My smile stayed intact, but something rattled in my chest. Something very close to maternal wrath I couldn’t completely understand. How lonely was Cillian that he hadn’t entertained any women in this place before?
The fact Kill had broken so many of his contract clauses with me had planted a seed of hope in my heart. I knew if I watered it with wishful thinking and faith, it would grow and blossom into expectations.
And expectations from a man who swore to never love you were a dangerous thing.
“I intend to stick around.” I kept my voice neutral.
“I hope you will.” Petar nodded. “And if there’s anything I can do to make you stay, please let me know.”
As soon as he spun on his heel and left, I made my way into Cillian’s room.
I had some homework to do if I wanted to learn who my husband really was.
I ended up dozing off on Cillian’s bed, the mixture of adrenaline, heartache, and anger making my systems crash. I should have gone back to my room, but his linens were drenched with his scent, and the temptation to nuzzle into them was too much. Besides, pissing off my new husband had become something I was dazzlingly good at—why break a tradition?
It was hours later, after the sun had already set, when a nudge to my foot stirred me awake. I stretched on the king-sized bed, blinking the world into focus.
Kill sat on the edge of the mattress, clad in a sharp navy suit, complete with a gray tie and a pea coat. His aroma—of ice, the crisp night, and cedar wood—told me he just got home. Didn’t even stop to take his coat off.
“That’s not your bed,” he announced.
“If I’m good enough to warm it, I’m good enough to sleep in it.”
I pushed up on my elbows, blowing my hair out of my eyes.
“No one said you’re good enough to warm it. I took you on the kitchen counter and against the window, not my bed.”
“Keeping track and cherishing every moment, I see.” I batted my eyelashes.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Aww, but you started it, hubs. What’s the time, anyway?” I looked around. My stomach growled, begging to be fed.
“Nine thirty.”
Jesus Christ and his holy crew.
“Do you always work this late?”
He undid his tie with one hand, shrugging off his coat at the same time.
“My social calendar is—by choice—wide open. As your legs should be every night when I come back home, by the way. It is not my job to undress you to candlelight and Frank Sinatra.”
“I prefer Sam Cooke and incense.”
“I don’t care what you prefer.”
“Rectify that,” I said dryly. “Today. Or live a life of celibacy. I’m not your blowup doll. If you want me to fulfill my marital duties, you better believe you are going to fulfill yours. You will never, ever touch my things without my permission again, move me around like I’m a chess piece, or make a decision about our lives without consulting me first. Additionally, you will be home every evening not a minute after seven, so we can have a meal together before we have sex. Like a normal couple.”
“What part of our relationship gave you the illusion of a normal couple, the fact I bought your ass like you were a discounted bread maker on Black Friday, or had you sign a thirty-seven-page contract, an NDA, and a waiver before putting a ring on your finger?” He tossed his tie and coat on an upholstered recliner in the corner of the room.
I ignored his words. The scar tissue Andrew had wrapped around this man made it hard to pierce through and touch his core.
Tough, but not impossible, I hoped.
I wasn’t a quitter, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to quit on a man who I was pretty sure had been let down by everyone else in his life.
“Furthermore,” I drawled in my teacher tone, ignoring his words, “during dinner, we’ll perform the taxing task of small talk.”
I could swear my husband actually paled. He looked like he was going to gag. I continued, undeterred.
“You’ll tell me about your day, and I’ll do the same. Then, and only then, will we make love.”
His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at the mention of the L-word.
“The answer is no.”
“Fine. Let’s go through the whole routine where I refuse you a few weeks in a row, and you march back to your bed unsatisfied, then go to the office, see Hunter waving around 3D ultrasound pictures of his future child, then do it my way.” I smiled sunnily. He opened his mouth, about to say something snarky, but he knew I was right.
He needed an heir.
I needed more time to prove to him we could be more.
“Careful, Flower Girl.” He wrapped his cold, strong fingers around my jaw, drawing me close to his lips with a snarl. “Run with scissors and you’ll get hurt.”
“I’ve been cut deep before.”
“Whatever you’re trying to do won’t work.”
“Humor me, then.”
“Humor me first.” He tugged at my leg, one hand still on my neck, and hoisted me into his lap. I straddled him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. My core landed straight on his erection, and when I looked down, I saw it nestled on the side of his leg. Swollen, hard, almost too much to handle.
His fingers trailed the delicate spots on my throat.
“I can give you anything your heart desires, Persephone. Jewelry, lavish vacations, every Hermès bag ever produced.” He brushed a lock of hair from my cheek, his voice so menacing it almost sounded demonic. “But I can’t give you love. Do not ask me for something I am incapable of delivering.”
I pressed my cheek to his palm, kissing it softly, refusing to let his words sink in.
“My heart is a terrible place. Nothing ever grows there.”
“Stop.” I shut him up with a kiss.
Maybe it was because he’d moved me here, into his kingdom. Dragged me to the underworld. Because he wanted to prove to himself that my being here meant nothing.
“Ever step on artificial grass, Flower Girl?” he murmured into my lips.
“Yes,” I growled, kissing him deeper.
“It’s shinier than regular grass but feels awful.”
You don’t feel awful to me.
His lips demanded my surrender. I yielded, riding his muscled thigh, all concerns for my still-sore butt flying out the window. He broke the kiss, his forehead dropping to mine.
“I’m going to ruin every good thing about you.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
I produced what I’d found earlier that evening on my treasure hunt in his room. I’d rummaged through his drawers, using every piece of information I could find to piece together the puzzle of who he was. My husband left much to be desired. He kept his room blank and impersonal.
Having seen his closet, I’d had no doubt Cillian was incapable of anything but an arranged marriage. His clothes were organized not only by season, but also by color, brand, and cut. He wasn’t exactly a fan of surprises.
Kill’s eyes narrowed at the white ribbon I pulled out of my bra. It nestled between my breasts while I was asleep.
“Where did you find this?”
“Your cigar box.”
“You were going through my things.”
“Your talent at deduction is staggering.” I curved an eyebrow, willing my heart to stop somersaulting like a reckless kid in the sun. “You took my things out of my apartment without consulting me. Consider it me getting even. Why did you keep the fastening band?”
“Tradition.”
“Please.” I snorted. “You’re not the sentimental type.”
He pushed off the bed, seizing the ribbon from between my fingers.
“Good point. It’s not too late to throw it out.”
He galloped to the bathroom, presumably to the trash can.
“Shame. You were so good at tying us with it,” I purred from his bed.
He stopped midway, turning around, staring at me in annoyance.
At that moment, all my energy was channeled into not having an orgasm based on that exchange alone. It was fitting that Cillian couldn’t feel anything and I was a puddle of feels. I was angry, depraved, lustful, and desperate. Every sense was heightened, every cell in my body raw with carnal hunger.
“You noticed.” A devilish smirk curved on his face.
I noticed everything about this man, so this wasn’t exactly breaking news.
“Why are you doing that?” I wet my lips.
“Doing what?” His dark eyebrows furrowed in mock innocence.
“Looking at me like I’m your next meal.”
“Because you are,” he deadpanned. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Something sizzled between us. I couldn’t look away from him.
He advanced toward me. I scooted to the center of the bed. Kill flipped me over on my stomach and pinned me to the mattress. Pressing his knee between my thighs to pry them open while my butt was in the air, he grabbed my wrists and locked them behind my back. The satin of the ribbon fluttered around my wrists, making me shiver. He wrapped the ends of the ribbon, reversing the direction to secure me in place. He did it quickly and expertly, cinching and completing a second loop to ensure I couldn’t move my arms.
“So this is how you knew how to tie us both with one hand,” I panted.
“It’s called a hogtie.” He gave his work of art a tug. “Lift your feet up.”
Next, he tied me by the legs, connecting the ribbon between my wrists and ankles. Like a little piggy about to get barbecued in a fire. I laughed breathlessly, partly because I was aroused and partly because there was something thrilling about giving up control. The bed dipped as Cillian leaned back, examining his work behind me. I couldn’t see his expression, which somehow made things ever hotter.
“Should’ve undressed me first,” I muttered into the linen, frustrated.
I wanted out of my clothes so bad they burned against my skin.
My desire scared me. It was foreign, overwhelming; I enjoyed sex with Paxton, but it was also something I could go without. The famished, depraved notion that came with being with Kill was new and frightening.
“Do you trust me, Persephone?”
His voice sounded so far away, he might as well have been on another planet.
“Yes.”
The speed and conviction in my answer startled me. I didn’t know why I trusted him, or even if I should. I just knew I did. That he would never hurt me. That he would stop if things went too far for my taste.
He got up from the bed and walked to a small desk facing one of his windows. I craned my neck to watch him from my position, tied on his bed, still in my conservative teacher dress. He opened a drawer and returned with a letter opener. My entire body blossomed with goose bumps.