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Two
Eoghan
Declan clappedme on the back mere seconds after Father Doyle, the boring bastard, declared Inessa and me man and wife.
I shot him a look over my shoulder, saw he was grinning at me—seeming to be genuinely pleased on my behalf—and rather than scowl at him, I shot him a wary smile before I turned back to the aisle and Inessa, and I started down the path that ran by the pews and into the South Transept.
We had to sign the registrar next, so we followed Doyle to the side chamber where the legalities would be dealt with. When we entered the small room, it was empty, but I knew people would be filtering in shortly.
People like my father and hers.
Though I’d kept a hold on my temper throughout the ceremony—just—now that I was out of there, I felt like a pressure cooker that’d been left on the stove for too long.
I was going to burst.
And I didn’t intend for Inessa to be on the receiving end of that tonight.
I knew she was a virgin, knew it like I knew my fucking name, and there was no way I was blowing off my rage on her body when she was new to this shit.
I needed a long, hard fuck, but I wasn’t going to get it.
Also, I wasn’t going to scare the shit out of her. She was my wife, whether she or I wanted her to be, and we were going to be stuck together for a long ass time. No way did I want her flinching every time I fucked her. Not only would that drive me insane, but it would kill my boner.
I was a dangerous man, and I knew it. I owned it. But even though she wasn’t my chosen bride, I’d never hurt her.
The fucker who had, on the other hand, I didn’t have any loyalties to.
“Who did it?”
She jerked in surprise at my question—like she’d thought I was going to drop it or something.
She’d been staring around the side chamber like it housed a museum-worthy exhibition.
Spoiler alert, it didn’t.
There was a table, a chair, some flowers on said table, and aside from a lectern with a bible on it, that was pretty much it.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, her voice low. Husky.
It pleased me.
In fact, it did more than please me.
It was sexy as shit.
Though there was no hint of the motherland to her tone—something I was relieved about, because I hated fucking Russians and didn’t need the reminder she was one whenever she opened her goddamn mouth—neither was it the high-pitched drawl I was used to from New Yorkers I had on my speed dial. Although she was from Brighton Beach, she spoke like a lady, I guessed. Nothing brash about her, from her voice to her face to her wedding dress.
Demure.
Gentle.
It made me want to break the conditioning she’d been forced to adhere to, made me want to ruffle her, and…
Well, safe to say, do things I felt sure she wouldn’t be happy about.
“Was it your father? Or that slut of a wife of his?”
Her eyes flashed for a second—in anger? Then she snorted and raised a hand, clapped it to her mouth, and giggled.
