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His suit sleeve brushes against my bare arm, and I focus on the feel of the material. I don’t think he knows it’s touching me, and for some sick reason, I don’t pull away.
What sort of issues do I have to still be attracted to my kidnapper, prison warden, and now forced fiancé?
I have to say that now that I know he wants me for a wife, I’m breathing a little easier and not looking over my shoulder as much.
But they are the same issues that caused me to run straight into the belly of the beast after that night of meeting him at the club. My common sense urged me to leave and never look back, but I couldn’t. I have a mission.
Fuck the mission.It’s blown to bits now. I need to get out alive.
We are finally standing, leaving the church, walking outside. I take another deep breath, glad to be away from prying eyes and out of sight of the coffin. Staring at it was making it hard for me to inhale, and I think maybe some guilt actually did set in. To me, Bertrand’s a monster, but maybe to some of these people, he was a person. I didn’t think about repercussions until now, but every action has an opposite reaction, and I was forced to sit through mine.
Lilliana hooks her arm through mine, pulling me toward her. “Come. I want you to meet my mother,” she says, her soft signature smile aimed in my direction.
She makes it hard to dislike her, and if I hadn’t seen with my own eyes her extremely stoic and dry face during the funeral, I might have felt bad that I murdered her father.
Helped murder.
Co-murdered?
We stop in front of Sylvia. She’s around our height with blonde hair and a sharp face. She’s beautiful but in a scary way, and the look she gives me doesn’t ease that impression.
“Mother, this is Wryn,” Lilliana says.
I extend my hand. I can feel eyes on us from people wondering what’s going on.
Sylvia doesn’t accept my handshake and instead raises her head slightly, staring down her nose at me. “Wryn, I haven’t heard much about you.”
I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be a slight or if she truly isn’t sure who I am.
“Nor I, you,” I say, internally shaking my head at whatever hoity-toity phrase just left my mouth.
One more scathing look, and she abruptly turns, falling into the arms of a friend, where she raises her tissue and resumes the facade of a fractured widow.
“That went well,” I whisper to Lilliana, who tilts her head toward me, a knowing smile on her face.
“She will warm up to you,” she says, and I stare incredulously.
“I doubt it,” I say. Not sure I want Sylvia to be warm toward me. I’m going to do everything I can to avoid her. “I’m sorry, but your family is really weird.”
“And it seems like you are about to join in,” she says, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised. Her skin is smooth, and out in the sunlight, she’s practically glowing.
“Seems like it,” I say for lack of anything better.
I’m not sure what Connor has told his sister about me, but she seems to like me—the only one here who probably does—and I don’t want to mess that up.
“Come on,” Connor says, startling me.
His body presses in close to mine, and he extends one elbow for me to take. My fingers slide along his coat material, feeling the heat from his body underneath, and I shiver. I can smell him—masculine body wash mixed with his scent—and I turn to look up at his face. He looks straight ahead, walking toward the gravestones laid out in perfect lines until we get to the plot reserved for Bertrand. I’m surprised. I figured he would be interred inside a large mausoleum or something weird like that.
The graveside service passes quickly. By the end of it, my feet are aching, and I’m severely thirsty and confused. Connor doesn’t stray from my side, but he doesn’t acknowledge me either. He doesn’t introduce me to anyone, and no one tries to speak to me. I’m not sure what the purpose of me attending this funeral was, but it wasn’t for me to get to know anyone.
“Are you ready to go home?” he asks me, jolting me from my thoughts.
I glance up at him. The sun is behind him, framing his hair, making it look reddish-brown in parts. It looks thick and luxurious, waiting for someone to push their hand into it and mess it up.
I resist.
“Yes,” I say, weary.
