BAD WIFE

Chapter {24}

Jacob refused to go to the hospital. Once he made sure Clarissa was safely in her brother's truck, he got into his own and drove off without another word.

When she arrived home, his vehicle was already there—thankfully.

Her stomach twisted with guilt. He was probably furious with her. And rightfully so. He'd been hurt again—because of her.

Without wasting a second, she checked on all four of their children, relieved to find them sleeping soundly. She paid the sitter, dismissed her for the night, then grabbed the first aid box and went in search of him.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She tapped lightly on his bedroom door.

No answer.

After a pause, she gently turned the knob. It was unlocked.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, her eyes sweeping the space. Empty. But a sliver of warm light leaked from the cracked bathroom door.

She moved toward it slowly, her breath catching as she heard the sound of running water. The faucet.

"Jacob..." she called softly.

Through the narrow opening, she saw the outline of his bare back as he leaned over the sink, water pouring into the basin as he washed his face.

"Jacob..." she called again as she opened the door wider.

He turned off the water, reached for a towel, and slowly patted his face dry. "Everything okay?" he asked, voice low and steady.

Her eyes lifted to the mirror—and her heart dropped.

Bruises.

Deep, angry bruises stained his chest and stomach.

The sight of him—battered, silent, alone—stabbed her with guilt so sharp it nearly buckled her knees.

As he turned, she stepped in without hesitation, widening the door fully and placing her palm against his abdomen.

He inhaled sharply.

The towel in his hand lowered.

His eyes locked with hers.

That stare—dark and intense—burned through her, full of tension, of questions, of heat. His body stiffened beneath her hand. She had him pressed back against the sink, her warmth invading his space, his mind, his self-control.

It had been so long since he'd felt her touch. So long since she'd looked at him like this. And now, everything inside him was roaring for more.

Her attention. Her fingers. Her affection.

But he knew... this wasn't desire.

This was guilt.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible as her hands slid from his stomach to his bruised shoulders, then gently up to his neck.

"You have every right to be angry with me."

He could have melted beneath her touch.

But he didn't.

"I don't," he said quietly. "I have no rights."

The words landed like a punch to her chest.

She blinked, stunned. Her hands slipped away as she took a step back.

He didn't move.

He just stood there—watching her—his gaze piercing, his body unmoving, his breath measured.