The Billionaire Takes a Bride (Billionaires and Bridesmaids, #3)(23)

The kiss should have warned him. It should have told him that this wasn’t going to be the easy, platonic relationship they’d agreed to on paper.

Because he’d been aroused and attracted to her, and she’d treated it as nothing.

Chelsea wasn’t a happy-go-lucky girl. She was broken somewhere inside, and hiding it with a smile. Tonight showed him that.

He supposed there was still time to back out of the relationship. File a few annulment papers, say it was a mistake, go on their way. It was a fake relationship and there’d be no hurt feelings if they called it quits after twenty-four hours.

Except . . . that was out of the question.

From the time she’d given him that kiss in Hunter Buchanan’s library last night, she’d become his.

Her problems changed nothing. It only made him hold her tighter and gave him determination to find out what was wrong so he could help her.

At some point, despite the driving rain, she fell into an exhausted slumber against him. And he kept holding her, stroking her wet hair and touching her dripping arm, because she seemed to need it.

The power came on again a few hours later, the lights in the room behind them flicking on and flooding the balcony with light. Chelsea didn’t stir. Sebastian got to his feet and picked her up again. The dazed, exhausted whimpers started once more. “I’m here,” he murmured against her. “I’m here and the lights are on so we’re going to go into the room now, all right?”

“We have to keep the lights on,” she mumbled sleepily, still clinging to him.

“We will,” he vowed.

Chelsea was never going to be in the dark again if she didn’t want it. Even if he had to hold a freaking flashlight on her himself.

He eased her into bed and then retrieved his phone, setting it by the bedside. The blankets were sodden so he got extras out of the closet and then wrapped her in one of the fluffy bathrobes provided with the suite. He didn’t look at her long limbs or bare skin. It wasn’t important right now. She was like a doll, dazed and half-asleep, only moving her limbs when he encouraged her to lift her arms or legs so he could ease the robe around her.

Then, when she was dry, he stripped out of his own wet clothing and got into bed. She immediately curled up against him and went back to sleep. He pulled her against him and ran a hand through her drying hair, thoughtful. She was beautiful while she slept, but utterly vulnerable.

Chelsea Hall was now his to protect. He wouldn’t fail her. It was clear that someone had failed her in the past.

Never again.





Chapter Nine



Chelsea woke up with her cheek pressed against a warm male chest and her hair a snarl around her face. Her head throbbed and her throat hurt, and for a moment, she didn’t recall where she was. She sat up, blinking at her surroundings. A posh hotel room with a canopy bed and a fancy couch, and the world’s biggest balcony just outside the doors. There were towels and blankets strewn all over the floor. Even as she sat up, thunder rumbled, and she remembered.

Oh, god. She’d lost her shit last night. All she remembered was the shower, then the loss of light. Then utter fear.

When she had one of her panic attacks, she forgot everything else, her body moving in a state of mindless terror. Normally she attacked people until somehow it clicked that she wasn’t in the Dumpster. That she was safe.

She licked her lips, feeling awkward.

Sebastian’s hand went to the small of her back and he rubbed it through the robe. “Hey. You okay?”

She looked over at him, hesitant. His black hair was a wild nest of curls, stark against the white pillows. His skin seemed darker than ever, that gorgeous olive that contrasted so beautifully with his eyes. His bare chest was muscular? lightly furred with dark hair, and she could see a happy trail disappearing down under the sheets.

And he had a big bruise on his jaw. Probably from her. She tended to go fists-first when she had a panic attack, and it looked like Sebastian had been the victim of it.

She didn’t know what to do. Deny her panic attack? Confess her past? Neither seemed like a great option. Only Pisa and her therapist knew the truth of things, and it had taken Chelsea nearly a year to confess to Pisa her traumatic past.

And she’d only been married to Sebastian Cabral for a day.

So she pasted a brilliant smile on her face and rubbed her wild hair off of her face. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

He sat up on his elbows in bed, dark brows furrowing. “Well, last night was kind of a hot mess.”

“I must have drank something,” she lied, getting out of bed. Oh, jeez, she was naked under her robe. That was awkward. She held it tighter against her.

“I watched you all night. You didn’t drink anything. You want to tell me what this is about?” His tone was utterly suspicious.

“It’s nothing—”

“It’s not nothing,” he said vehemently, sitting up in bed. “You were catatonic with fear. You acted like you were being murdered.”

She flinched at his words. Did he really have to use the term “murdered”? “I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not on day one of our marriage.”

“Are you kidding me? I feel like this is something we absolutely need to talk about, and the sooner the better.”

“Please,” Chelsea said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I can’t, okay? Not right now.” Maybe not ever.