he'd placed his hand on Stacey's shoulder and how he had leaned closer to talk to her. How he'd just stood there when she toyed with his chest, not thinking anything of it. Then he thought of how it must have looked to Natalie, tried to imagine how it made her feel. Tried to imagine how he would feel if he stumbled upon Natalie doing what he'd just done.
Jealousy ripped through him, raw and overwhelming. He brushed Stacey's hand away and pushed through the crowd, desperate to find Natalie. To explain. To ask her forgiveness.
But she was already gone.
He stormed out of the bar, something like panic washing over him as he searched for her. She couldn't have gone far—she didn't have a car, had no way of getting anywhere except by walking. And it was too fucking cold for her to walk anywhere. Her coat was too light for the bitter chill and she didn't have gloves or a hat or even a scarf.
Zach was the one who had caught up to him, who grabbed his arm and stopped him from racing to his car like a crazed madman. Who reassured him that Haley had gone after Natalie, that he needed to calm the fuck down before he did something stupid.
Ben hadn't missed the censure in the other man's eyes, hadn't missed the wave of judgment that spilled over him, chilling him more than the cold air ever could.
Yes, he had hurt Natalie. She was still hurt, he could see that much in the depths of those sad, green eyes. But that wasn't what he meant when he asked who hurt her.
He reached down and grabbed her hand, needing to pull her into the light coming in from the hallway. The breath left her in a hiss and she tugged her hand from his, held it gingerly in front of her.
"Natalie, who hurt you?"
"I'm not—"
He didn't let her finish, just grabbed her hand and turned it palm-up. The skin was shredded and raw, congealed with dried blood and bits of dirt and debris. His eyes shot to hers and held her wary gaze for the space of several heartbeats before drifting once more to her cheeks. The smudges he had at first thought were shadows were dirt and dried blood. From her hand? Or from something else?
She again tried to pull her hand away. "I—I tripped. Earlier."
Earlier—when she had been running from him. Running from the hurt he had caused her.
Ben adjusted his grip on her wrist and tugged, felt her hesitate before she gave in and allowed him to lead her to the bathroom. Not the bathroom off the hall but the one in his room. The master bath.
He turned the light on, led her over to the long granite vanity and dropped her hand while he moved to the linen closet in search of the first aid kit he kept there. She was facing the large mirror, her face pale under the smudges of dirt and smeared blood and dried tears. Green eyes stared back from her reflection, wide with dismay and embarrassment. Her eyes drifted to the left, caught his in the mirror for a brief second before she looked away.
"I must have wiped my face..." Her voice trailed off, the unfinished sentence hanging between them. She didn't need to finish it, not when he knew what she was going to say: she had used her injured hand to wipe the tears from her face.
Tears that he had caused.
He sat the first aid kit on the counter and opened it, motioned for Natalie to sit on the upholstered stool behind her. That stupid, ridiculous stool the interior decorator had insisted on putting in here. The stool that had never been used before as anything other than a place to toss folded towels.
"I can take care of myself."
"I know." Yes, she could, but it didn't matter. Not to him. Not now. He needed to do this, to take care of her if only to clean away the evidence of the hurt he had caused her. "Just—sit. Please."
For an achingly long time, he thought she was going to refuse. Expected her to turn around and leave the room, to leave period, the way she said she wanted to. But she finally lowered herself to the stool, her back straight and her eyes averted.
He released a grateful sigh and gathered what he needed from the first aid kit: antiseptic wipes, some first aid spray, a few bandages. Then he ran a washcloth under warm water and wrung it out, leaned toward Natalie and gently wiped at the smudges of dirt and blood on her face.
She stiffened and pulled back. "You don't need to—"
"Yeah. I do." Did she hear the silent plea in his voice? See the selfish need to care for her in his eyes? Maybe. Or maybe she just thought it would be easier to let him do this, to get it over with so she could leave.
She nodded, just the slightest movement of her head. Some of the tension left him and he leaned forward once more, gently wiping the warm cloth over her face. Over the delicate bones of her cheek and line of her jaw. Over her temple and her feathered brows. Each swipe was gentle, each touch given with the greatest care. Her eyes drifted shut and some of the tension eased from her shoulders.
He rinsed the washcloth under hot water and wrung it out once more. She sighed when he placed the cloth over her face, the sound so soft he would have missed it if he hadn't been so close.
Tenderness welled deep inside him, the force of it so surprising that he nearly staggered back from the strength of it. After the way he had hurt her tonight, for her to sit here and allow him to tend to her, to take care of her after her repeated assurances that she could take care of herself...it must mean something, right? That she at least trusted him, if only a little?
He wanted to believe it, despite his knowledge that he didn't deserve that trust. That he didn't deserve anything she might offer him. But now that the possibility existed that he had it, he craved even more. He wanted her trust, more than he would have thought possible. Wanted her to lean on him, to depend on him and share everything with him. Not as someone who needed to be taken care of, but as an equal. A partner.
Because he wanted to depend on her and share everything with her, as well.
At any other time, he would have laughed at the idea, at the ridiculousness of it. Him, wanting to share himself with anyone? Impossible. He was a selfish, miserable bastard.
Except he hadn't been. Not this past month. Not with Natalie.
Not until tonight.
The heavy weight of guilt settled on his shoulders once more. He gave Natalie's face one last gentle swipe with the cloth then removed it. He took her injured right hand in his and gently wiped at the injured palm. Her body stiffened, a small hiss escaping her lips.
Ben's eyes darted to hers then quickly dropped back to her hand. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"
"I know. I just—I wasn't expecting it to hurt so much."
It was Ben's turn to stiffen. Was she talking about her hand—or about something else? He didn't dare ask her, not when he was afraid of the answer.
Not when he knew he was to blame...for both.
He tossed the washcloth into the sink then grabbed several of the antiseptic wipes from the counter. He tore one open then gave the others to Natalie to hold—
And noticed the bare spot on her finger where the wedding band used to be.
Fresh pain sliced across his chest and he quickly pushed it away, told himself that it didn't matter. It was just a piece of jewelry that meant absolutely nothing. Natalie herself had told him repeatedly that their marriage wasn't real. Why should he care if she took the ring off?
Her hand tensed in his for a split-second, long enough to let him know that she had, at the very least, noticed him looking, even if she didn't notice his reaction. Ben forced his mouth to curl in a quick smile then raised his gaze to hers.
"I guess you threw it out in the middle of Route 30, huh?"
Her eyes widened and she looked away, but not before he saw the embarrassment in her gaze. "No.
I—" She cleared her throat and shifted on the stool. "I was going to pawn it."
Ben watched her for a long minute, not quite knowing what to say. He turned back to her hand, gently cleaned it with a wipe, still not sure what to say. Pawning it was better than simply throwing it into the traffic, right?
Maybe.
No, probably not.
He finished cleaning her hand then sprayed some antibiotic ointment on the raw skin before taping a large bandage over it. Then he sat back on his heels and took her left hand in his. Turned it over and gently traced the spot on her finger where the band had been. With an impulse he didn't understand, he raised her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss against her finger.
"If you pawn it, don't let them cheat you out of a fair price. And don't let them tell you it's silver because it's not—it's platinum."
Her fingers tightened around his for a brief second. Ben refused to read anything into it, knowing the reaction was probably involuntary. But she didn't pull her hand away and for some reason, that gave him hope.
"You said you wanted to talk?" Her voice was quiet, nothing more than a whisper that echoed off the cold granite of the master bath. His gaze briefly met hers then dropped back to the bare finger he couldn't seem to stop touching.
"Yeah. You asked me why I married you. I, uh, I thought I'd finally tell you."
Chapter Twenty
"Did you ever meet my father?"
Natalie frowned, no doubt wondering what his father had to do with anything. Or maybe the frown was because they were still in the bathroom, which was an odd place to have any kind of conversation, least of all one like this.
Ben shifted, settled back more comfortably on his heels and ignored the bite of the cold tile against his knees. He threaded his fingers through Natalie's unmoving hand, needing that physical contact even though he couldn't bring himself to meet her curious gaze.
"You probably didn't. He wasn't around much even before Mom kicked him out. She finally got tired of his shit. Of him being so negative and bitter and miserable."
He looked up, finally met her gaze with a twisted smile. "I'm a lot like him."
Playing His Part: A York Bombers Hockey Romance (The York Bombers Book 7) Page 14