Page 25 of Sinful Bride

Declan crosses to the minibar and pours himself a whiskey, drinks it in one swallow, and pours another.

"You want one?" he asks without looking at me.

"No. Thank you." I adjust myself primly on the edge of the bed. “Champagne is hard enough for me.” My cheeks go pink as I realize the insinuation that could be attached to what I just said, but Declan doesn’t seem to. He’s distracted, which is insulting. I don’t want this, and apparently neither does he, but the least he could do is be present for it. It’s not as if it’s worse for him than it is for me. He gets to fuck me… I have to be fucked. And by a man I would never have chosen.

Is it so bad, though? Look at him…

I shove that thought away forcefully.

He nods and drinks the second glass more slowly, his back to me and his shoulders still rigid with tension.

I watch him and try to prepare myself. Try to remember everything I've been taught about duty and obligation and what's expected of a wife. I try to steel myself for what's about to happen.

It won't be that bad, I tell myself. It'll be quick. Mechanical. Just something to get through. He won’t feel the need to draw it out; he’ll enjoy himself and be done.

Just close your eyes and think about something else.

Declan sets down his glass and turns to face me. His eyes rake over me—the white nightgown, my hair loose around my shoulders, the way I'm sitting so carefully on the edge of the bed. "You look like you're waiting for an execution," he says flatly.

Heat rises in my cheeks. "I'm just—I'm ready. To fulfill my duties as your wife."

The words sound stiff and formal. Exactly what they are—a performance.

Something flashes in Declan's eyes that looks like frustration, even a little bit of anger, maybe. "Your duties," he repeats slowly.

"Yes."

He crosses to me, and I force myself not to flinch—not to show any reaction at all. He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "And what exactly do you think those duties are, Elena?"

"I—" My throat is dry. "To be a good wife. To support you. To⁠—"

"To lie there and think of Italy while I fuck you?"

The crude words make me flinch. "That's not⁠—"

"Isn't it?" He reaches out, and I freeze as his fingers brush my jaw. His touch is gentle, but there's steel underneath. "You're sitting there in your virginal white nightgown, looking like a martyr about to be sacrificed. You think I don't see it? You think I don't know exactly what you're thinking?"

"I'm trying to do what's expected⁠—"

"What's expected." His thumb traces my lower lip, and despite everything, despite my fear and my anger and my determination to remain detached, I feel heat pool low in my belly. "You think I'm an animal, don't you? Some rough, uncivilized brute who's going to throw you on the bed and take what he wants without caring how you feel."

"I never said⁠—"

"You didn't have to." His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back further. His eyes are dark and intense, burning into mine. "You've made it very clear what you think of me, wife. That I don't belong in your world. That I'm beneath you. That I'm nothing but an upstart who got lucky."

"Declan—"

"But here's what you don't understand." He leans closer, his lips brushing my ear, his voice dropping to a rough whisper that sends shivers down my spine. "I have more self-control than you could possibly imagine. And I'm not going to fuck you until you're begging me for it."

My breath catches. "What?"

He pulls back just enough to look at me, and there's something dangerous in his expression. Something that makes my pulse race and my skin flush hot.

"You heard me." His hand tightens in my hair—not painfully, but firm. "You think I'm going to fuck you tonight because it's expected? Because it's my right as your husband? You think I'm going to prove everything you believe about me?"

"I don't⁠—"

"I'm going to prove you wrong." His other hand slides down my throat, over my collarbone, tracing the neckline of my nightgown. "I'm going to show you exactly how much control I have. How patient I can be. How long I can make you wait."