Page 125 of Devil Mine

“I will, thank you.”

She starts to walk away but then stops and turns back towards me. “Oh, I forgot to mention we had to give your mother some intravenous pain medication. Fair warning, it should be hitting soon. She might be a little loopy but she’ll eventually go to sleep and it’ll wear off.”

When I open the door to her room, my mum’s head turns towards me and a happy expression crosses her face. I barely notice it because all I can focus on are the mottled red and purple bruises covering half her face. I sag against the door, the emotion right back in my throat. She doesn’t even look like my mum right now.

And my father did that.

“Darling,” she sings, extending her uninjured hand towards me. “You didn’t need to take time off work to come see me. But come in, come in.”

She says it like I’m visiting her in her boudoir at home, not a hospital room where she’s surrounded by half a dozen beeping machines.

“Mum,” I croak out, my voice breaking. I clear my throat to rid myself of the obstruction and walk over to her bedside. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“Oh, nothing serious, darling. A little fall down the stairs but they’ve patched me up. I’ll be back in top form before you know it.”

“Why didn’t you tell them dad did this to you?”

She flinches and I hate it. I hate that I made her react that way when she’s injured. I hate that she’s so concerned with keeping up appearances that she’ll never leave him. But more than anything, I hate that bringing him up has that effect on her.

“Because it’s not true,” she says quietly, averting her gaze.

“What if he comes here?” She pales. I continue anyway. “What is it going to take for you to finally tell the truth? How badly does he need to hurt you next time?”

“Oh darling, you wouldn’t understand.”

“No, you’re right. I wouldn’t.” I say, my jaw locking in place. “What if it was me?”

Her eyes fly up to mine. “What do you mean?”

“Remember Franklin, from work? The man he made me dance with at the charity gala?” She nods. “He attacked me at the office. He hurt me. He tried to sexually assault me. He would have succeeded if Thiago hadn’t intervened.”

Thiago and my mum haven’t met yet. I’ve been so busy trying to settle into my new reality, my marriage, that I never even considered setting something up. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if he’d even be interested. He often speaks with his dad on the phone, but hasn’t once introduced me either.

Her eyes widen in horror. They have a hard time focusing on my face for a second, but then she clutches my hands in hers. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I hope karma catches up with him in the end.”

If only she knew that it already has, in the form of my merciless husband.

I squeeze her hands in return. “Have that same empathy for yourself. Please, Mum. If it’s unacceptable to you that it happen to me, then the same should apply to you.”

When her eyes unfocus again, I remember the doctor’s words about the IV drip. She spreads her hands on her duvet, marveling at her fingers. “Gosh, what beautiful linens.”

I look down at the drab hospital bedding knowing that sober Bettina Noble would judge them to be approximately fifteen levels below hideous.

Her eyes snap up to a spot just above my shoulder. “Don’t turn around just yet but there’s an incredibly handsome man staring at me through the windows.”

I snort. “What kind of drugs are they giving you?”

She sighs wistfully, a longing look on her features. “A face that chiseled must make for a wonderful seat. I sure hope someone’s taking him for a ride. Alas, I’m no longer in the appropriate age bracket or I might be tempted.”

“Mum!” I exclaim, flushing beet red. Hearing my uptight, etiquette-conscious mother say that is absolutely shocking, and frankly, a bit traumatizing. The unexpected levity caused by the introduction of drugs into this tragic moment considerably lightens the weight in my stomach. “What’s gotten into you?” Looking up at the IV bag, I mutter, “They must have you hooked up to the really good stuff.”

“Oh, he’s coming in Tessie,” my mom says excitedly. I hear the door open but I’m so caught up in her use of my nickname that I don’t acknowledge it. She hasn’t called me that since I was fifteen. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.

“Tess.”

My heart trips hopelessly in my chest at the sound of that deep voice. My pulse speeds up, the mad organ banging against my ribcage like it’s trying to break itself out. If it could, it would run across the room and throw itself straight at the man who just walked in.

Unfortunately, my husband has turned my heart into a bit of an attention-seeking slut where he’s concerned.

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