Page 56 of His Relentless Angel

What I’m not a fan of is the way Isaiah watches me as my parents and sisters had at first—tiptoeing around me like I’m a bomb about to go off—after we return home and wait for my upcoming appointment with a psychiatrist in two weeks. Like now, when I get up to use the restroom in the middle of the night. He nearly stumbles into the bathroom when I open the door, and my cell phone clatters to the floor. He catches himself on the doorframe before he can knock me over.

I cross my arms over my T-shirt, feeling cold all over. “Were you listening at the door?”

Though it’s dark in the apartment, the flashlight on my phone is bright enough to see he’s wearing his glasses. He gives me those searching, pitying eyes, looking for tear tracks. It’s so overwhelmingly sweet, how much he cares about me…but it’s also verging on overbearing and humiliating to be scrutinized like this.

“Just making sure you’re ok, B.”

Trying to keep a lid on my impatience and the uncomfortable feeling of being watched all the time, I take a long, deep breath. “I promised I would wake you up if I needed to cry instead of hiding it. You don’t need to get up every time I pee at night.”

He clears his throat and pulls up the waistband of his black sweatpants when they slump low on his defined hips. “I know.”

I shift on my bare feet. “Do you?”

“I…do.”

“Oh my god.” I throw my hands up, failing at keeping ahold of my patience. “No, you don’t. You don’t trust me to keep my promise.” And because I’m pregnant and hormonal, I burst into tears, which is the last thing I want to do when trying to convince him that he doesn’t need to worry about me and my mental health at all hours of the night.

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry.” He reaches for me.

I bat his hands away. “Stop it. Please stop treating me like I’m fragile.”

He jerks back. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“But you’re crying.”

“Yeah, because you don’t trust me!” I make a noise of frustration, my skin turning hot, and I welcome it. It’s so much better than the haze. I back him up, then close myself into the bathroom, locking him out.

He knocks against it. “Please, baby, open the door.”

“No!” I flick on the light and open the narrow linen closet door. Bingo.

“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. Please let me in. I want to help.”

“You’re not helping by treating me like I’m going to break at any second.” I rip my T-shirt off and fling it to the floor, then sift through the woven basket where I keep my swimsuits beside the beach towels. I’m going to show him just how not fragile I am right now.

“But, B—”

His phone chimes with a notification, and I hear him curse on the other side of the door in a husky voice. I imagine him biting his fist at the short video clip I just sent him of me adjusting the ridiculously small pink bikini that barely ties around my larger breasts.

“Fuck, B, open the door.”

“No!” I prop my cell phone on the small vanity against the mirror, then lean back against the opposite wall. Sliding my hand slowly down my torso and into my bikini bottoms, I massage my clit. Tipping my head back against the wall, I close my eyes and moan as I circle it with firmer pressure. “Oh god, Papi. Right there.”

“What was that? Did you just moan?”

“Yes! It feels so good, Papi.” I make sure my breath hitches, and I moan louder. Then I smile at the camera and sway my hips. It takes two seconds to edit the video I just made and send it to him.

“Goddamnit, open the door.”

When I look up in the mirror, thinking of what I should do next, I see it. That half-wild conniving expression. That thing that’s wrong inside of me. I’m not being sweet at all to the man who loves me beyond words. Beyond doubt. Beyond what I deserve. No wonder he doesn’t trust me. No one should.

I whip open the door and throw my hands up over his bare, broad shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“B, baby. What’s going on?” He wraps one hand around my back and palms the nape of my neck beneath my hair with the other.

“I didn’t mean to do it again.”

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