“This!” I hold up my hand, flipping him off with my ring finger and making the ridiculously large diamond glitter. “I know you can lock me up again, but you won’t.”
Folding his arms, he watches me like I’m a particularly interesting species of insect. “And why is that?”
“Because- because aye, we’re married for whatever selfish, horrible thing you’re up to. All the same, we’re stuck together now,” I say heatedly, “havin’ a captive bride seems low, even for the likes of you. But fightin’ like two rats in a shoe is gonna get tiresome.”
“Like two rats in a… Your Scottish colloquialisms are as perplexing as I would expect,” he says, but there’s the slightest hint of an upturn on one corner of his mouth. “You will behave, nothing has changed in that regard.”
“Say my name,” I say stubbornly.
Part of me is terrified that he’ll turn back into the monstrous mob boss who bought me. Still, I can’t forget what he’d done for me when I was screaming in the grip of my nightmares. He may be 90% pure evil, but there’s still perhaps 10% of a decent man in there somewhere, and I was going to do my damndest to excavate him.
The SUV stops at a red light and one of his guards hoofs it over to the window, handing Alastair his phone. The screen is cracked, though sadly, it’s still functional. He puts it in his jacket, his gaze never leaving mine. Our staring match continues as we reach the penthouse, and when the driver gets out to open my door, Alastair says, “It is Sorcha. Sorcha Taylor. Not MacTavish.”
I want to tell him that I’m still a MacTavish first, but… This was a win. I’ll take it.
***
Alastair…
She’s asleep, sprawled out on her stomach as usual, with her arms and legs spread wide. I am sitting in the corner of the bedroom in the shadows, drinking my third glass of scotch and watching her like the worst kind of pervert.
Sorcha Taylor, my wife.
There’s a gravity there that I didn’t expect, a weight to the sound of it. She belongs to me now, in a way that’s far different than simply purchasing her.
I never even allowed women to spend the night when I brought them home, and now this strange, stubborn, damaged girl is mine. My responsibility.
When I decided to force her into marriage, I assumed we would go on as we had. She seems to be taking this union quite seriously as a license to rebel. Yet, I’m not displeased by it. Angry, fierce Sorcha is a vision, and so different from the blank stare and gray skin when she’s in the grip of her panic attacks.
She was correct, in part at least. The MacTavishes may be Scottish savages, but unfortunately for them, devout Catholics. They will be forced to accept our marriage.
All we need to do now is to consummate it. I find myself looking forward to that more than I should.
My phone buzzes angrily in my pocket, I groan silently when I see that it’s Alec. Slipping out of the room before I answer.
“How’s the wedding night?”
“Non-existent,” I say. “Do you think I’m going ravish her on the same bed she’s been chained to for the last five days?”
“You’re not married until you’ve fucked her.”
“Is it possible,” I say, “for you to be less of an arsehole?”
“Probably not. When are you planning for the grand reveal?”
Walking through the living room, I watch London come alive late at night, from boat lights blinking on the River Thames to the flashing colors of the club district. “The fundraiser this weekend, I believe you’re attending as well?”
“Ah, yes,” he says. “What is the fundraiser for again?”
“I don’t know. We’ll do what we always do. Smile, make an obscenely large donation, and leave. She’ll be recognized rather quickly.”
“There is something deeply satisfying,” he says, “about destroying the MacTavishes from within. Their sweet sister, married to a heartless bastard like you.”
“Your view of me is most rewarding,” I say dryly.
Alec laughs, “I’ll see you two on Friday.”
I don’t see my new bride for the next forty-eight hours.
