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He garbles, giving us nothing of worth, and once he has finished and is staring pleadingly at Connor, my boss hands me the blade and I swing, taking Declan's hand.
Screams erupt throughout the bunker, blood splatters. I love it. The metallic tang, the cries, the fear screeching to be set free.
“You bite my hand, I'll take yours,” Connor hums, tugging the weapon away and wiping the blade on a rag. We step back as Declan slumps against the table, clutching at his wound. “Might want to ice that. I think it’ll scar.”
My head drops forward, a smirk pulling at my mouth.
“Consummate your marriage, Ronan. I’ll stay to deal with this.”
Nodding, I smooth out my shirt sleeves, decorated in blood, and leave the wailing behind me.
The journey back takes longer than I’d like, but by the time I enter the penthouse, Cara is nowhere to be seen and Lola is asleep next to her brother cleaning his weapon. “You can go,” I instruct, walking away as he rouses his sister.
My wife’s curled up in the spare room, my clothes hugged around her. I click the light on, and she blinks awake. “Wrong room, doll.”
“Is that blood?”
“Sure is. This way.” I know she will follow, and when I hear the soft pad of her footsteps, I smile. I hold open the door to the master suite.
“Is he dead?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“My sister.” Cara stares hopefully at me, her red hair plaited down her back. It’s not as vibrant in this light, but a deep shade of red wine. It compliments her mossy eyes.
“Not my fucking concern.” My eyes linger on her hair.
Her hands reach up to run along her neck. “If you're embarrassed, don’t be. I always cover it up,” she informs me, her fingers trailing along the ridge of a scar peeping out from the wide collar of my t-shirt.
“Look, we only need to do this once, so let’s not postpone it any further,” I say abruptly.
Cara loiters by the bed and watches awkwardly as I undress and step out of my boxers, my cock long and hard in my hand.
“I’m on my period,” she rushes out, gripping my shirt and stretching it to cover herself.
“Don’t care.” My eyes drag from her hair to where her thighs cross shyly. “Get on the bed.” I stalk towards her, but she plants herself to the floor and lifts her chin. I pull at her hands to take control.
“Please,” she begs.
“Cara,” I warn, lifting to reveal the sexy as hell lingerie from earlier. Small hands push at mine, and her nails dig in, drawing a long hiss from me. Angry by her resistance, I lift and throw her on the bed, but she rolls backwards and staggers off the other side before rushing to the bathroom and slamming the door shut. “Cara!” I snap, yanking the handle. She pants on the other side.
“I’m not coming out!”
“And if I come in?” I threaten, wobbling the door with an aggressive rattle.
“You said we could talk.” Her voice wavers, and I drop my head on the door, my body tight and primed for something far more physical than talking.
“That was earlier,” I bite out, pushing my weight into the door. “This is going to happen, Cara, stop delaying. Connor expects this of us.”
“And you… What do you expect?” Her soft voice barely penetrates the wood.
My hands grip the frame as I consider each answer to that question. I never expected being married, so I never held expectations, but now that she is here, I want her to trust my decisions and not question them. I want her to not fucking run from me. I want her to open those little legs whenever I want between them. Because fuck me, I want between them.
Most men demand respect, but Cara will never respect me if I force her. She could barely hold her father’s eye at the wedding. She despises him. I need her to be complacent, open. I need her trust to gain access to any inside information she has.
“I want you to learn to lie better because it’s not just your head on a platter.” I rap my fingers on the door, and she goes quiet. “It’ll be mine when Connor learns I didn’t seal the deal.”
I walk out of the room.
