“Bride,” I lied.
“Ah, that’s probably how I didn’t recognize you. I don’t know all that many of Calista’s friends.”
“I used to work with her a while back.” I was enjoying the perjury of being someone else a little too much.
“Ah, at the salon?”
I just smiled.
“That’s a beautiful smile,” he said, with his own beautiful smile altering the tone of his words. “The guy you were with, is he your boyfriend?”
“No.” At least that was honest. Though, I failed to mention the husband part.
The blond’s smile grew. “I’m—"
His drink was given, placed on a coaster in front of him, interrupting him from telling me his name. “Thank you,” he told the bartender, nodding his head towards the man who had already moved off to another attendee.
“After we finish drinks, do you want to dance?”
I did want to dance. I wanted to dance all the times before when Hell held out Woodrow’s hand. . . I just didn’t want to dance with Hell.
“I’d love to.” I reached the bottom of my drink, all too eager to get on the dance floor.
I held out my hand, waiting, as my company had barely had two swigs of his ugly-looking drink.
But he didn’t wait to finish, as he jumped from his seat.
His fingers barely touched mine, when I was pulled back by my corset strings like I was some kind of wind-up toy. The man reaching for my hand stumbled back, as a hand pushed hard into his chest.
“What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Think. You’re. Doing?” I heard the words over the music, though they weren’t loud.
He turned me around to face him—my husband.
My would-be dance partner held up his hands in surrender. A coward. I wouldn’t have wanted one of those, anyway. I wanted a hero. A man who would whisk me off into the sunset and bring a little excitement. I deserved it after being cooped up for so long. . . even if I only wanted it for one night and only as of right now. . . because of half a dozen cocktails.
“Hey, man. I’m sorry. I asked if you were her boyfriend. I did—”
“Hey, just throw me under the bus, why don’t you.” I laughed, turning back to the bar to request another drink.
“She’s had enough!” Hell warned the bartender with his stare, more than his words, not to deliver me another round.
“One more.” I smiled, finger in the air.
“And I’m not her boyfriend,” he said to the blond guy, with a deathly calm tone. “I’m her husband. And it’s extremely fucking hard for me not to want to rip out your throat for even looking at my wife.”
“Apologies.” He didn’t hang around to see that his apology wouldn’t be accepted, but he didn’t need to. I stole Hell’s focus. . . and his anger.
“Lighten up.” I spun back to the bar, my fingers in the air, trying to click for the bartender’s attention, ready to beg for another drink. It was nice to be intoxicated by something other than fear. It was nice to feel high, not low. But the bartender didn’t see me, and no sound came from my fingers, my pained bones preventing it.
Hell didn’t say a word to me as his fingers clutched my jaw, and he angled my head to look up at him, expecting me to move in a way that would have been impossible for him.
“Did I upset you?” I hoped so. “I’m so sorry, Master.” I laughed, notcaring about the repercussions.
His fingers tightened, lowered, squeezing my throat until I could barely breathe. He didn’t care about an audience, but he didn’t have one. All eyes were on the happy couple.
I locked eyes with Hell, seeing the coldness there, matching his touch.
It was weird to explain, but he was colder as Hell. Always. His skin and his ways.
