He’s still beautiful.
Anger courses through me at the weakness of that thought. Yes. He is beautiful. His dark red curls are thicker now, his beard full and neatly-trimmed, accentuating a sharp jaw and noble chin. His piercing green eyes are colder now, but still breathtaking. And though when he was young he was muscular, he was slender. Now he’s hulking, built out like a tank. Like a weapon.
A hitman.
How did I never know? How did I never guess that the man I was so innocently in love with could be so dangerous? That he could be lethal? A criminal? A monster capable of kidnapping his once-lover?
I have to escape this. Lilly will be looking for me. She’ll think I left, and show up at my house, and find me missing. And she’ll go to the cops. And eventually I’ll be found, and freed, and Malcom will rightfully be thrown into prison.
But how long will that take? And if Malcom is connected to the mafia, does he have the power to bribe or sway cops? Could he cover up my kidnapping, make it seem like I left of my own volition? It wouldn’t be a stretch.
I cross to the window, gripping the casement as rain lashes against the glass. Lightning flashes in vivid white veins over the sea.
Would it be so shocking to anyone if I left town? After all, I was practically left at the altar. And worse, to disappear after my first public appearance, right after saying I had a boyfriend from out of town…it would be easy, wouldn’t it, to make it seem like I’d simply gone to grieve or else forget my would-be marriage? My barren womb?
My barren womb!
It occurs to me now, suddenly, that I should have told Malcom I can’t conceive.
Would he even believe me though?
A grim, horrible pleasure goes through me.Let it serve him right. Let me never give the bastard a child. Let him lose everything he thinks he’s fighting for.
* * *
“You should have changed.” Malcom appraises me from the end of a long, scarred, antique table. He’s eating, but I haven’t touched my plate. His hair is damp, curling over his forehead. Was he out in the rain, or showering? Why am I even curious? “You’re a mess.”
I look down at myself. He’s right. My dress is rumpled, my feet bare and cold. My hair is a tangle and I didn’t bother washing off the dregs of my makeup. “You’re the one who dragged me unconscious from an alley.”
The maids, serving us in silence, share an indecipherable look. Malcom’s knife and fork pause, poised above his plate. I wait for him to blow up. But he doesn’t.
Instead he resumes eating, as though I made a comment about the weather or traffic. “You should eat,” he says.
I look at my plate. A full roasted bird, something small that is blistered with butter and honey and rosemary, potatoes smothered in rich sausage gravy, oat-crusted bread and a pat of fresh butter. My stomach tightens. I’m starving. It’s been a full day since I’ve eaten or drunk anything.
But that’s my protest.
Feeling truly helpless, enraged, and bitter, I push the plate until it slides off the table and shatters. One of the maids gasps. The other rushes to clean up the mess. Malcom’s green eyes lift to mine. I hold them resolutely. He simply continues eating.
“Break all the china you wish,” he says mildly. “Clearly you already know fighting me is futile.”
Tears burn my eyes, but I don’t dare let them fall. “I’ll escape one way or another,” I inform him softly. “I will never, ever be your wife, dutiful or otherwise. And I’ll fall from that window before I bear your child.”
He slams down his silverware abruptly, eliciting another sharp gasp from one of the maids.
“Excuse us,” he growls, and they rush from the room. Malcom watches me from across the length of the table. Wind howls against the old walls, whips of rain ringing off the windows. The fire gutters in the hearth. “Come here.”
“Fuck you.”
He stands sharply, knocking his chair back. I jolt, hating myself for showing any fear as he approaches me in long, predatory strides. By the time he reaches me, I’m on my feet. He catches me roughly by the shoulders and walks me aggressively backward, until my back hits the wall.
His voice is fire and brimstone, low and burning and dangerous. “I know beneath all of that precious warmth you are a stubborn creature. You forget, Emma, that I know you.”
I look up at him in terror, hating that I still see the man I once fell in wild love with, in his eyes, in the shape of his lips, in the humanity I know must still survive in him. “If you knew me,” I bite back, “you would know I will never agree to this. You said you’d wait for my consent. You’ll never get it, Malcom. I will never be yours. I will never serve you. I will never love you.”
“Who said a damn thing about love?” His grip on my shoulders tightens. He’s so close I can smell his soap—pine and salt. So close I can feel the warmth of his body against mine. He’s massive, eclipsing every inch of me. In another life, this man would be my shield. My protector.
Not my enemy.
