She looked like she was going to be sick when Father McCleary brought up the topic of our physical relationship. The moment I saw her go pale, something in my chest tightened uncomfortably.
Does she think I'm going to hurt her? Force her?
The thought makes my jaw clench. I've done terrible things—killed men, hurt people, destroyed lives—but I've never touched a woman who didn't want me. Never taken what wasn't freely given. I’d rather fuck my own hand for the rest of my life than ever force a woman, even if the thought of taking Maeve’s virginity makes me harder than an iron nail for some fucking reason.
But how the fuck is she supposed to know that? All she knows is that I'm the Wolf of Dublin, the Council's killer, and I've been cold and closed off every time she's seen me.
And she has to fuck me. Has to accept whatever I want. No one will protect her except for me, and I can see how that’s cold fucking comfort, given her circumstances.
It also raises the question of what the fuck I’m going to do if she tries to say no on our wedding night. I doubt Connor McBride is going to care very much about Maeve’s sensibilities. The marriage needs to be consummated. But what if she panics? What if she says no?
What the fuck am I supposed to do then?
My phone goes off again, and I finally answer it, knowing that Flynn is going to keep badgering me if I don’t. “What the fuck do you want?” I answer with a growl, tossing back my whiskey and pouring myself another two fingers. This room is on the Council’s dime, and I plan to ring up as big of a bill as I can for Connor fucking McBride to foot.
"Finally,” Flynn says with something that sounds like real relief. “I was starting to think you'd drowned yourself in the harbor."
"Not yet," I mutter, leaning my forehead against the cold glass of the window. "Though it's tempting."
"That bad?"
"Worse." I swallow the whiskey and pour more. “So far I’ve been mostly cooped up in this room drinking my sorrows away, in between getting fucking premarital counseling with a priest who thinks I'm the devil and a girl who looks at me like I'm going to murder her in her sleep."
"Are you? The devil, I mean. Could be a good new title if the Wolf bit gets old."
"Fuck off, Flynn."
He laughs, but there's sympathy in it, at least. "So the girl's really that frightened of you?"
"Wouldn't you be?" I force myself to sip the whiskey this time. The idea of showing up drunk to my wedding has merits, but showing up hungover will just make this nightmare that much worse. "She's eighteen, just lost her entire family, and the Council's forcing her to marry a stranger who kills people for a living. I'm not exactly Prince Charming material."
"No, you're more the 'brooding anti-hero' type," Flynn says with a chuckle. "Some women are into that."
I grunt. "Not this one. She's terrified."
"So be less terrifying." He makes it sound so fucking easy.
"How?" I demand, and I can practically hear Flynn rolling his eyes on the other end of the line.
"Christ, Sean, I don't know. Smile at her? Talk to her like a human being instead of a job? Try not looking like you want to set yourself on fire every time you're in the same room? Because I know you, and I can imagineexactlywhat your face probably looks like every time you see her.”
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because the truth is, I don't know how to be anything other than what I am. I've spent my entire life perfecting the art of being cold, controlled, and lethal.I don't know how to turn that off. I have no idea hownotto frighten a girl who looks like she’s the heroine of a novel where she’s been stuck in a tower since birth.
Not that it matters. She's not getting a choice in husband. She's getting me. Just like I’m not getting a fucking choice about my wife.
God knows I wouldn’t pick her, no matter what strange, libidinous switch she seems to have flipped in me.
"I have to go," I tell Flynn, tossing back the whiskey. This conversation isn’t going to go anywhere helpful, and I’m in no mood.
"Sean—"
I end the call and stare out at the harbor. It’s raining again, and the weather matches my mood. I know I’m not going to get any fucking sleep tonight, but what does it matter? All I have to do tomorrow is show up, parrot the words the priest says to me, and drink my way through a wedding reception.
Then, hopefully, not be so drunk that I can’t consummate the marriage. Although, if my response to just being near her—hell, just seeing a picture of her—is any indication, I could be blacked out and somehow still manage it.
That hot, licking desire writhes up my spine at the thought of the wedding night tomorrow, my cock stiffening. I clench my hand around my glass and pour more whiskey, trying to ignore the insistent throbbing. The need to come.
I should get off. Maeve’s nerves won’t be soothed by me falling on her like a wild animal. Hell, I should make sure I’m as wrung out as I can be before the wedding tomorrow. Butfuckif I can’t stand the feeling of shuddering guilt that comes with the force of every orgasm I give myself with her image swimming in my mind’s eye.
