Maximus is due to leave the country tomorrow, so I only have to make it through twenty-four hours, and then I’ll have the time to properly analyze the things that are happening to me as well as the emotions bombarding me. I won’t miss him, but I’m nervous to be without his protection. If he hates me, his brothers most likely do too. Will they finish what Maximus has started concerning me?
My body trembles at the images of me being at the mercy of those two strangers or Maximus’s men. I’ve had to admit to myself that my husband’s touches haven’t been traumatic because of my idealistic view of him, originating from my interaction with him as a young girl. He was so noble to want me protected, but there was more to it than that. Maximus didn’t agree with the ideals held by the other men in the underworld, and for a girl constantly berated by her father for my unruly behavior, Maximus was a beacon of hope. He represented the husband I wanted, and even at an early age, I recognized him for the unique man he was.
He was… That’s the source of my grief when it comes to him.
“Emilia?”
The rumble of his voice stills me; even the shaking coursing through me a second ago comes to a halt. That is the power of the command he has over me, to prompt my body to obey at the mere sound of his voice. Adding that authority to his usage of my name? I’m all but paralyzed in shock. He has never once addressed me as such. A part of me flares with a strange hope, one too fragile to take flight, and I quickly suffocate it with reality.
Maximus calling me by my name means nothing.
I turn my head in his direction in lieu of giving an answer and then remember his edict for me to always acknowledge him. “Yes, sir?”
He blinks in rapid succession, and I wonder if it’s from the morning light or from his confusion at my response. Did he want me to call him by name as well? Did I miss the opportunity to do so? Not that it matters, since the moment has passed.
“Have you been awake long?” he asks. His tone is lazy and gruff from sleep, and I have to battle the way it threatens to endear him to me.
I shake my head. He stares at me, in that studious way of his, and the light shining brightly through the floor-length windows strips away all feelings of security. It’s as if he can see everything, perhaps more now than ever before. Sex with him has made me more vulnerable, more exposed than I’ve ever felt in my life. I know a woman’s brain releases a chemical during breastfeeding and sex that assists with her connecting with the other person, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with these emotional tethers wrapping around my husband. What’s worse is he doesn’t experience them, leaving me to deal with this tenderness, this weakness, alone.
It doesn’t take long for me to avert my gaze, unable to handle the way his pierces mine. Maximus has never approved of me looking away even though he says he enjoys submission. I don’t get the inconsistency of his words and actions, but then again, I don’t understand many things about people, especially him.
He lightly grips my breast and thumbs my nipple, causing me to squeeze my thighs together. “Did you get enough rest?” When I nod enthusiastically, the corner of his mouth tilts upward just a little. I interpret that half smile to mean he’s aware I’m answering him quickly so he’ll remove his hand. Which I simultaneously do and don’t enjoy only because I’m conflicted emotionally about everything.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his tone sly. I give him another vigorous nod, and it pulls up both his lips. “Look at me.”
I fortify myself before I do, unsure of what I’ll find. It’s much safer to view him from my peripheral vision. He grins at me, and the pressure in my chest sends alarm streaking through me. It was just sex, nothing more. But that logic doesn’t erase the way he’s looking at me, without hatred and malice. I wouldn’t go so far as to say there’s a light emotion there, but just having the dark ones gone is a reprieve I needed but didn’t hope for.
His hand drifts from my breast down to glide over my rib cage and then settle on my hip. The heat from his palm scorches me, and his fingers brand me with the way they cling to my skin in a possessive manner. “You’re coming with me to France. With that being said, Rosetta will have her hands full getting you a wardrobe in less than twelve hours, so be prepared for her to be surly.”
Is there a word in the English language that goes beyondspeechless?
Questions cycle around and around in my mind, gaining momentum with every pass. Why am I going with him? When did this decision happen? What will I do there? The confusion is blatant on my face, and I don’t try to hide it. This doesn’t make any sense at all.
He squints at me, and creases appear at the corners of his eyes. “Do you have a problem with this?” His hold on the curve of my hip tightens. Whether it’s in thought or in warning, I’m not able to discern. “Answer me.”
I open my mouth to speak, and nothing comes. My heart pounds at the look of barely concealed anger on his face, and I swallow the nerves threatening to choke me. Maximus follows the movement, his eyes focused on my neck as if he’s considering strangling me.
“I don’t have a problem, sir.”
Once again I drop my gaze. And once again he orders me to bring it back to him with the simple clearing of his throat. “Don’t lie to me,” he says, his tone like a razor, sharp and cutting. “You acted like I ordered you to fucking stab yourself. Tell me why. Now.”
“I…”
“Emilia.”
My words flow from me in a rush, leaving me no time to enjoy the thrill derived from him using my name. Again. “I don’t understand why. I assumed you’d want to be rid of me, and a business trip is the way to do it. Having a wardrobe is just as surprising as the trip, since it serves no purpose either.” I pull as much oxygen into my body as I possibly can and take a chance on saying something I shouldn’t. “So why are you doing this, Maximus?”
I watch his face, eager to discover if me using his name affects him as much as it does me when he says mine. His brows draw together, and his mouth thins, and that’s the only response. I can’t interpret that, but if I had to guess, I’d gather he’s not pleased by what I’ve done.
This means I won’t do it again.
“You don’t need to know why,” he says, retracting his hand from me. The rejection stings, although it’s not unexpected. I gambled and lost. “And you don’t have an opinion on the subject either,donnaccia. I can’t have my wife”—he sneers the word—“fucking naked in Paris, even if she is a whore. And I don’t need my brothers or my men trying to fuck you behind my back. Be grateful I allow you to have clothing.”
The pain spreading through me is as though Maximus just crushed my chest with the heel of his boot.
I’ve been waiting for this man to surface. Whatever person lay with me in the bed a moment ago is gone. I’m not certain whether I’m the cause of Maximus’s anger or if the tenderness from earlier was an illusion to begin with, a mirage created by my mind because of the hunger I have for human connection.
But I want it with the man in front of me.
