The word feels foreign and wrong, like it doesn’t fit what this actually is.
I set my phone down and scroll to the wedding photo someone sent me earlier. Both of us stood stiffly next to each other while the judge droned on. She looks scared out of her mind in the photo, her face pale beneath that veil, her hands gripping her bouquet so tightly her knuckles are white.
And I look?—
I look like exactly what I am. A man who just married his enemy’s daughter for revenge.
Cold. Hard. Unforgiving.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it? To make the Ashfords pay. To have leverage over Vincent. To possess something precious of theirs the way they took something precious from me.
Except now she’s upstairs, and I can still feel the ghost of her touch on my skin, and hear her voice breaking on my name, and nothing about this feels as simple as revenge anymore.
The confusion is almost worse than the rage. At least rage I understand. Rage I can use. Rage has kept me focused and driven for the past three weeks.
But this—this uncomfortable tangle of want and hatred—this I don’t know what to do with.
I remember the way she looked at me during the ceremony. Scared, yes, but there was something else beneath the fear. When I kissed her—that brief, brutal kiss meant to establish dominance—her eyes had fluttered closed for just a second before snapping open again in what looked like shock.
Shock at herself. At her own response.
And tonight, when I’d expected ice or resignation or passive acceptance, I’d found?—
Fire.
Hidden beneath all that fear and vulnerability was heat. Real, undeniable heat that matched my own despite every reason it shouldn’t exist.
I down another glass and welcome the numbness starting to creep in at the edges. This is exactly why I should have maintained distance and treated it like the necessary evil it was supposed to be.
Instead, I’d let myself get pulled under and let myself forget—even for a moment—who she is and why she’s here.
It can’t happen again.
Whatever physical attraction exists between us is irrelevant. Meaningless. I married her to hurt her family, to maintain control, to prevent a war that would cost me more than I could afford to lose.
I didn’t marry her to?—
I snort. To what? Want her? Care about whether she’s comfortable or confused or lying awake right now wondering what the hell just happened?
I pour another glass, but my hand pauses halfway to my lips.
Her family killed Alexei.That’sthe fact that matters.That’sthe truth that overrides everything else. Vincent Ashford’s brother murdered my brother, and whether Vera knew about it or not or was involved, she’s still one of them.
She’s still the enemy.
I look at the photo of Alexei on my desk. His smile. His joy. Everything that was stolen from him.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur to the photograph. “I’m sorry, brother. I’m doing this for you. For justice.”
But the words ring hollow even to my own ears.
Because tonight didn’t feel like justice. It felt like something else entirely.
I drain the glass and reach for the bottle again, but it’s empty. What the fuck? When did that happen?
The office is starting to spin slightly, and exhaustion is pulling at me with heavy hands. I should go to bed and sleep this off.
But I can’t go back upstairs becauseshe’sthere. I can’t risk being that close to her again or trust myself not to?—
