I bite my lip. I will not cry. I won't give him the satisfaction. He can take this, but that's it.
He starts moving. Long, deep strokes that make me acutely aware of every inch of him inside me. It hurts, but the pain is already fading to a dull ache. My body adjusting. Accepting.
I stare at the ceiling and start counting.
One. Two. Three.
"Look at me," Saint demands.
I keep counting.
Four. Five. Six.
"Gemma. Look at me."
I don't.
He grabs my jaw, forcing my head down, my eyes to meet his. "If I'm inside you, you at least look at me."
I look. Watch his face as he fucks me because that's what this is—fucking, not making love or anything soft. Watch the concentration in his eyes, the slight furrow between his brows. Watch him chase his release in my body.
It doesn't take long. This isn't about pleasure—mine or really his.
He finishes with a groan, and when I feel his warmth spill inside me, I sigh in relief.
The potential beginning of the heir everyone wants so badly. The possibility for freedom.
It tastes sweet on my tongue.
Saint pulls out and rolls off me, breathing hard. "Well. That's done."
I lie there, staring at the ceiling again. Something wet slides down my thigh—him, mixed with blood. Evidence of my degradation.
"You should clean up," he says, not looking at me. "Bathroom's through there."
I sit up slowly, everything aching. I spot the white robe hanging on the bathroom door and grab it, wrapping myself in it before I cross the room. I don't look at Saint. Don't want to see if he's watching me or if he's already lost interest.
The bathroom is obscenely luxurious—all marble and gold fixtures. I hate it. I start the shower, step under the spray, and let it wash away the evidence of my wedding night.
This is my life now.
Every night until I get pregnant. Saint, using my body like a vessel. No tenderness. No affection. Just biology and duty and alliance.
I scrub at my skin until it's red and raw, trying to wash away the feeling of him. It doesn't work.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in the robe, Saint is already in bed with the lights off. He's claimed the left side, so I take the right. The mattress dips under my weight.
"We'll do this every night until it takes," he says into the darkness. "Then you're free."
Free.What a word.
I don't respond. Just lie there, staring at the shadows on the ceiling.
Eventually, his breathing evens out. He falls asleep like nothing happened. Like he hasn't just taken me in the most clinical, transactional way possible.
I lie awake for hours angry enough to kill.
Saint’s lucky there’s nothing in this room I could use to slit his throat.
