“Let’s go,” he says—orders. Like my father, O’Connor doesn’t ask so much as dictate.
I bristle, but don’t move a muscle. Too bad for him, I don’t take orders. “Go where?”
His smile is as sharp as a blade. “Didn’t you pay attention,bhean chéile? It’s our wedding night. It’s time to go home.”
I’m not fluent inGaeilge Uladh. Father had always been more concerned with his career trajectory than giving credence to our parents’ Irish roots, but even I recognize the phrase. It’s something my grandfather used to call my grandmother, my mother’s parents, of course. My father’s parents are long since dead and probably for the better, considering their progeny.
It meansmy wife.
“Call me that again, and the next time I bite you, I’ll take your tongue as payment,” I say, swept by waves of exhaustion and in desperate need of a shower to wash away the cold sweat and the taste of him. “And if you think I’m going to sleep with you of my own volition again, I’m not the only one who's gone insane.”
Ignoring my threats like I’m a child having a tantrum, O’Connor pulls me to my feet. “You have two choices from now on: do what the fuck you’re told, or I can make you. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. So unless you want to find yourself in worse circumstances than married to me, you’ll start listening.”
I jerk my hand from his grasp, ignoring the sting of his brutal grip. “Why don’t you tell me what I’ve gotten myself into, then? Explain why my father needed to sell my sister. Is this some kind of sick game for you guys? Treating women like cattle? And disposing of people when you feel as though they’ve wronged you? Like that cop, Dufresne? Yeah, I still remember that night. You’re disgusting.”
He steps so close that the toes of his shoes disappear under the flare of my dress. I shiver at his nearness as though I can feel the coldness of his glare caressing my skin. Piercing. Dissecting. Unflinching. “Does it make it easier to hate me, darlin’, if you pretend you aren’t happy to be right here with my rings on your finger?”
My head pounds with a fresh headache, and I scowl up at him. The last word you could use to describe me right now ishappy. Maybe relieved. Anxious. Annoyed, but not happy. “I didn’t need to marry you to hate you, O’Connor.”
“Sweet words from your lips, Catriona. Music to my ears. By all means, if you’d like to stay at the church, feel free. I’ll never stop someone from repenting for their sins. But if you’d like to get out of that ridiculous dress, come with me. I have no doubtthey’ll be ambushing us at my house to sort out this mess.” At that, he turns and strides out of the bridal suite.
Knowing I have no other options and that this whole shit show was my idea, after all, I follow. I draw in slow, deep breaths for the length of the aisle and out of the front doors to stem my rising anger. I’m assaulted once more by the crowd of socialites and reporters who press in on me, triggering a violent sense of claustrophobia that I battle into submission.
“Aiden! Aiden, over here! Tell us all the dirty details, Aiden!”
“How does it feel to be Mrs. O’Connor?”
“Aiden, let us see you with your bride.”
“C’mon, this way. Give us a smile!”
I stop at the church entrance and pose for a few shots, ignoring the crush of people. I’ve had to fake it so many times for everyone in my life that the smile comes easily. When I’m certain they have something passable, my smile widens, and I wave before moving to the limo where O’Connor—and whatever happens next—waits for me.
I’m careful to maintain a neutral expression as I fight my way out of the crowd and to the limo. A man I don’t recognize opens the door for me, and I fold myself inside.
O’Connor sits across from me like the worst kind ofunwelcome party. As I study his sprawled form, with a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other, it hits me for the first time that I did it. I stopped their wedding.
I gesture toward his glass, and he passes it over with a lifted brow. Drinking deeply, I do my best to ignore him, which I plan to do for as long as I can. Maybe if I do, this whole thing will never seem completely real. It’ll stay a fever dream borne out of my darkest nightmares.
The whiskey burns my throat and settles like lead in my stomach. I pass the empty glass to him, and he refills it from a small bottle in his suit jacket, then places it back in myoutstretched hand. The alcohol warms me from the inside out, and I study him.
Aiden O’Connor.
My husband.
It doesn’t matter how many times I repeat it; I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.
He twists to speak to the driver, and I tune it out to send a text to Yasmine, letting her know I’m okay. The limo moves, finally drawing us away from the crowd and the constant, sickening flash from cameras. O’Connor is unfazed, face blank, eyes watchful, a silver glint in the shadows.
“Well, go ahead.” My voice comes out hoarse from the burn of whiskey.
“Go ahead? Go ahead with what, pet?”
I jerk my chin at him. “Don’t play games with me. Your punishment, since you like them so much. For making a fool out of you and switching places with my sister. I’m sure there’s something vile you have in store for me. You might as well get it over with. I may not know everything about you, but what I know is enough.”
O’Connor’s lips curl into a sardonic smile, the edges of which don’t reach his mist-colored eyes, now fixed on mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. “Punishment, huh? Tell me, Catriona, what exactly do you think would be a fitting punishment for your transgressions? Turning your sweet arse red? Taking you until you scream?” At my flinch, his laughter punches through the small space, sounding bitter and hollow and mocking. “Is that what you think I should do?”
I swallow hard, his derisive tone slicing through the haze of alcohol-induced courage. Ignoring his last comment, I say, “I think whatever it is, it was worth the look on your face when you got exactly what you deserved.”
