"No."
Luc groans. "Gem?—"
I shoot him a glare. "Stay out of this, Luc," I snap, turning back to Saint. "I'm not dancing with you."
He wraps his hands around my waist. They circle me completely, and he presses me against his body. He smells like sandalwood and citrus, and I hate how I like it.
"Come on, little wife," he whispers. "Let's finish this show."
The wedding reception ends at midnight, and I thank God for it.
One more minute.
One more second.
And I was liable to throw myself from the highest balcony of my family's home and end up a Jackson Pollock on the streets of New York.
A fitting end.
I'd smiled until my face ached, accepted congratulations from people who knew this marriage was against my will and pretended that every look and touch from Saint didn't make my skin crawl.
"Planning to scowl all night?" Saint’s deep voice breaks me out of my thoughts.
"What?"
He rolls his eyes. "I'm trying to be nice, Gemma. Give you a house tour, explain the rules. The least you can do is pay fucking attention."
I scowl harder as he opens another door. I hadn't been paying attention, stupid on my part, but I wasn't going to admit that.
"The bedroom," he says, gesturing to the space.
It's large with a massive four-poster in the center. The colors are neutral and warm, and the entire place is lifeless.
I swallow heavily. "Mine or yours?"
He rolls his eyes. They are his most stunning feature—a dark green that reminds me of forest moss. They'd be nice if they weren't always so emotionless. Saint's face gives nothing away. He's like a blank slate a majority of the time.
Doesn't bode well for an easy future.
The door to our new bedroom closes behind us with a finality that makes my stomach clench. This is it.
No more pretending.
No more performance.
Just me and the tattooed psychopath I've been legally bound to six hours ago. My stomach rolls. I'd held out hope for months that I'd somehow escape this, so I feel like I'm walking to my death right now.
It's almost worse than the walk down the aisle. Because here, there's no show. Nowhere to run.
I stand, back to the door, watching Saint loosen his tie.
Those unsettling green eyes track my every movement. He's ditched his suit jacket somewhere during the reception, and his white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal more of the ink that covers his forearms. He looks dangerous. Feral. Like barely contained violence wrapped in expensive Italian cotton.
"Let's get something straight," he says, pouring himself a drink from the bar cart. He doesn't offer me one. I wish he would. The buzz from the champagne has worn off, and I need something for my nerves.
"My uncle wants an heir. That's what this marriage is for. So, we'll fuck until you're pregnant, then we can live our separate lives. I'll have my whores, and you can have your books or whatever the fuck Nero princesses want. You can keep the kid, and I'll bother you as little as possible. Sound good?"
The casual cruelty shouldn't surprise me. He's done nothing but insult me every chance he gets, and yet, him telling me I'm nothing more than a broodmare for his uncle pisses me off.
