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‘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.
I’m married to the man who is going to kill me if I don’t get away from him.
I was a mess.
More than that – I was fucking doomed.
I rested my face in my hands and cried.
CHAPTER TWENTY
DORNAN
Mariana hadn’t said a word while Franco was tattooing the ring onto her finger. It was tradition, but neither of his other wives had gotten them, and Dornan hadn’t pressed the issue. But his Mariana . . . she was something to be coveted. She was something to be marked.
And marking her was exactly what he wanted to do right now. He wanted to rip the fucking bathroom door off its hinges, pick her up, throw her onto the bathroom vanity and fuck her until she screamed and he had to gag her. He wanted to kiss those soft, dewy lips, get them wet and swollen, and then push her onto her knees so that he could slide his dick right into her wet mouth. He wanted to come all over her face, her beautiful tits, her ass. He’d been waiting for the day when he could have her freely, when his father would finally allow their union to be official . . . But there was one problem.
She was locked in the bathroom.
Had been for the better part of an hour.
She wasn’t coming out.
