Chapter 4 #2
The woman in question goes pale, but her manager speaks. “Your… husband?” She looks between me and Killian as he slides his fingers into my grip. She soon regains her composure though. “I will speak to Sophia about it. I am so very sorry. Is there anything we can—”
I butt in, because I’m seething when I see Kill’s lips turn downward.
I brought him here with a promise of luxury at his fingertips, and he gets harassed from the get-go.
“That won’t cut it. This is his first time here, and he has every right to sample whatever he pleases, whether he fits Sophia’s vision of the perfect client or not.
I will never stand for my family being insulted and treated as less than. ”
Other customers watch us in silence, and I am fine with that. I pull Killian close and place both my hands on his shoulders. “I will never again cross your threshold, and my mother will hear about this situation too. Don’t bother completing her order!”
“Mr. Van der Horn, I am so—” the manager tries, but I just shake my head, and turn around, storming out of there with Killian.
I still can’t believe this has happened, and my mind conjures violent deaths for all the Jardin de Oud employees followed by the place burning down.
Killian might have been a stranger yesterday, but I’m responsible for him now.
He’s family. He’s my husband, and my head throbs with fury when I imagine how upset he must be.
He might be used to bar scuffles, but words from bitches like Sophia can cut deeper than a knife.
He’s proven to be quite chatty, so his silence makes me uneasy. I don’t want the fire in him extinguished even if it means I’m the one getting burned sometimes.
“I’m so sorry about this,” I say, leading him toward a bench under an old tree.
I hate that he’s now like a puppet letting me adjust him in whatever position I desire, but what just happened must have been quite a shock.
“Did I not do enough? Shall I go back there? Break something?” I ask, crouching at his feet.
He snorts but won’t look into my eyes. “It’s fine.” He shrugs.
“It’s not. No one treats my husband that way.”
My heart skips a beat when the words catch his attention and he finally meets my gaze. “No one’s ever stood up for me, you know?” Maybe that’s why he’s so fast to bristle like a porcupine. But I can work with that. With gentle touch and soft words, I can make him believe me.
“I’m sorry. But I’m here now, and I will always be in your corner,” I tell him and squeeze his hands. I can smell all those samples on him now, and while it’s a dense cacophony of scents, I still want to taste them on his skin.
“For real, or just pretend? I’m getting a little confused.
” The studs on his jacket might be a warning sign, but I can see they’re there to protect a vulnerable core, which I now see shining through his big brown eyes.
Only now it strikes me he might want the kind of protection I’d provide for my partner.
I didn’t expect this question. My world works in absolutes, and when I feel dedication, it’s so complete it burns in my chest. That’s how I feel about him now, and this compulsive need to protect him is not a fantasy nor a lie. Do I really have to be reasonable?
“That depends whether you stay my husband after Christmas is over.”
“So that’s on the table?” A playful smile is back on his lips and I’m surprised how much joy that brings me.
It’s a strange dichotomy, since I thrive on the power I’ve got over him, yet enjoy the way he’s already wrapping me around his little finger.
Is this what it would be like to have a husband?
A man to cherish, talk to every day, and watch the sunsets with?
Who knows, maybe with time he’d even learn to mend the simple injuries I sometimes acquire on the job?
Could my solitary life change for the better if this guy were a permanent fixture in it? What’s the worst that can happen? He saw me kill and isn’t losing his mind over it. Finding someone who accepts what my family is involved in has always been the greatest hurdle.
“Nothing is off the table. I like you, and I think you feel the same about me already, don’t you?” I ask, squeezing his knee.
He bites his lip and nods. “Probably a little too much. I even got you something.” He pulls a lip balm from his pocket. It has the lavish Jardin de Oud branding.
I shouldn’t be that surprised, but I still click my tongue and shake my finger at him. “That’s a nasty habit, but you’re forgiven this time, handsome.”
We look at one another for a moment I want to last forever, but in reality, time is ticking by, and we still have plenty of shopping to do.
“Let’s book ourselves in for hair and manicure appointments and then crash the shops.
I won’t be leaving your side,” I promise and rise to my feet, offering him my hand.
First, we visit a different perfume store where I learn my husband’s favorite scents are rose, orchid, and jasmine.
He even tells me why he likes them, how he finds it fun to subvert expectations when the scent contrasts with the rest of his look.
I see that softness in him now, and it pisses me off to think he admitted no one ever stood up for him.
What kind of shitty losers were taking advantage of him?
This time, the staff attend to him like he’s royalty and I love to see him flourish. When treated right, he’s not rude to anyone, and I’m surprised at how polite he can be when he wants to.
We send the bags of cosmetics to the visitor center for later pickup, and head to get clothes next.
I can be a little indulgent with my shopping, as I favor good quality, cashmere, and Belgian chocolate, but today, I’m more excited to swipe my card for my husband than to treat myself.
Maybe it’s the thrill of the fuck-you to my family I’m about to enjoy, or being here with a man on my arm in public, but I’m giddy like the first time I kissed a man.
It was on a vacation in Italy, and I tell Killian about that summer over lunch.
After some initial coaxing, he goes all-in at some of the brands that sport alternative clothing styles.
He doesn’t need to rip his own jeans anymore when I can drop five grand on a pair that looks like they came straight out of the trash.
One of the rips goes right across his thigh, and I’m excited to see that bit of flesh.
He insists on keeping his jacket, but hardly minds getting two others.
I also get him a pair of boots. They look as if the cobbler made them out of creatures from the Alien franchise, and while I suspect they won’t be very practical for everyday wear, I can’t say no to Kill’s pleading eyes.
We then take a break at the beauty parlor, where Kill gets his hair styled.
He doesn’t change it much, but his undercut gets a trim, and he gets every hair nourishing treatment on offer.
While one person works on his green mane, another tends to his nails.
By the time we leave, his fingers look as if he’s dipped them into the heart of a vampire, and one of the women working there even offers him a complimentary eyeliner application.
My husband looked good from the moment I met him, but he’s now a more refined version of himself. I love it. He’s the engraved switchblade to my antique silver pistol.
I’m also surprised how well we get along when it’s not just about the lustful spark of attraction we share. I can be open with him in ways I couldn’t with past boyfriends, and he’s chatty, sparkling with crude humor I enjoy more than my degree in Art History would suggest.
My favorite boutique selling one-of-a-kind pieces made by various brands and independent designers is the last stop on our tour, and I’m particularly excited about having it to ourselves.
I booked a personal shopping experience months in advance, but now I’ll be sharing it with my Killian.
Maybe he can even help me pick something for tonight?
“Mr. Van der Horn! I am so excited to show you some of our new pieces.” The shop manager, Adriano, beams at me, pushing back his well-styled hair.
He’s buff, hot, and knows it, but he’s never been my type because I like guys smaller, tattooed, and a little messy.
Maybe it’s the fact that they’re exactly what my parents warned me about.
The kind of people not to befriend, so the forbidden flavor is now forever etched in my brain.
“It’s been way too long, but I really had no time to visit,” I tell him, following Kill inside.
My feet take me straight for the area where my favored knitwear brands are being presented, but when the lock clicks, I feel at home.
Adriano has been working here for the past five years, and while I don’t see him often, at this point he is a trusted advisor.
He stares at Kill’s boots and gasps. “I’ve been lusting after those for weeks, love them with your whole look.”
Now, this is the kind of treatment I want my man to get. I know my way around the store, so it’s only natural he would focus on a newcomer.
“Killian, this is Adriano. Adriano, this is my husband, Killian. Please show him any alternative pieces you have,” I say, rubbing my man’s back in a circular motion.
He’s so warm under his clothes. I can’t wait to get them off him, and as the two men exchange words, my gaze drifts off to the corner where, behind a red screen, thrives a different blend of designer shopping.
Right now, I want to buy everything on offer and test it all on Kill.
As Adriano introduces Killian to the store, I take a look behind the screen.
The selection of sex toys isn’t big, but like the clothes, the dildos, vibrators and leather cuffs are of the highest quality.
I imagine Killian’s legs trembling from arousal.
I could use one with a remote on him while he sucks me.
Just the idea of bringing a sex toy to my family home—
My phone buzzes, and of course it’s my mother, because I cannot be trusted with a simple shopping list. She might be right this time, but it’s not my fault from now on Jardin de Oud is my enemy.
I pick up one of the dildos, a beautiful sculpture of dark glass made of beads and shallow dips between them. I eye the description at the back of the package as I make my way to the fitting rooms in the back.
Tucked away in the privacy of booths cushioned with red velvet, I sit down on a comfortable sofa and pick up the call.
“Finally,” Mother says, as if she’s been calling me for hours. “When will you arrive? You’re late.”
I frown. “What do you mean? I told you I will be there in the evening.”
“I don’t remember having that conversation.”
Of course. When does she bother to listen?
“Well, we had it, and I will only be there in an hour or two.”
She clicks her tongue. “Darling, your father invited that Dubois girl. Without you here, I’m the one who has to entertain her.”
Oh no. Poor her.
As if I asked anyone to bring me a prospective bride.
They will all die of embarrassment when I arrive with Killian.
“I’m sure you two will find something in common,” I say, and when my mother inhales to cut in, I continue. “Look, the faster we finish, the earlier I’ll be home.”
“You don’t understand, Damen. Your father says you won’t like her, but she’s the stuff of dreams. Any man would be lucky to have such a prize, I told your father this, and he just won’t listen. I think it’s because Uncle Roger brought her, not Dad.”
I don’t know why them squabbling over this woman is my problem.
“Anyway, I’ve got to go, Mom. See you soon!” With that, I end the conversation, and then switch off the sound, in case she tries to call me again. I rise and pad out of the changing area to a scene my mind doesn’t want to accept even as my eyes take it in.
Killian is standing far too close to Adriano for my liking, his hand is on the man’s forearm, and he’s passing him a piece of paper while whispering.
Is he… giving Adriano his number?
Jealousy greener than Kill’s hair floods my stomach then rises in my throat like acid.
He is my husband, and I will not let him forget it.