Page 31 of Sinful Bride

"That's exactly what you're asking for. You want me to prove I'm the brute you think I am. You want me to take what I want without caring if you're willing. Well, I won't do it."

"Then what do you want?" She stands up suddenly, facing me, a flush building in her cheeks as her composure finally cracks the smallest bit. "What do you expect from me?"

"The truth." I hold her gaze. "I want you to admit you want me. I want you to stop hiding behind duty and obligation and all the bullshit your father taught you. I want you to be honest about what you feel."

"I feel nothing."

"Another lie." I turn toward the door. "But keep telling yourself that, Elena. Keep hiring your staff and pretending you're in control. Eventually, you'll realize the truth."

"What truth?"

I look back at her. "That you're just as trapped as I am. And the only way out is if we try to make something of this together, instead of you pretending you’re too good to be here."

I leave before she can respond. Leave her standing there in her perfect dining room with her perfect plans and all her lies to herself.

I have work to do and territory to secure. Men to lead. A reputation to build.

And a wife who thinks I'm beneath her. But I meant what I said last night. When I finally fuck her—and I will—it'll be because she's begging for it.

Not before.

No matter how insane it drives me in the meantime.

8

ELENA

The door closes behind him, and I'm left standing in the dining room with my carefully organized spreadsheets and my perfectly planned household staff. I sink back into my chair, my hands shaking slightly as I reach for my coffee. It's gone cold.

I should feel victorious. I stood my ground and didn't give him what he wanted. I maintained my composure and my dignity, and he’s the one who retreated, not me. I kept what little control I have over the situation.

Control.

The word echoes in my head in his voice. That rough, Irish-accented voice that shouldn't affect me the way it does. It slides under my skin and makes me feel things I don't want to feel. Things I've spent my entire life learning not to feel.

He's wrong. This isn't about control. This is about ensuring our household runs the way a proper mafia household should run. It’s about preserving some semblance of the life I expected, the life I was promised before my father handed me over to a man who doesn't understand the first thing about our world.

You're lying to yourself.

I set the coffee cup down, and I have to take a breath to steady myself. My chest feels tight. My throat aches. I'm not lying to myself. I'm being practical. I'm doing what needs to be done to survive this marriage with some shred of dignity intact.

Fine. Maybe I am trying to control something. Maybe I am building walls. But what else am I supposed to do? I'm trapped in a marriage I didn't choose with a man who thinks he can just… just walk into my life and demand honesty and vulnerability and truth when he doesn't understand that truth is a luxury I've never been able to afford.

The memory of his hands on me flashes through my mind unbidden. The way he touched me last night. The way his fingers felt, stroking and teasing until I was desperate and aching, so close to begging I could taste the words on my tongue. He made me feel things I didn't want to feel, and then he walked away and left me there, wet and wanting and furious with myself for responding to him at all.

My face heats. My body heats. A flush spreads across my skin, and I hate myself for it. I hate that just the memory of his touch makes my nipples tighten beneath my silk blouse. I hate that I’m curious about what he looks like under those absurdly casual clothes, what his muscles look like beneath the fabric.

I gather up my papers with sharp, angry movements. I have work to do, staff to hire, and a household to manage. I don't have time to sit here thinking about my husband and his arrogant declarations, or the way his eyes looked when he leaned close to me this morning. Hungry. Like he wanted to devour me right there in the dining room, spread me across the table and make me scream his name until I forgot my own.

No.

I push away from the table and head upstairs to my office—the small room adjacent to the master bedroom that I've claimed as my own space. I doubt Declan will object. If I’m lucky, he won’t notice what I do as long as I stay out of his way. Which is exactly what I want.

Isn't it?

—

The days following blur together, but the resentment builds in my chest with every one that passes.