Chapter 7 Maeve
MAEVE
Ifeel like I can’t breathe. Like I’m going to suffocate and die right here, in a cloud of tulle. Maybe that would be for the best. At least we wouldn’t have to go through with this, then.
Sean says nothing, just tosses the key card on the small table near the door, and strides toward the bar. He pulls out a crystal glass, drops in a large ice cube, pours whiskey, throws it back, and then pours more, without ever looking at me or asking if I want anything.
His shoulders are tense under his suit jacket. When he shrugs the jacket off, finishing off the second whiskey before pouring a third, I can see them straining at the lines of his shirt.
He hates me, I realize, cold spiraling down my spine. He’s not acting like a man who wants me, even in the most basic, physical way. He hates me so much he can’t even look at me.
I want to cry, but I also don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing my tears.
"I'm going to… change," I say quietly, my voice barely audible over the clink of ice against crystal as he pours a fourth drink. All I can think is that he hates me so much, finds me so repulsive, that he’s going to have to get roaring drunk just to touch me.
He doesn't respond. Doesn't even acknowledge that I spoke.
I gather the overnight bag that was delivered to the suite—containing the white lace chemise and robe, an outfit for tomorrow, and a few toiletries—and retreat to the bathroom.
The door closes behind me with a soft click, and only then do I let myself fall apart for just a minute.
I can feel myself trembling all over, shaking from my fingers down to my toes, and the only thing that still stops me from crying is knowing that it will destroy my makeup and make me look even worse before I go back out there.
The bathroom is large and luxurious, with a big soaking tub, a stand-alone shower, and dual sinks.
It’s beautiful, elegant, and completely wasted on this wedding night.
Truthfully, all I want is to run a hot bath and sink into it while I hide from Sean and everything that’s expected of me out there, but I have a feeling he’s not going to have patience for that.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and wince. My makeup is still perfect, my hair still styled, but I’m so pale that I look like a ghost.
I look like a bride on her way to an execution.
With trembling hands, I reach back and try to undo the buttons of the high-necked collar and lace back of my dress, but with dawning horror, I realize that there’s no way I’m going to be able to do it on my own.
I manage to get the very top button loose with my trembling fingers, but I can’t reach the ones between my shoulder blades.
I’m going to need help. A perfectly normal thing for a bride to need—for her husband to help her out of her wedding dress. I bet for other brides, it’s part of the night. Part of the seduction. His fingers, undoing each button, sliding down her spine as the dress parts…
A cold shiver runs down my back, and my knees feel like they’re going to buckle. Swallowing hard and gathering my courage, I open the bathroom door and step back out into the suite.
Sean’s back is to me, and he’s looking out of the window, a half-empty glass squeezed tightly in his hand. I have no idea if it’s the same one he was pouring when I left the room or if he’s already on another.
Timidly, I clear my throat. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch or twitch as if he’s heard me. So, in a small, hesitating voice, I manage to speak.
“I need… help. With my dress.”
Slowly, Sean turns. His jaw is clenched so tightly that it looks as if it hurts. His green eyes are dark and cold, and there’s no emotion in his face whatsoever.
I have no doubt that Mrs. Brady was telling the truth. This man looks like a killer. Like someone who could pull a trigger and snuff out another person’s life.
And I have to let him closer to me than anyone else has ever been. I have to let him be intimate with me, touch me in ways that I can barely imagine and have only the barest knowledge of.
My stomach flips and roils, my hands still shaking as he makes his way toward me. He doesn’t want me, I think. There’s no desire in his face, no heat. I’d know it if I saw it, I think, surely.
“Turn around,” he says gruffly, and I obey slowly, feeling dizzy with fear.
I feel his fingers pluck at the buttons, hear him curse under his breath in another language—Gaelic, maybe. My father spoke it, but rarely—usually in curses as well. I hear one pop off and hit the floor, and unreasonably, hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
“The laces, too?” he grunts, and I swallow hard, nodding. When his hands don’t move to the corset of the dress, I draw a shaky breath to force myself to answer.
“Y-yes.”
He undoes them in sharp, quick movements, until the back of the dress is loose and the sleeves are starting to slip down my shoulders. My hand automatically goes to the top of the corset to keep it from sliding down, as if I need to preserve my modesty in front of my husband.
But I’m not ready for him to see that much of me yet. Not in the slightest.
Swallowing hard, I walk back to the bathroom without a word, closing the door behind me as I carefully step out of the wedding dress and reach for the hanger to put it back in the garment bag.
I feel a wistful ache as I look at it hanging there before I zip it up—how beautiful it is.
Wasted on a marriage that can hardly be called that at all.
All that’s left on me is the cream-colored, seamless silk bikini panties that I wore under the dress. They don’t match the white silk nightgown that I bought at all, and I bite my lower lip, chewing on it until I taste blood as I unzip the garment bag and take out the nightgown.
It looks perfect for a wedding night. Innocent, delicate, feminine. I'd thought… I'd hoped that maybe if I looked pretty enough, if I wore something beautiful for him, he might be kinder. Might look at me with something other than cold resentment.
Now the hope seems pathetic.
But I put it on anyway, because what else am I supposed to wear? I can't walk out there in nothing but my underwear, and I can't put the wedding dress back on. This is what I have.
The silk settles over my skin, soft and expensive, clinging to me perfectly.
It drapes over my slender body, accentuating the angles of it, molding against my small breasts.
I can see my nipples pressing against the thin fabric, hard from nerves and the chill in the room.
The eyelash lace-edged neckline dips down into a deep V that stops just above my ribs, showing the slight curve of my breasts on either side, just hidden under the delicate lace.
The same lace edges the hem, which brushes against the middle of my thighs, just barely.
In the mirror, if you ignore how pale and thin I am, I look like someone's fantasy of a bride on her wedding night.
I don't feel like a fantasy. I feel like a sacrifice.
With shaky fingers, I take the pearl-tipped pins out of my hair, letting it fall in heavy ginger waves around my shoulders, which makes my face look smaller and more delicate, more ethereal.
I blot my lipstick until there’s nothing left but a soft rose stain, take off my jewelry and put it away in the small boxes in my overnight bag, and take in a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to stave off the nerves that are threatening to overtake me.
I would be nervous and shaky even if I were about to do this with a man I loved. Even if I wanted it. Even if I’d been dreaming about and anticipating this moment.
With someone like Sean, under these circumstances, it feels impossible. But I have to do this. It was made very clear to me that the marriage has to be consummated.
This has to happen. Tonight.
With a man who can't even look at me.
I reach under the hem of my nightgown and slide the panties that don’t match off. Surely that will turn him on, I think, scrambling for anything that makes sense out of my limited knowledge. Nothing under a lace and silk nightgown made for seduction should tempt any man.
With the trembling still running through every line of my body, I open the bathroom door and step out into the bedroom.
Sean is sitting on the bed now, still holding a crystal glass with only a sip of whiskey remaining in it.
He's removed his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing strong forearms marked with scars. He looks big and dangerous silhouetted against the city lights coming in through the window, and he’s looking straight down at the floor as if he can find the answers to whatever he’s thinking written there somewhere.
Shakily, I force myself to speak. "Sean?" My voice comes out as barely a whisper.
He raises his head, and his eyes land on me.
For a moment—just a moment—something hot and intense flashes in his gaze. His eyes rake over me, taking in the white silk, my bare legs, my loose hair. His jaw clenches, his hand tightening on the glass until I think it might shatter.
Then he closes his eyes and stands up abruptly, turning his back on me as he slams the glass down on the nightstand so hard I’m afraid it might crack. The sound makes me jump.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, and it sounds like a curse. Like the sight of me is painful. Offensive.
My stomach drops. "I—I'm sorry, I thought—" I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly desperate to cover myself. "I can change if you want, I just thought—"
"Don't." The word is sharp and cutting. His shoulders are tense, his arms flexed hard enough that I can see the lines of muscle under the dusting of dark hair along them. "Just… don't."
He strides past me toward the door, still not looking at me, and I realize with horror that he's leaving.
"Where are you going?" Panic rises in my voice. "Sean, we have to—Brendan said we need to—"
"I know what Brendan said." He's at the door now, his hand on the knob. "I just need a minute."