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No dreams or wishes.
Just a vessel.
That’s all I was.
My mouth tightened at the thought, the strange passion he’d stirred in me fading in a heartbeat as I thought about how I’d proven myself a long time ago.
I could have escaped the Bratva Brotherhood and made something of myself. I could have gone to a community college, could have tried to get a job. Instead, I’d become a waitress and then I’d become a whore for a biker.
I reallywasa vessel, a—
“Camille? Are you all right?”
I blinked at him, saw his eyes were trained on my hands and I gasped when I saw the blood peeking out from between the creases of my fingers and palms.
Embarrassment had me dithering, the tremor working down my wrist as I wondered how I could wipe away the blood with no paper towels in my purse.
My cheeks grew hot, my heart started to pound, and the nausea swirling around my belly made me wonder if I was going to puke all over my lap. Then, he reached for my arm and turned it over. He tapped my clenched fingers in a silent order when they remained furled, but I ignored it, and kept them tightly curled, knowing he’d see what lay beneath.
With his free hand, he reached over and tipped my chin up. His calluses against my tender skin had me shivering inwardly, before he rasped, “Tomorrow, you’re going to be my wife. It might start out as an arrangement, but I will know everything about you, Camille.
“I’m not the kind of man who appreciates secrets. I prefer to know what I’m up against before I dive into anything. So don’t try to bullshit me and paint yourself as being as meek as a Russian doll. You might con your father with that trick, but you won’t fool me.”
My brow puckered as I corrected, “Matryoshkadolls.”
His eyes narrowed. “You know I wasn’t asking for the correct terminology.”
“What if I’m as boring as those nesting dolls? What if all I know is how to be meek? Mild?”
“A mild woman wouldn’t approach an Irish mobster and force his hand into marriage.” The simple statement had me cringing.
“For survival—”
He clucked his tongue. “Exactly. When we’re under pressure, we’re at our most interesting. When you were younger, you chose flight. Now you’re older, you chose to fight.” Brennan reached up and pressed his thumb to my bottom lip. It pulled away from my teeth as he dragged it down, and he stared at the slight opening before rumbling, “Now, you’ve won this battle because tomorrow, by this time, you’ll be my wife. Just don’t push your luck. Open your hand.”
Pinching the tiniest piece of flesh on the side of my cheek between my teeth, I bit down and did as he asked. His gaze didn’t move from mine for what felt like endless seconds, when a strange heat arced between us.
It was raw, which wasn’t exactly something I was used to.
It was real, when everything in my world was a lie.
I wanted to ask him what he wanted from me, but that was a pointless question. I was forcing him into this, dragging duty up when a man like him should feel nothing of the kind. That he did should give me hope, but I’d long since learned that hope was more dangerous a drug than heroin—and I was many things, a fool, a meek doll, but I wasn’t that stupid.
His glance finally drifted down to my hand, and he arched a brow at what he saw.
Without even looking, I knew what he was seeing.
Scars. Cuts. Fresh and old. Scabs. That was where the blood came from.
“You self-harm?”
I hadn’t while I was away, but the second I’d returned to my old life, I’d returned to old habits too. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
His lips twisted into a snarl. “What would you call it?”
I blinked at him. “None of your business.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Camille. It is my business. These hands are going to be wrapped around my dick. They’re going to hold my babies.”
