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“With any luck, he will choke me to death before I become really depressed.”
“Necrophilia isn't my thing.” The deep, rich rumble from the other side of the door has our mouths gaping. “We’re leaving,” he announces, and I shoot a panicked look at my sister.
Hugging me tight, she whispers in my ear, “If he’s attracted to you, that's good. Use it to your advantage. I love you, Cara.” Shay opens the door and Ronan quips a brow when he sees my tears.
My parents don’t seek me out to say farewell. They stand off to the side as Ronan escorts me to a Range Rover, and a convoy of cars leads us off of the property.
Silence hangs between us. The privacy screen is up, and I look at his hands threaded on his thighs. “Keep looking at them like that, and I might start to think you’d like them on you.”
Silence is my only defence. It’s also all that I'm capable of. We’re leaving to consummate our marriage. I’ve had one boyfriend in my twenty years. One.
Baron wanted more, but my father would never allow it. As soon as things became serious, Declan Murphy removed him from my life. That was two years ago, and since then, I’ve been on lockdown. No men, no boyfriends, no unchaperoned outings.
“Where are we honeymooning?”
“My bed.”
CHAPTER THREE
RONAN
She doesn't need to know that we will live on the estate. Connor’s penthouse in central London is the perfect place to give us some privacy. He has amped up security in my absence, and the six guys travelling with us will keep us safe until we reach the compound walls again.
Cara keeps quiet on the ride. Her full mouth and pert nose are the only innocent-looking things about her. Her fiery red hair is pulled into a sophisticated bun, and her bright green eyes are as wild as a forest. The rest of her is all woman. From the flare of her hips to her round, perky tits. Being faithful to her was something I was ready to pass up on, but I’m eager to get her out of her dress. After my response to her question, she has been staring out the window, and I let her. Soon enough, she’ll realise marrying me isn’t so bad.
My phone pings, and I retrieve it to find a text from Connor.
If you kill her, you’ll be back at the altar with her sister.
I chuckle as I pocket my phone and lower the privacy screen, demanding we move quicker.
“Are we almost there? I'm feeling restricted in this dress,” Cara says uncomfortably, her voice sluggish.
“Eager?” I muse. One look and I can see she is several shades paler and close to passing out.
She sways in her seat, murmuring shallowly. Yanking her forwards, I flip the knife from inside my jacket and cut the criss-cross ties at her back. She snaps away a broken plea, spluttering past her dry lips as she gulps in air and slumps against the door, breathing heavily. I sit back, unfazed.
“Who sewed you into that?” My humour is lost on her.
“My mother.” Eyes closed, she leans back into the seat, breathing out in measured strokes. Her clammy hand holds the loose cups of her dress to her breasts. Spinning the knife in my hand, I lean over and run it along the seam, drawing an invisible line across the slope of her full breast. Nervous green irises flinch to mine.
“Ronan,” she whispers fearfully.
“They didn’t prepare you, did they?” My knife nicks her flesh, and a tiny pebble of blood beads up. I want to lean across and lick it; instead, I place the tip on my tongue, cleaning it.
“Uniting our families is an honour,” she recites the words compliantly, but she doesn’t mean them.
“But they never prepared you for someone like me.”
Cara searches my gaze, hopeful to find something more than the madman she met at the altar.
“No,” she admits. I was expecting some smart retort—maybe for her to pretend she is an experienced woman. Instead, she cups her throat and leans to watch London sweep by. “No, they didn’t.”
Inching forward, I remove my jacket and hand it to Cara. She pulls it on and opens her mouth to thank me. “Don’t.” I scoff. Connor would kill me if she was photographed with a ruined dress. We pull up, and she scrambles to keep her dress up as she follows me out of the car and traipses after me to the bank of lifts. It’s cold in the underground car park, and by the time we reach the penthouse, she is shivering.
Two men take position outside the door and the others move into the apartment adjacent. Cara follows and looks around.
“Look, I don’t have time to play it nice,” I begin carelessly. Her head whips around. I see the accusation in her eyes. “Earlier was me reminding you to never look at me like that in public.”
