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ADRIK
"Get Isabella in my tub," I bark to two of the maids who are standing around, dumbstruck. "Scrub her, drain the water, then scrub her again. And get her something to drink."
My bedroom has become a triage station. Usually, I'd barricade myself in my office after something like this, but I have Isabella and Emery to think about now.
They need to be thoroughly inspected and cleaned. My men need to sweep the rest of the house, including their rooms, for any kind of breach in our security.
Plus, I want them both close. The better to keep an eye on them.
Emery moves past me towards the bathroom, but I snag her arm. “No. You need to be checked, too.”
“I need to be with Isabella,” she argues.
“She’s being taken care of already. Let me take care of you.”
She looks up at me, ready to argue, but she stops. I visibly see the fight drain out of her.
“What is going on, Adrik?” she whimpers.
I turn her brusquely around and pull down the hidden zipper that runs along her right side. “Are you telling me this isn’t how you imagined your honeymoon?”
She shudders without laughing. “This isn’t how I imagined any moment in my life, ever. This is… It’s like a movie. A horror movie.”
This isn’t exactly a normal day for me, but it hardly registers among the worst I’ve ever had. I decide not to tell Emery that just yet. She’s on the verge of collapse as it is.
“Why do I have to take off my dress?” she asks. “Is that how the priest was poisoned? His clothes?”
I shake my head. “Unlikely. It was probably administered orally somehow.”
She stiffens, her face going ghost-white. “The wine.”
“If the wine was poisoned, we’d both know it by now. I just need to make sure there isn’t a chemical agent on our clothes or skin anywhere.”
It’s a shame, too. Emery looks incredible.
The dress was always going to be a showstopper. The woman is temptation itself in simple jeans and a t-shirt. In glorified lingerie, there’s no competition.
But I hadn’t expected to be so stunned by everything else. Every subtle little detail.
The sheen of the diamonds in her ears.
The glimmer of her eyes behind the veil.
All throughout the ceremony, I imagined how it would feel to twine my hand through her golden hair. To have her pink lips pressed against mine.
I shove the images out of my mind and focus on the task at hand. Living is more important than fucking at the moment.
I’m about to work her arm out of the lace sleeve when a flurry of maids come bustling in, carrying out my orders for Isabella. Emery tucks her arms in to shield herself from sight.
“Modest?” I observe. “That’s unlike you.”
She doesn’t even answer before I’m pushing her towards the door on the far side of my room. We step through it and into another room.
“This bathroom isn’t taken. We can shower in here.”
Emery stiffens. “We? As in you and me?”
“Do you know another meaning of the word?”
I reach for her dress again and she backs away. “I can undress myself.”
“By all means.” I slide out of my jacket and start unbuttoning my shirt.
Emery watches me for a few seconds, not moving. Barely even breathing, as far as I can tell. Then she turns away and slides her arms out of the lace sleeves.
When the dress slips down her body and puddles on the floor, there’s nothing else covering her. She’s completely naked.
And I’m completely hard.
Emery turns around and notices. It would be difficult not to.
“Do we need separate showers, or can you behave?” She’s trying to project calm, but I can see how unnerved she is by the last half hour. I don’t blame her. It takes time to learn to dance near death and not succumb to the fear.
“I will keep my distance,” I promise her. “Unless you decide not to keep yours.”
Instead of answering, she pads over to the shower and turns the water on. While we wait for the water to heat up, Emery moves to the mirror. She turns her face side-to-side, checking her reflection.
“I have to take all of this down,” she says. “I’m not even sure why I bothered with the hair and makeup."
I move up behind her and start plucking out pins. “Because you looked like a fucking angel.”
She catches my eyes in the mirror and then glances away, her cheeks flushed. “You look good, too. Or… you looked—"
I smirk. “Present or past tense?”
She rolls her eyes. “You know you still look good, you cocky bastard.”
“Marriage suits me, I suppose.”
She exhales roughly. “Marriage. Jesus. Are we actually married? I mean, the priest kind of lost it there at the end.”
“We’re married,” I say grimly.
“You’re sure?” she asks.
“Very.”
I’m not sure if that makes her feel better or worse, but steam has begun to spiral from the shower. I take her hand in mine and pull her towards it.
“Ladies first,” I say.
“I thought it was assholes who finish first?” she retorts.
I chuckle. “I’ll make an exception in this case.”
We step inside, me after her. The water is warm. Steam fogs up the mirrors.
Emery steps into the spray. Water streams over her shoulders and between her breasts. She tips her head back and shakes her fingers through her long blonde hair as rivulets pool in the hollow of her collarbone.
I’m so hard it’s painful.
I want to pick her up and press her back against the cold tiles. I want her legs wrapped around me while I bury myself inside of her. My wife.
I've never had one of those before. I doubt it will change anything, but I wouldn’t mind finding out just how true that is or isn’t.
But I clamp down on my desire. There will be plenty of time for fucking after we’re sure we aren’t poisoned and the person responsible is dead.
“Your turn,” she says, stepping out of the water to make room for me.
I move forward and turn my face up to the flow. Water gushes over my ears, my closed eyes, rinses out my mouth.
Then I feel a small, warm hand glide down my back.
I glance behind me. Emery is staring at my skin, pointedly refusing to meet my eyes. There’s a squirt of soap in her palm, and she’s lathering it over my skin.
“I usually bathe myself,” I say, mirroring her tone from before.
She circles her soapy hand over my back. “Color me surprised. You’re Ms. Independent and you don’t need no man.”
I turn, cup her chin in mine, and stare down into her eyes, at that red slash of a mouth, the thin trickle of mascara cascading down her cheeks.
“I need some things, though,” I rasp.
Emery shudders, but she doesn’t pull away for one impossibly long breath. Our chests rise and fall in sync. The simple contact of my fingers on her jaw is the most erotic thing I’ve ever felt.
Then, with a blink, it breaks. I let my hand fall. Emery once again busies herself with soaping me up, keeping everything well above the waist. Very chaste, very professional.
When she’s done, I step back into the water and let it wash the soap from my body. Then I reach around her to pour body wash into my cupped palm.
“Your turn,” I murmur.
