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‘Sometimes,’ she said, catching his eye. She was fucking with him, and he hated it, but it didn’t matter, because he was about to fuck with her.
Franco, a short, rotund man with a white beard and a shiny bald head, barged out of the back of the shop, making a beeline for Dornan. They exchanged pleasantries, Dornan slapping the man on the back hard enough that he thought he might break him, and then the three of them went into a back booth.
‘Alrighty,’ Franco said, peering up at them from his five foot nothing stance. ‘What’s the big bad biker getting today?’
Dornan smiled. Gotcha. He gestured to Mariana, draping an arm over her bare shoulders. ‘My wife would like a more lasting reminder of our union. Apparently a ring isn’t good enough these days.’
Mariana’s head snapped around like the kid in the fucking Exorcist movie. She tried to pull away, but Dornan was strong. He held her to his side, squeezing her shoulders under his broad arm.
‘What the fuck?’ she hissed. Franco looked between the two of them, apparently not in a hurry at all. ‘Do you want a moment to talk amongst yourselves while I get the needles?’ he offered.
Dornan nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan, Franco.’
Franco wandered out back and Dornan released Mariana. She backed up, away from him, but it didn’t matter. He had her cornered, and she knew it.
‘What are you doing?’ she snapped. ‘Are you out of your fucking mind? You want to brand me like I’m an animal?’
He grabbed her wrist, not bothering to be gentle, thinking she fucking deserved it rough after the performance she’d put on. He’d done everything for her, and she was freezing him out at every turn.
‘It’s tradition,’ Dornan said. ‘All the wives of Gypsies get a tattoo. It’s part of your role. Or would you prefer to be marked with cum and lines of coke like all the club whores? Like I said, we can get a fucking divorce. But I need me a wife, babe. If it’s not you, I’ll have to donate you to the fine members of my club.’
‘Fuck you,’ Mariana said, shoving him in the chest. Of course he didn’t move. ‘As if you’d share me.’
Dornan chuckled. ‘I might not like it, but, darlin’, I’d do just about anything to prove a point.’
Mariana’s smirk dropped, replaced by unadulterated horror.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.’
Dornan guided her to the chair and sat her down, marvelling at how beautiful his trapped little bird was, now.
‘Yes, I do,’ he said, nodding to the ring on her finger. ‘Take that off and put it on the other hand. It’ll be a few days until the swelling goes down.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MARIANA
I slammed the door in Dornan’s face, closed the lid of the toilet seat, and sat. I looked at my ring finger, swollen, hurting so fucking brutally I wanted to rip the whole finger off. I wondered if the needle and the tattooing equipment had even been sterile.
I didn’t want this fucking abomination on my finger. A skull. He’d had them tattoo a skull on my finger, and a matching faux band so that it represented a ring. Because a piece of paper legally binding us together and a diamond the size of my pinkie fingernail wasn’t enough to seal the deal. I was surprised he hadn’t just tattooed PROPERTY OF DORNAN ROSS over my face for everyone to see.
I didn’t want this marriage.
I didn’t want to be holed up in a fucking bathroom in Las Vegas while Dornan raged outside the door, ravenous for the release that only my body could give him. He had wed me, and now it was pretty clear that he wanted to fuck me. Consummation of a commitment ten years in the making.
Fuck that.
I didn’t want him on me. In me. Near me.
I wanted John.
But John wasn’t here. He was somewhere else, and I was here, and nothing else mattered.
‘What the fuck are you doing in there?’ Dornan asked. ‘You can’t stay in there forever.’
‘Fuck you!’ I yelled back, wrapping my arms around myself and resting my forehead on my knees. I knocked my finger against my leg and cried out. Goddamn it. It hurt.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror across from me. Pale. Not the actual colour of my skin – I was Colombian, after all – but the pallor. It screamed misery. So did my eyes. Red and bloodshot. My hair was messed up. My stomach was screaming for food and my hands shook from stress and lack of sugar.
