“Please. You don’t really want me to be an O’Connor. Let’s be honest,” I say, when I can find my voice.
His footsteps pad to the closet, followed by the sound of him pulling on clothes. I release a breath, thankful I don’t have to spend the night near him while he’s naked.
“You’re my wife now, Catriona. Maybe you’ll understand exactly what that means after our conversation tomorrow. Though from what I’ve learned about you so far, your levels of comprehension leave something to be desired,” he says in a wry voice, and I grit my teeth so hard my jaw screams in protest.
Without answering him, I stalk to the giant bed and climb under the sheets, facing the wall. Ignoring him seems to be the best way to move forward. I try to relax despite my anger and fear, but my nervous system doesn’t recognize that O’Connor’s simply climbed into the bed beside me and presumably settled in for sleep. I catalog his every huff of breath or the whisper of sheets as he shifts to a more comfortable position as a potential threat. Is he moving closer? Is he planning to put his hands on me again?
As soon as the thought crystallizes, the memory of that night surges to the forefront of my mind. O’Connor commanding me to get on my knees for him. Crawl for him. Making me come in a crowded party where anyone could have watched.
But what he did to me isn’t the worst part of everything that happened.
The worst is that my body remembers how good he made it feel. Craves him the way it wants all sorts of things that are bad for it, like an addiction. He’s so close that I ache for him to touch me and can’t stop thinking of it.
I try to think of something,anythingelse, but the first thing that comes to mind is how he treated my father—and how much I enjoyed hearing it. That must be thedefinitionof daddy issues.
I don’t think there’s a therapist on this planet who could walk me through the seven circles of fucked up this is.
Are there medications that cure things like this? I make a mental note to look into it. I’m going to need an entire pharmacy to deal with all the trauma if I survive this marriage.
A complete chemical imbalance is the only explanation I have for hating him so much and being unable to ignore how much my body wants him. Adrenaline or mania—something. Relief. Fear. The perfect concoction of whatever the fuck forced me to find any semblance of pleasure in the worst possible moment. With the worst possible person. Is it because I’d been stripped bare, figuratively if not literally, and somewhere in the darkness of it all, there was a freedom in letting him have absolute power over me?
Does that mean I deserved it? That I’ll let him do it again?
As I struggle with my thoughts, O’Connor slowly inches closer in his sleep. So close that woodsy, masculine scent surrounds me, and his electrifying warmth cocoons me. My heart beats like a drum inside my chest, and I can’t seem to tell if my body is frightened… or excited.
That’s what eventually has me finding enough courage to steal the blanket decorating the foot of the bed and flee to one of the walk-in closets, which I realize too late must also belong to him. As soon as I’m safely enclosed inside, I flick on the light and try to steady my breathing. Which is proven damn nearimpossible when I realize it’s soaked in his scent, leaving me feeling more on edge than when he’d been inches away from me.
I don’t sleep well after that—not that I would have, anyway. My mind races with anxious thoughts, each one more frantic than the last. Every time I doze off, I’m jerked awake by the memory of our vows. Of O’Connor kissing me. Of the night we had together. The memories echo in my mind like a haunting refrain, refusing to let me rest.
Not only is the chaos in my head relentless, but lying on the admittedly comfortable carpet in the closet doesn’t exactly scream luxury. My makeshift pillow is a pile of laundry. Each time I stir awake, I’m convinced he’s about to barge into the closet and drag me out—or worse, force me to join him in bed.
That’s why I’m genuinely surprised when I wake up in the middle of the night and realize I’m still alone. Curled up in a ball on the floor, I shiver underneath the blanket, my body stiff from the cramped position. The pale light of dawn seeps through the gap beneath the closet door, casting faint shadows across the floor. My chest aches with the reminder that this is my reality now—cold, uncomfortable, and endlessly uncertain.
If nothing else, at least I’ve lived through those things before. If I can take on my father, I can handle anyone.
A thread of violent recklessness stitches itself into my soul. At the memory of Elizabeth’s biting comments and casual disinterest, my father’s arrogant sense of dominion over my life and choices, and O’Connor’s general malevolence, the good little girl I’ve tried to be all these years finally hands the reins over to the part of me who is tired. And angry. Who has been pushed so far that she can’t possibly fall any further.
My last thought as I drift back to sleep, just for a little longer, is that I can’t let any of them get to me. Least of all, O’Connor.
Because if I’m married to the devil, I won’t win by playing by his rules.
CHAPTER 11
AIDEN
My phone vibrates on the bedside table. It’s Ma. It always is first thing in the morning. Midday in Ireland is when Cian is most likely to be out of the house. Alarm shoots through me, but I don’t understand why at first.
I drag the phone across the table, swipe at the screen until it connects, then press it to my ear. “Mornin’, Ma,” I say.
“What have you done?” she says without preamble. Usually, I love hearing her familiar, comforting voice. The sound of it brings me back to my childhood. But there’s something wrong with it now. Ma hasn’t been right since my father was killed and Cian kept her for himself. But there’s a lucidity to her tone that’s usually absent. An urgency.
“What do you mean?” I roll away from my stomach, blinking rapidly, trying to clear my vision and adjust to the searing morning light. “What happened?”
“Cian left last night and hasn’t returned home. I’ve been waiting all day. I’ve been hearing whispers. You know how themen like to talk. Worse than a gaggle of hens. They’ve said your name, I’m sure of it.”
A shadow of unease has me sitting up, searching for Catriona’s presence next to me, but she’s not there. The space where her body had been when I fell asleep is barren and cold. Thoughts of how easily it’d be for someone to overpower her surge to the forefront of my brain.
“Everything’s fine,” I lie. “Probably nothing. You shouldn’t worry.”
