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Raffa woke with a pounding headache the next morning, and a heavy sense of something dark in his gut.
Fractured memories of the night before assailed him slowly at first, and then all at once, like a tsunami hitting land. The way he’d felt seeing Goran talking to her. The way he’d taken his anger at a decades old crime out on Chloe. The way he’d punished her, the way he’d used her sensuality against her.
The way he’d made her beg.
The way she’d told him she hated him.
The way she’d looked at him as though he were the devil incarnate.
Something like a rock settled inside of him.
Guilt. Yes, guilt. He hadn’t felt it before, and so it took him a while to identify it, but as the day progressed, he recognized the emotion and knew he deserved to feel it. It was eating him up from the inside out.
He would swim – swimming always cleared his mind.
Why had he allowed himself to become so invested in possessing her? His wife was a very beautiful means to an end, that was all. A convenient bride, chosen for her neutrality, chosen because no one faction within his country could object to her usurping all the other contenders. Chosen for her age and the ease with which it was presumed she would fall pregnant with all the heirs his country would require.
Sleeping with her was precisely about that, not about making her body tremble until he was satisfied she needed him.
What was happening to him? Why had Raffa let her get under his skin?
He dove into the water of his private pool, stroking the length as though a shark was at his heels. He would regain control of this – he would remember why he’d married her and what place she played within the kingdom.
Sex was sex, and he’d had enough of it to know that the pleasures of the flesh always faded. What they shared was special because it was new, that was all.
He would restrict their interaction to the bare minimum. Sex, for the sake of begetting an heir. Pleasure be damned.
Or so he hoped.
It was only two months. Eight weeks. That was completely normal. When proof that she hadn’t yet fallen pregnant arrived only hours after Raffa had left her room, Chloe had whispered every sort of promise to herself, to reassure herself that in most cases, it took time to fall pregnant.
Her rational mind knew that, but the part of Chloe that had presumed it would be as easy as looking at Raffa and conceiving, was breaking.
She had breakfast, lost in thought, trying to make sense of the feelings welling inside of her, but they were no clearer by the time her plate was empty.
She knew only that she wanted to go away again, to return to the city, to somewhere she was comfortable, where she could be without risk of seeing her husband. No, without him seeing her.
She couldn’t face him.
“Aysha?” She called, standing and wiping her hands on a napkin simultaneously.
“Good morning, your highness,” Aysha smiled as she entered.
Chloe found it hard to meet even Aysha’s eyes. “Aysha.” She moved towards her desk. “I need a letter delivered to my husband.”
“No need,” Aysha interrupted. “His security detail just informed me that he’s on his way here. Now. He asked for a meeting with you.”
“No!” Chloe’s eyes were huge. “I mean, not now. I can’t see him.” She swallowed, and turned away from Aysha, moving towards the balcony. “Please tell him I’m not well.”
She didn’t turn around to see Aysha’s reaction, but despite that, Chloe thought better of her approach. “No. Give him a letter after all. That’s better.”
She crossed to her desk again, dipping her head down as she wrote.
“I’m sorry.” She squeezed her eyes shut, hating the wave of over-sentimental emotions that were buffering her system. She’d never been like this before. She bent her head forward and continued to write, not seeing the way Aysha watched with obvious sympathy. What else could Chloe say? She was sorry. Sorry, angry, upset. With a noise of frustration she tore up the piece of paper.
She wasn’t a coward.
And it wasn’t her fault.
