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“You need to slow down,” I blurt out.
He goes quiet and he can’t hide the devastation in his eyes. I slide off his lap, unsure what to say. The fire crackles, the dogs snore. I back up to the bottom of the stairs.
“I…my painted mare is broken,” I whisper. “I was hoping you’d fix it.”
He stands and his face is strained. I know I hurt him, but I’m not sure how to get myself out of this situation without causing more pain. I grip the railing and back up onto the landing.
“Of course,” he says.
I swallow past my dry throat. “Thank you. I’m going to bed.”
Up in our bathroom, I splash my face with cold water. My hands shake as I dry them and tears push up past my lashes. I spread my left hand and lift it, studying the bare spot on my ring finger.
Is he expecting to get me pregnant without even talking about marriage?
I want to be married and I want it right this time. I want the ring and the wedding and the promises. And a husband who doesn’t hate me. I take a shuddering breath and it hits me thatI’m having a panic attack. My hands shake and my heart pounds. There’s a sick sensation in my chest and my head spins.
I realize now that Clint fucked me up more than I care to admit.
I don’t hear him knocking at the door until it’s too late and it’s being forced open. He crouches down and scoops me up, carrying me out to the bed. Dimly I’m aware that he’s holding me and we’re both propped on the pillows. And his boots are on the bed, propped on the folded fur blanket at the end.
I frown, rubbing my wet face against his shirt.
“Boots are on the bed,” I whisper.
He laughs. “Hush, it’s fine. We have a washing machine.”
My lids feel sticky and I don’t care what he thinks about me anymore. He’s seen me in every compromising position. With my hair messy, my eyes swollen, gagging, begging. He’s seen my rage, my wrath, my vengeance. And I’ve seen his, laid out in all its ugliness.
I’ve only loved him for a short time.
But I know him. I stood witness to his vengeance.
“Why don’t you marry me, sir?” I ask softly.
He turns abruptly, flipping me onto my back. He leans over me and slides his hand up my forearm to weave his fingers through mine. Pressing my hand back against the pillow.
“I don’t know what will happen in this next chapter, but I know who I am in it,” he says. “I am your husband, redbird. I thought that went without saying.”
Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. I wish I didn’t cry so easily, it’s so fucking embarrassing.
“Really?” I whisper.
His jaw works. “I killed Clint because he was sleeping in my bed with my wife.”
My breath hitches. Deep down, I know I should be horrified. But instead, I feel the slow burn of arousal kindle between my thighs.
“What does that mean?” I whisper.
“It means, of course I’m going to marry you.”
There’s something about the intensity of his voice that’s setting me off. That growl at the end of his words has me burning. I writhe slightly and his grip tightens, holding me to the bed.
“You are the mother of my children,” he says. “My wife.”
My eyes are wide. My lashes are wet.
How does he always get me like this? Aroused and in tears seems to be my default mode when I’m in bed with him. But I don’t have time to think about it because he bends and kisses my mouth and my body sets on fire.
