I imagine tears, but not from fear. From the overwhelming sensation of it, from the pleasure and pain of being stretched and claimed and possessed.
I'd have made it good for her, stroked her clit while I fucked her, would have made her come on my cock even through the pain of losing her virginity.
I would have marked her. Inside and out. Would have made sure she knew exactly who she belonged to.
The thought sends me over the edge. I come hard, my release spilling over my hand and shooting up onto my stomach, soaking my shirt, my jaw clenched as pulse after pulse of raw heat sweeps through me. The pleasure is sharp and intense and does absolutely nothing to ease the ache in my chest. Nothing to ease the need that’s still clawing at my insides, demanding more than just a quick stroke to fix the tension, because it wasn’t her.
Because I'm alone in this room, jerking off like a teenager, while my wife cries herself to sleep in a bed stained with my blood.
The shame hits me then, crashing over me in waves. I grab the towel I used earlier and clean myself up, my movements mechanical. I tuck myself back into my trousers and wash my hands in the bathroom sink, avoiding my own gaze in the mirror.
I don't want to see what's looking back at me.
I shouldn’t have left her alone. But Christ, what was I supposed to do? I was scaring her to death. I can’t imagine lying down next to her and trying to sleep would have accomplished anything. I have no idea how the hell I was supposed to turn this night into anything but a disaster.
I should go back to her. I should check on her, make sure she's all right. Should at least try to explain why I acted the way I did.
But I can't face her. Not yet. Not when I'm still hard enough that I could go again, not when every instinct I have is telling me to go back to that room and finish what we started.
Not when I know I'd only make it worse.
She thinks I hate her. I saw it in her eyes when I told her to get on the bed, when I touched her with all the warmth of a medical examination. When I got hard for her at first, shamefully, hard and aching for her despite her obvious fear and unwillingness… and then couldn’t get hard enough to go through with it. She doesn't understand that it's not hatred, it's guilt.
I’m so fucking wracked with it that it’s all I can feel, beyond this pounding desire to get inside of her that only makes me feel worse, and the anger edging all of it—anger at the Council and at myself. I’m guilty over wanting her so badly when she’s so young and afraid, for being aroused by her at all, seeing the look on her face, and feeling her tremble when I touched her. Guilty for dragging her into this mess, for not being the kind of man who could make this right.
I've spent my entire adult life avoiding connections. Avoiding anything that might make me vulnerable, that might give someone power over me. I learned that lesson when I was fifteen, kneeling beside my mother's body in a pool of blood, knowing that loving someone only gives the world another way to destroy you. I swore I'd never let that happen again.
And now I'm married to a girl who is relying on me for protection. Who is clearly trying so fucking hard to please me, to be a good wife, even though I've given her nothing but coldness and cruelty.
She deserves so much better than what I am.
I flop onto the bed, still in my shirt and suit trousers, staring up at the ceiling. The Council succeeded in fucking punishing me, alright. They’ve forced me into this marriage, given me a burden and a responsibility I don't want. And beyond that, the punishment is wanting her. Wanting her so badly that I can barely think straight, that I cut my own arm open rather than take what I've been given the right to.
The punishment is knowing that every time I touch her, every time I'm near her, I'm going to want more. Going to want things I have no right to want from someone like her.
The Council wants the marriage consummated. Want proof that Maeve is truly mine, that her inheritance is secure under my control. They'll accept the blood on the sheets as evidence, but eventually, they're going to expect more. They’re going to expect her pregnant.
Eventually, I'm going to have to actually fuck my wife.
The thought makes my cock twitch again, and I curse under my breath.
This is going to be a problem. A serious fucking problem.
9
SEAN
The Connelly estate looks different in daylight.
Both times I was here before were at night—when the Council first showed up to tell Maeve about the marriage and when we came here for dinner. Now, in the morning light, it looks less imposing, though still beautiful. The red brick Georgian mansion rises three stories above manicured lawns surrounded by wrought-iron fencing, a long driveway flanked by trees leading to a circular ending in front of the house. It’s stately and beautiful, and I fucking hate it.
Maeve was already dressed when I came to collect her this morning, wearing a pair of slim dark jeans and a soft-looking rose-pink sweater. She averted her eyes when I stripped the bed of the bloody sheet and folded it, knowing it needs to go to Connor, and didn’t speak to me as we left. She hasn’t said one word on the entire drive here, and I haven’t known what to say to her either, so we’ve just existed in silence.
The driver pulls up to the front of the entrance, and before I can reach for the door handle, he's already out and opening Maeve's door for her.
"Welcome home, Miss Connelly," he says, and there's genuine warmth in his voice.
"Thank you, Patrick." Maeve finally speaks, with a tiny smile on her lips that quickly fades. She doesn’t remind him that she’s Mrs. Flannery now, that this mansion doesn’t belong to her anymore—that everything here belongs to me by virtue of our marriage.
