Page 136 of Bittersweet & Strange

“No.” He looks at his father’s face, and there is nothing in his expression. No anger. No fear. No grief. “He’s dead. Destroying his portrait accomplishes nothing.”

I study Rhys instead.

The resemblance between them suddenly bothers me more than it did before. Not because they share the same dark hair or broad shoulders, but because I can’t stop thinking about what Rhys just told me.

A man terrified of losing the person he considered his. A castle slowly emptied of everyone he didn’t trust.

A woman who wanted to leave.

Locked doors.

Rhys catches me staring.

“What?”

I hesitate, then ask the question I’m suddenly not sure I want answered.

“Do you realize how much that sounds like us?”

Rhys doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”

The answer catches me so completely off guard that I just stare at him. I expected him to argue, to tell me I’m being ridiculous, or point out all the ways he’s different from the man whose portrait hangs behind me. But there’s no outrage in his expression and certainly no shame.

“That’s it?”

“What else would you like me to say?”

“I don’t know.” I gesture toward his father’s portrait. “You just stood there and told me he kept your mother in this castle because he was terrified she would leave him. That he controlled where she went, who she spoke to, locked doors, and made decisions for her because he considered her his.” My voice rises despite my attempt to control it. “Then you dragged me back up this mountain after I begged you not to.”

“Yes.”

“Then how can you stand there acting like that doesn’t bother you?”

“Because it doesn’t.”

I continue staring at him, searching his face for something that tells me he doesn’t mean it. But Rhys has never needed to hide behind lies when the truth is cruel enough.

“My father enjoyed fear,” he says. “He needed obedience because anything less threatened whatever delusion happened to occupy his mind that day. He hurt my mother because he was angry with her for wanting anything he hadn’t given her permission to want.” His eyes remain on mine. “I don’t need you frightened of me, Boone. I don’t particularly want you miserable either.”

“But?”

“But I will tolerate both before I tolerate losing you.”

Not an apology. Not even an attempt to make what he’s doing sound better than it is.

“You really mean that.”

“I have never suggested otherwise.”

I turn away from him and look at Belle again. The portrait feels different now that I know the woman inside it spent years staring at these same walls because another man had decided loving her gave him the right to keep her.

Except something doesn’t fit.

“Your father died before her.”

“Yes.”

I look back at Rhys. “Then she could have left.”