Strike ( Book 4: Stronger Series )

39. Real

Breakfast was fucking awkward ... at least it felt that way for me. Not so much for Darren. I was sitting across a small round table from him just outside a quiet café, nursing a headache from hell and failing to finish my half-eaten breakfast. Darren was currently sporting some bruising between both eyes, a busted swollen lip, an angry cut healing along his jaw, and the most satisfied grin I'd ever seen. He sipped his espresso like he hadn't a care in the world as he leaned back in his chair and watched the busy streets of Rome.

I'd never seen him so happy. Not even on our wedding day. It was ... disturbing.

When I'd woken up this morning, my arms and shoulders had been covered in bandages from last night's fuck fest over the glass covered floor. Darren must have cleaned me up and dressed my wounds while I was asleep. When I finally assessed myself in the mirror, I looked just as bad as he did minus the off grin. Some leftover makeup had smeared around my eyes, which were red and puffy, my hair was a goddamn disaster, my wrists and throat looked like an animal had attacked them, and the rest of my skin resembled a week-old banana. I looked like a demonic Raggedy Ann doll come to life.

I removed the bandages after a scalding bath that nearly cleansed my soul. The cuts were a little sore and red, but they weren't very deep and likely wouldn't scar. Although a sleeve of scars to match my wolf bite wouldn't be so bad. At some point, there wouldn't be enough room for the scars on the inside. The new ones would have to go somewhere else.

Apparently, Darren didn't even care about the damage to the suite. Clive and Owen mentioned it had cost him over $100,000 or something, considering the amount of time it would take to repair the room and the amount of money they would lose from not being able to rent it out. And still he smiled. It was making my stomach churn.

He finally turned to see me staring at him, my face clearly unimpressed with his uncharacteristically chipper demeanor.

"What?" he asked.

"You're awfully chipper this morning."

He raised one eyebrow as he set his cup down. "And that's a bad thing?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "It's ... unsettling."

He laughed and relaxed in his chair, those bold dark blues of his assessing me with a warm intensity. "It's unsettling that your husband is happy?"

"After last night? Yes."

He shrugged. "I got exactly what I wanted last night."

I raised a brow. "A busted lip and two black eyes? Honey, all you had to do was ask."

He smiled. Full on fucking smiled.

"This," he said, gesturing to the two of us. "This right here."

"What the fuck is this?" I asked, mimicking his hand gestures.

"This? This is the real you. I didn't realize how much I missed that until recently."

I felt my stomach burning with rage all over again. He wanted the real me?

More motherfucking games.

"You made it very clear a very long time ago you didn't want the real me."

"Still misinterpreting my intentions, huh?"

I felt my hand begin to twitch as it ached to connect with his mouth.

All the shit I had suffered for, all the mental training of trying to keep myself in check, giving him all the right responses, the right reasons to get his kicks, everything I'd done to be the perfect version of what he wanted was all for fucking nothing. This "real me" he was talking about? I didn't even know who that bitch was anymore. Everything I was had all been for him, and now that was no longer what he wanted.