“You seem tense,” O’Connor says, startling me from my thoughts. No shit. My muscles are drawn so taut, I’m afraid they could snap a bone. “As your husband, I can?—”
“Absolutelyfuckingnot. I’m going to stay in my—in a guest room. Don’t worry,” I say, before he can make an excuse to follow me, “I can find it myself.”
I eye the stairs, because the only rooms down here are the entertaining spaces—living room, dining room, formal versions of both, and the kitchen. But he’s blocking my path to get to the stairs. When he doesn’t move, I spear him with a pointed, unamused frown.
“You’ll be staying with me tonight so I can keep an eye on you.” O’Connor takes my hand to lead me up to the second floor before I can offer an objection. He’s moving so fast, I can onlyfocus on not tripping on the material of my wedding dress as he drags me behind. The upside? I don’t have time to linger on the spot where I’d found my mother.
It’s not until we reach the top that I’m able to tear my arm away from his grip. “Stop manhandling me, O’Connor. I do know how to walk by myself. And I’m not staying anywhere with you.”
He points at an open doorway—the same room that had belonged to my parents. And the one we’d shared at the masquerade. Also known as the last fucking place I’d want to be, let alone with him.
When I balk, he lifts an arm to block my escape, his eyes shifting from flat and opaque to flinty and penetrating. “After what you pulled today, you’ll stay where I fucking put you, or I’ll tie you to the fucking bed. The choice is absolutely not yours. I suggest you give future actions more thought than you did today.”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you. I tried to talk to you about it, and you left me no choice. If anything, today isyourfault.” This is the most ridiculous argument I’ve had with anyone, jammed in a hallway, wearing a wedding dress and caked in makeup. I enjoy dressing up in my suits and designer dresses, but I prefer that armor to this.
O’Connor starts to speak, then clamps his teeth together. He picks me up by my waist and shoves me bodily through the door, where I stumble. One of my heels breaks under the strain, and he shuts the door behind us. The lock slams home, and then he has me pinned against the wall. I forget how to breathe even though the hand he has at my throat is only a suggestion.
“Here’s the deal,bhean chéile,” he murmurs in a throaty warning, “now that you’ve completely fucked everything, I’m going to keep an eye on you so you can’t cause further damage. You wanted a husband? You’ve got one. So I hope you’re readyto have me at your side until we’re both in the grave, because I won’t be going anywhere.”
“If you think you’re going to control me, I hope you’re ready for anearlygrave,” I hiss, my throat working against his hand as trepidation rains over me. “I can easily make this hell for you, O’Connor.”
“I’m starting to believe you.” He releases his hold on my throat, and I’m halfway across the room before he turns. “Tomorrow, we can discuss what’s going to happen going forward. For now, I trust you won’t cause any more trouble if I leave you to get ready for bed?”
Before I can say anything further, he disappears into a walk-in closet and comes back a few minutes later with clothes. “These should fit. Don’t worry, I’ve already hidden all the sharp implements, so there won’t be any backstabbing tonight. Sorry to disappoint.”
The siren call of a shower is too great to ignore, and I mentally table giving a damn about him being close. It’s not like he hasn’t already seen every part of me. I hope it kills him to know I’m in there, naked.
I snatch the clothes from his hand and stride to the bathroom. His eyes drill into my back the entire time, but I pretend he’s not even there. As exhausted and emotionally drained as I am, I don’t really care if he’s watching. I don’t care about what he means by “what’s going to happen going forward.” All I want is to sleep for a century, because this week feels like it’s lasted that long.
Forgive me, Mom. I send up a quick prayer as I shed the now lank and wrinkled material of her wedding dress. As much as I daydreamed about getting married in this dress when I was a little girl after staring at pictures of my parents’ wedding day, now all it makes me want to do is puke. I shove it into a corner, out of my sight, and a fraction of the nausea abates. I may neverget rid of it, but it’ll be a long time before I can look at it and picture anything positive. The thought of what we’d done in the limo makes bile rise in my throat.
I practically leap into the shower, not bothering to pull the curtains, and I let the pounding spray slough away the dregs of panic remaining in my chest. For the first time since my eyes cracked open with the dawn light spilling in my bedroom, I have a moment to breathe. Steam billows around me, clinging like film to the windows and the glass shower wall.
I clean myself all over with thick, rich soap, comforted by the lavender scent that’s almost an exact match for the one I have at home, but not enough that I can stop myself from washing my body over and over again. Consciously, I know I’m as clean as I can get, but my subconscious is a stubborn bitch and thinks I’ll never be rid of the stains all over me. From where he touched me. From where he thought he owned me. I don’t think I can imagine anything more terrible than not having control over the only thing my father couldn’t take from me—my body.
He hadn’t forced me, not really. I was willing to do whatever it took to keep him from wrecking my plans.
Somehow that’s worse.
While I wash myself, taking my time while O’Connor is in the other room, I make myself think of the positives. Now that I’m back in my family’s home, I’ll have more time to poke around—when O’Connor isn’t hovering, obviously. Maybe I can get access to security footage, or maybe there are more clues in my mother’s favorite places in the house. Her library, of course, the greenhouse, perhaps even this very bedroom.
I hadn’t considered it when I’d come up with the insane plan to force O’Connor to marry me, but this is an opportunity I can’t pass up. Mr. Broussard may have more ideas about what to do with the chance to re-examine the crime scene, even if a lot oftime has passed. I make a mental note to update him during our next call so we can brainstorm.
By the time I step out of the shower, my usual alabaster skin is inked heavily in red and purple. Bruises on my throat, by my nipple, along my thighs. A red flush from the scalding water. Nails bitten to the quick from my nerves over the past week. Teeth scrubbed so hard my gums weep red rivers.
The clothes O’Connor had provided were one of his T-shirts, a white one. Thin. Almost see-through. As well as a pair of pajama pants.Whatever, I think with a mental shrug. It’s his funeral. I’m brushing my teeth when the door opens, and O’Connor strides inside.
“What the fuck? You could knock,” I sputter after rinsing my mouth.
“In my own house? In my bedroom? I don’t think so.” If he notices my breasts through the shirt, he doesn’t comment. My sensitive nipples may as well be beacons the way they twist and jut against the fabric.
“Maybe I’ll add that to whatever hostile-takeover-style negotiations you’re planning,” I mutter.
“If anyone is hostile in this relationship, it’s you,Mrs. O’Connor.” He moves into the bathroom, stripping pieces of his tux along the way. I wish I could say I looked somewhere, anywhere else, but that would make me a fucking liar. “But I’ll make note of your request.”
“If you think I’m taking your last name, you really are insane,” I say, but I don’t know if he hears me over the running water. My mind is immediately filled with images of him in there. The spray buffeting his skin, splashing against the tile. How he’d looked, pleasure-ravaged and vulnerable. When he returns, he’s wearing nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. Beads of water trail down his heavily tattooed body, and I freeze where I’m perched on a chair by the window,brushing my hair. My mouth goes dry. Liquid heat pools low in my belly and immediately curdles to shame. How can I even think that anything about him is attractive? My brain may be aware of how evil he is, but my body sure isn’t.The traitor.
“Too good for my last name?” he asks, and when the towel drops, I spin, not wanting to take in the sight of him more than I absolutely have to. Not wanting to remember how much I’ve dreamed about him since we met.
