Claiming Genevieve

14. Genevieve

14

GENEVIEVE

T wo days before our wedding, I get a text from Rowan asking me out on a date.

I have to look at it twice, just to make sure I’ve read it right. Our wedding is on Saturday, and I haven’t seen him since the engagement party. There hasn’t been any reason to, as far as I’ve been concerned—but I also just haven’t had time. I’ve been in a frenzy of wedding planning, picking flowers and cake flavors and menus and colors and linens, cramming six to eight months of normal wedding planning into two weeks. But I can’t pretend that I haven’t been thinking about him all that time.

I also can’t pretend that my heart didn’t flip a little in my chest when I saw his name pop up on my screen.

Genevieve: Why??? We’re getting married on Saturday. Can’t this wait?

Rowan: Aw, lass. I thought you’d be pleased that I can’t wait to see you.

Genevieve: This is a business arrangement. Should I be excited for a business meeting?

Rowan: It’s not a meeting. It’s a date.

Genevieve: Not according to the terms of our agreement. It’s a meeting with food and wine.

Rowan: If only all meetings were like that.

I roll my eyes, letting out a sharp breath. I’m not insensible to what he’s doing—trying to charm me, to soften me up. If I’m not careful, it will work. And that’s one thing I can’t allow.

Genevieve: This is pointless, Rowan. We signed the contract. We’re getting married. Why pretend this is something it isn’t?”

Rowan: I’m trying to be a gentleman, lass.

I’m on the verge of texting him back and telling him that’s not necessary, and that I’m too busy to entertain any ideas of a date, when Chris’s name pops up on my screen.

Chris: Have you thought about our conversation at all?

Chris: I’m telling you, you’re going to regret treating me this way.

I swallow hard, anger flaring in my chest. “If there’s one thing I don’t regret, it’s breaking up with you,” I mutter under my breath, before quickly texting Rowan back that yes, I’ll meet him for a date. Out of sheer pettiness, I give him the name of my favorite French bistro—the one Chris took me to right before the showcase.

This time, I’m getting whatever the hell I want off the menu.

I take more care than I probably should in getting ready for the date. It shouldn’t matter what I look like or what Rowan thinks of my appearance—the contract is signed, the wedding is all but planned, and we’re getting married. But I’ve always been just a touch vain, and a part of me wants to see that heat in his eyes when he sees me again. I haven’t forgotten the kiss in his office, or how it felt to have a man want me like that, when no one ever has before. Not to that degree. Not in a way that almost felt like desperation.

I put on a sky-blue silk dress that’s one of my favorites, with a bustier top and a floaty skirt that comes to just above my knees, doing my best to ignore the fact that my cast is so visible. I leave my hair down, in thick, glossy dark waves, and add a bit of light makeup and a red lip, with simple gold jewelry. When I’m finished getting ready, I glance at the time, and see that I have a few minutes left to spare. I step out of my bedroom and head down the hall, planning to go find Dahlia before Rowan arrives.

Instead, just as I step into view of the entryway, I see him there, already waiting. I get a moment to look at him before he sees me—he’s wearing a pair of black chinos and a dark green button-down with the sleeves rolled up, the color contrasting perfectly with his copper hair, which he’s tamed and swept back away from his face. My gaze lingers for just a moment on the muscled line of one forearm, his hand shoved in his pocket, before he turns and catches sight of me.

The look on his face makes me think of someone seeing the sun after it’s been cloudy for days. It’s as if his expression lights up, his gaze sweeping over me as it fills with heat, and I see him swallow hard, his throat moving as he takes me in.

“Christ, lass,” he mutters, his accent thick as he walks toward me. “You look fuckin’ stunning.”

I smile despite myself. “You’re just saying that so I’ll marry you.”

“Oh, you’re not escaping that now, taibhseach .” He offers me his arm, and I take it, making our way slowly toward the front door. “I’m looking forward to trying this restaurant. It’s not somewhere I’ve been before.”

“You’ll love it,” I assure him.

“If you love it, I’m sure I will as well.”

I’m surprised to see that the town car isn’t waiting for us when we step outside. Instead, there’s an Aston Martin sitting in the driveway—a deep metallic teal sports car that shimmers nearly black in the darkness, lit only by the lamps outside. “Are you driving us?” I ask, startled, and Rowan chuckles.

“Is that a deal-breaker, lass?”

“I hear you’re reckless.” My voice comes out breathier than it should, and I swallow hard, attempting to sound like myself again. Rowan heard it—I can see it from the twitch of his lips, the way his eyes briefly settle on my mouth. “Maybe I shouldn’t get in a car with you.”

“There are probably a lot of things you shouldn’t do with me.” His gaze flicks back up to my eyes. “But we’re going to do them anyway. Live a little, lass. What’s the harm?”

I look back at the sports car. Chris had a few of them, mostly preferring his Jaguar—which he drove exactly as someone might drive a Toyota sedan—with no risks taken whatsoever. But something tells me that Rowan isn’t that type at all. And a heat that I don’t want and shouldn’t indulge flickers to life in my belly, making my skin prickle as I look at Rowan’s gleaming green eyes in the darkness. Like a cat, watching me to see what my next move will be.

“You’re not afraid of a fast car, are you?” He grins at me, and I narrow my eyes. I hate that he knew exactly how to keep me from backing down, from calling off the date altogether. Now that he’s thrown down that gauntlet, I have no choice but to go along with it.

“Of course not,” I snap, wishing I could stride past him to the waiting car. I’m limited to the speed of my crutches, though, and Rowan keeps pace with me, making sure that I’m safe on the driveway before he opens the door for me and helps me in.

The car smells like leather and Rowan’s own woodsy scent, the seats buttery-soft against my legs. I sink down into it, clipping my seatbelt as Rowan comes around to the other side. As he slides in, I can’t deny the car suits him. He looks sexy and dangerous sitting in the driver’s seat, and I bite my lip, looking away.

I’m too attracted to him for my own good. I’m grateful for the parameters that I set on our sex life once we’re married, because it’s the only thing that might keep me from getting swept away.

As it is, I’m painfully aware of how close he is, of the warmth of the small interior of the car. He pulls out of the driveway, the car purring as he shifts, and once he’s gotten it into the final gear, his hand drops to my knee.

It takes everything in me not to gasp at the contact. His fingers brush against the base of my knee, his palm warm against my skin, and it feels as if electricity jolts through me, my muscles tightening with warm desire as that sensation pools in my core.

I bite my lip, looking away from him as my cheeks flush. I feel almost embarrassed at my reaction to his touch. I’m not a teenager, not some blushing virgin. I shouldn’t be this flustered, this aroused by a man touching my knee—but Rowan’s touch against my skin feels like a brand, like I’ll still feel the brush of his fingertips there long after he takes his hand away.

If that simple of a touch feels like that ? —

I sink my teeth deeper into my lip, pushing the thought away. I’ll deal with that when the time comes. It doesn’t do any good to think about it right now.

For all Rowan’s teasing, his driving isn’t that hair-raising. He makes a few quick turns in traffic that leave me tense and grabbing for the edge of the seat—and that make him chuckle at my reaction—but for the most part, we make it to the restaurant without sending my pulse skyrocketing.

Or at least, not from his driving. Every time his fingers brush against my knee, sliding a bit under the edge of my skirt as if to tease me with the promise of the night when his hands will slide further upward, I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, beating in the hollow of it. I can feel my breath catch in my lungs, my skin heating as if I’m already in bed with Rowan, and not just sitting next to him in his car.

It’s been a long time since I felt anything like this. I can’t really remember the last time I did. I try to recall if Chris ever made my pulse beat faster like this, if my skin ever felt hot and tingling just from his slightest touch, but if he ever did, I don’t remember it now.

Rowan parks at the valet for the bistro and comes around to open my door, helping me out as he hands me my crutches. “Hopefully you won’t have to use these too much longer,” he murmurs, resting his hand on the small of my back as I hobble in next to him. I feel that heat again, his touch searing through the thin silk. “I know you hate them.”

“How do you know that?” I ask sarcastically as we approach the hostess stand, but Rowan doesn’t take the bait. He just glances at me, his expression unruffled.

“I pay attention,” is all he says, before giving his name to the hostess.

We’re taken to the outdoor seating area out back, which is always incredibly enchanting. The tables are sprinkled throughout a garden hung with fairy lights and smelling richly of summer flowers, with a small bubbling fountain in the center. Rowan orders a bottle of white wine for us when the server comes to get our drinks, and then he glances over at me.

“I thought it would be good for us to get to know each other better,” he says simply. “Temporary or not, we are going to be married very soon. We’re going to be living together, spending time together.” His jaw tightens, and I see the muscle in it tick slightly. “Making a baby together.”

Something swoops in my stomach at the way he says it. It’s as if he can’t hide his anticipation of it, even as he’s trying to sound pragmatic and gentlemanly.

“We could get to know each other after the wedding,” I murmur, but my heart isn’t really in fighting this right now. In fact, I’m starting to look forward to the evening. Rowan’s company is pleasant, and the night is beautiful, and we’re at one of my favorite places in the city. It’s hard for me to complain about anything, just now.

“I want to get to know you now. And you, me…if you want.” Rowan accepts his glass of wine as the waiter comes back and pours it. “Can I ask about the ballet? Or is that too sore of a subject just now?”

I bite my lip, pausing as we put in our order for an appetizer of French onion soup and a cheese plate. “It’s fine,” I say when the waiter has left. “I’m going to have to talk about it at some point, right? Might as well be now.”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” Rowan pauses, taking a sip of wine. “Did you always want to be a ballerina?”

I nod. It’s an easy question for me to answer, even if it does make a pang shoot through my chest. “Ever since I was little. I asked for a pair of ballet shoes as soon as I could talk. I begged my mother for lessons as soon as I was old enough. I lived and breathed and dreamed ballet.” My throat tightens. “All through junior and high school, my lessons were the center of my world. I had friends, but I didn’t date. While all the other teenagers were sneaking off to drink and make out and lose their virginities, I was practicing. Every day, for hours after school. It was all I cared about.”

Rowan presses his lips together. “I might not know much about it, but it was clear when I saw you dance that it was something special.” He lets out a slow breath. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, lass. And if I played some part in it?—”

I swallow hard, unable to answer. A part of me still feels like he bears some responsibility, and that part of me is angry at him for it. “You should have left me alone,” I say quietly. “If you had, maybe I wouldn’t have fallen.”

Rowan’s expression dims. A part of him, I think, was hoping I’d absolve him of any fault. “But,” I continue a moment later, “I don’t know. I honestly can’t say. Chris and I were fighting even before you and I met. Maybe we still would have argued. Maybe it would have all turned out the same. I really don’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” Rowan says quietly. “I’d like to say that I hope I can make it up to you, but I don’t think anything can.”

I shake my head, as the waiter comes back with our appetizers. “There’s nothing that can make it better.”

There’s a long moment of silence as we glance at the menus, and then give the waiter our orders for the entrees. With no reason not to, I order the duck breast with blueberry sauce that I wanted the last time I was here, with garlic mashed potatoes and roasted honey carrots. Rowan puts in his order for spicy mussels with fries, and I glance back at him as the waiter walks away.

“What about you?” I take a sip of my wine, enjoying the bright citrusy flavor on my tongue. I’m not looking forward to giving it up soon, once I might be pregnant. “What have you wanted to do your whole life?”

Rowan chuckles. “I’m afraid my answer is a disappointing one. I’ve never had a purpose. I left the States when I was eighteen, wanting to put all this mafia business behind me. Of course, I couldn’t—not entirely. In exchange for enough money to keep me in fine style, my father had me overseeing our estates in Ireland, and a bit of the business there. Nothing compared to what I’ve come back to now. It was easy enough.” He shrugs. “I spent most of my time carousing. Parties, drinking, fights…” He trails off, and I raise an eyebrow.

“Women?”

He frowns. “Now, what would make you go and say a thing like that?”

“I’ve been told you’re quite the playboy.” I take another sip of my wine, looking at him over the edge of the glass. “From what I hear, your bedpost’s so full of notches it can hardly hold up the furniture.”

Rowan smirks. “I’d like to say it’s all lies, but there’s a good bit of truth to it. But there’s another truth too, taibhseach. ”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that?”

His green gaze holds mine for a moment before he speaks again. “There’s never been a single one of those women that I wanted as much as I want you.”

My traitorous heart stutters a little in my chest. I swallow, taking another sip of wine, and set my glass down. “Is that how you got them all in bed? That silver tongue?”

Rowan chuckles. “You’ll find out all about my tongue soon, lass.”

My stomach tightens. No, I won’t . I have every intention of keeping our time together as brief and to the point as possible. Letting the smirking, charismatic devil across from me get his tongue between my thighs is not part of the plan.

All the same, a shiver runs down my spine at the thought of it. From the hungry look in his eyes, he’d devour me in ways that I’ve never even imagined before.

Which is exactly why I’m not going there.

Rowan’s expression turns serious, and he looks at me for a moment, as if contemplating what he’s about to say next. “Has Chris bothered you at all, since I took you away from there?” His voice has the weight of concern in it, and I bite my lip, wondering how much to tell him.

“He sent me a lot of texts,” I admit, swirling my wine in my glass, looking at it instead of Rowan. “He’s…angry.”

Rowan’s brow creases. “Did he threaten you, lass?” His voice darkens, and my teeth dig deeper into my lower lip. I can feel the conversation on the verge of dropping over the edge into something more dangerous—something that might send Rowan after Chris, and I swallow hard. It’s not that serious, I think desperately. It can’t be . I can’t have misjudged Chris so thoroughly that it could be true that he means the things he said.

“Nothing serious,” I say quickly. “He’s just angry, that’s all. He came by Dahlia’s house, and he…he saw the ring.” I tilt my hand with the large engagement ring toward Rowan. “He was angry about that, too. He thinks I was cheating on him, and I tried to tell him that’s not what happened, that this is an arrangement. He didn’t really believe me.”

Rowan blows out a sharp, quick breath. “I could take care of him if you’d let me, Genevieve,” he says quietly. “He’d never bother you again. I can promise you that.”

“I know.” I shake my head. “I don’t want that. That’s not necessary. Alek threatened the same thing, if a bit more colorfully—but I don’t want this to turn violent.”

“You might not have a choice, lass. What if he turns violent first?”

“He won’t,” I insist firmly. “What happened at the apartment was an argument spiraling out of control. And now he’s just talking, just trying to scare me, make me feel bad that things didn’t turn out the way he wanted them to. It’s all just…just hot air. It’s all fresh. He’ll cool off and lose interest and none of this will matter anymore.”

Rowan is still frowning. “I don’t feel good about this, lass,” he says quietly, and I shake my head.

“I warned him away from bothering me anymore. I told him that the men in my life aren’t going to stand for him talking to me that way, or showing up where he isn’t wanted. You won’t, Alek won’t, Dimitri won’t. And I think he understood. He left, and I’m pretty sure that will be the end of it.”

Rowan runs a hand through his hair. “Genevieve?—”

“Just let it go,” I plead. “I don’t want to think about him anymore. He’s already caused so much grief for me. This has spun so far out of control. Just…let it go, and it’ll all go away on its own.”

There’s a moment of silence. Rowan draws in a slow breath, and then lets it out, before finally nodding reluctantly. “If that’s how you feel, lass. I’ll let it go.”

I think I hear the unspoken for now in his words, but I let it go too…for now. We steer away from heavy topics for the rest of the evening, enjoying our meal and the wine and the beautiful night. Rowan drives me back to Dahlia’s house with a minimum of hairpin turns, and when he comes around to open my door and help me out, he doesn’t immediately back away.

For a brief moment, I’m caught between him and the car, surrounded by his woodsy scent in the warm, early summer air and the sounds of the night all around us. His eyes meet mine, and he leans in slowly, his fingers brushing against my jaw.

I shouldn’t let him kiss me. I should pull away, push him away, tell him no. But I feel momentarily frozen as his mouth brushes against mine, the soft warmth of it sending a rush of sensation through me all the way down to my toes.

I don’t want to push him away. I want to reach up and run my hand through the softness of his copper hair, press my fingers into the nape of his neck, and draw him in. I want to kiss him endlessly under this starry sky, let his heat envelop me and give in to a desire that feels like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.

And if I do, I know, it will pull me under like a tide.

I have nothing to hold onto any longer. Nothing to ground myself with and give myself purpose. I’m vulnerable now, more than I ever have been in my life.

If I’m not careful, Rowan will sweep me away. And when he’s gotten what he wants, all that will be left is the corpse of my heart.

His tongue brushes against my lower lip, but I don’t allow my mouth to open for him. Instead, I pull back, looking up at his heated eyes.

“Good night,” I say softly, moving away from him.

And then, without a backward glance, I hobble up the driveway toward the house, and away from Rowan Gallagher.

—

Two days later, it’s the morning of my wedding.

Evelyn and Dahlia are both in my room with me, fussing over me the way they have been for the past hour. Outside, it’s a beautiful day—the sun is high and the sky is clear, the birds chirping, and the weather is not too hot. It’s the kind of day all brides dream of, and I can’t help but feel that it’s a little wasted on me. After all, this marriage isn’t the kind any bride actually dreams of.

Dahlia is helping with my makeup as Evelyn rolls my hair up into large rollers, my wedding dress hanging on the closet door across from us. I sit still as Dahlia pats on foundation and concealer and creamy blush, sweeping a soft champagne hue over my eyelids and handing me a rosy lip color to finish it all off. When my curls have heated up, Evelyn unrolls them and brushes them out, adding the scent of hairspray to the room as she wafts it over the finished product.

Together, they help me get into my dress, Evelyn doing up the back of it as Dahlia goes to get me my jewelry. I have a pair of drop diamond earrings that I chose to go with the dress, and Evelyn brought a vintage Art Deco diamond bracelet for me to wear as my something old. I’m just about to look around the room for anything to count as my something blue, when a knock comes at the door.

“Can I come in?” Alek calls from the other side, and Dahlia gives me a quick glance before calling out in the affirmative. Alek steps in a moment later, a package in his hand, already dressed in his suit for the wedding.

“Someone brought this over,” he says, extending it toward me. “For the bride.”

I blink, taking the small package. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s from Kian, and I frown as I unwrap it.

Inside is a flat black velvet box. When I open it, I gasp, staring down at the gorgeous piece of jewelry lying inside of it.

It’s a white gold necklace with a pendant hanging from it in the shape of a feather. It’s crusted with white diamonds, and at the top of it, in the shape of a water droplet, is a dark blue sapphire. There’s a note inside the package as well, and when I open it, my heart trips in my chest.

For the beautiful swan. Your something blue.

—Rowan

“Can you help me put it on?” I hand it to Evelyn, who drapes it over my head and clasps the necklace for me. The pendant hangs perfectly just below my collarbones, settling in the center of my chest, and I touch it gently.

“Maybe he’s not so bad,” Evelyn murmurs. “Although I’m sure giving out jewelry is par for the course for a charmer like him.”

“It’s beautiful.” Dahlia looks at the necklace. “He still has a lot to prove, though.”

I swallow hard. “He’s thoughtful,” I admit. “But you’re right. Maybe that’s just part of being a ladies’ man.”

Something deep inside of me, though, can’t help but feel that it’s more than that. Rowan doesn’t need to seduce me. He has me already, so long as I show up today and don’t back out at the last moment—the contract is signed and our wedding is today. Of all the women in the world, he needs to put in the least amount of effort when it comes to me.

And yet, the effort is there all the same.

I could still back out. I touch the pendant at my throat, feeling my heart trip again in my chest, nerves fluttering through my stomach. This has become something bigger than I expected it to be. Rowan offered me a straightforward deal, in the beginning—a brief marriage in exchange for enough money for me to start over however I pleased. Simple. Easy. But now—now there’s the added caveat that I’ll be a surrogate for Rowan’s heir. What should have been a few months of marriage has turned into ten or more, depending on how long it takes for him to get me pregnant.

I bite my lip, sinking back down onto my vanity stool as I reach for the white satin ballet flat for my good foot. I’ve made my decision, I tell myself firmly as I slip it on. There’s no point in turning back now. It will solve nothing, and I’ve never been one to back down when presented with a difficult task. There are more than enough benefits to the agreement for it to be worth sticking it out.

I just have to avoid letting my husband seduce me. How hard could that be? I’ve been avoiding the seduction of men my whole life, putting up with it only to the point that I need to and then flitting away as soon as I can. This will be no different.

The car is waiting for us when we walk out. Dahlia and Evelyn ride with me, while Alek and Dimitri take another car. I look out of the window as we drive to St. Patrick’s, trying not to think about how very shortly, I’m going to hobble down the aisle in front of an audience made up of mostly strangers. Thinking of them as an audience only makes it worse.

Dahlia and Evelyn stay with me the whole way up the stairs to the church. I swallow hard, trying to force down the knot of frustration in my chest at how clumsy I feel. I know I look beautiful—the dress is utter perfection, exactly what I would have always chosen for myself, and the long veil with the pearl headband only adds to it. But I can’t help but feel it’s all ruined by the addition of the clunky crutches that I can’t get rid of.

I don’t even have a bouquet, since I don’t have a hand free to hold it.

Dimitri offered to walk me down the aisle, and I agreed. Dahlia and Evelyn fuss over my veil, making sure that it’s perfect, and then collect their small bouquets as the doors open and the wedding march begins.

I brace myself on my crutch, taking Dimitri’s offered arm, wincing as we start down the aisle at a slower pace than we really should. I can see all of the people gathered in the pews, some of whom I recognize—Vincent, Marie, Mme. Allard and other dancers from the company. I see Alek, and Rowan’s father, but everyone else is unfamiliar to me. I recognize some of them vaguely from the engagement party, but I don’t really remember their names.

And then I see Rowan, standing at the altar, and I briefly forget everything else I’m feeling.

He’s so stunningly handsome that it shouldn’t be possible. No one should be allowed to look the way he does, standing at the altar in a perfectly tailored dove gray suit that emphasizes every lean line of what I’m sure is a perfect body. The light coming in through the stained glass windows catches on his copper hair, and when his green eyes catch mine, I see a look that I hadn’t expected to see there.

There’s anticipation, and desire. Eagerness. But there’s something else, too—a look that I can only describe as happiness . As if he’s genuinely happy to see me walking down the aisle toward him.

I try not to notice how handsome he is. Not to think about how the man staring at me as I walk down the aisle looks like everything I could have dreamed up in some wild fantasy. I try not to think about the sparks that I feel when he takes my hand, the warmth of his skin sinking into mine as I prop myself up and try to focus on what the priest is saying. I try not to think about anything other than reciting my vows, about making sure I say I do at the right moment. A business agreement. A vow to seal a deal.

It means nothing, beyond that. I tell myself that as Rowan reaches for the edge of my veil, lifting it up, just as the priest tells him that he can kiss his bride.

The kiss is brief, perfunctory, as it should be. His mouth grazes against mine, a ghost of a kiss as one of his hands rests on my waist and the other touches the small of my back—and all the same, heat flares through me at the slightest touch of his lips.

When he pulls back, I can see in his eyes that he knows exactly what even that brief kiss did to me. A small smirk quirks the corners of his lips, and I narrow my eyes at him as he takes my hand.

He’s a playboy, I remind myself. Charming, and devilish, and absolutely not to be trusted, unless he’s signed on the dotted line—like the contract we both agreed to. I would have been nothing but a fling to him before all of this, and I need to remember that. Nothing has changed about who he is, only the circumstances of our relationship.

But it’s difficult to remember that, as he helps me into the limousine waiting to take us to our reception, his hands careful on my waist and back, gathering up my skirt for me as I clumsily slide to the other side of the car. It’s difficult to remember later, when I glance nervously at the dance floor as I pick at my dinner, and Rowan catches my gaze.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says calmly, as if he can read my thoughts. “There won’t be a first dance. I can only imagine how it would make you feel to have to try to dance in front of everyone right now.”

I can feel myself melt a little as he says it, but I frown. “Won’t your father be annoyed that we’re skipping that particular tradition?” I was given a lot of freedom in planning our wedding, but Rowan had warned me that his father wanted it to be as traditional as possible, and to keep that in mind while planning.

Rowan shrugs. “I don’t give a shite about tradition. I’m not putting you on display for all of them with the way things are right now. We’ll sit right here, and the rest of them can dance all they please.”

That surprises me. Not that Rowan is attempting to be caring—as much as I want to pretend that he’s the same as every other man I’ve ever gotten into a relationship with, he’s shown time and again that he’s thoughtful. No, the thing that I find interesting is that he’s so quick to eschew tradition—and even his father’s approval—for me, when he can’t do it for himself.

He’s made it clear, in the times we’ve talked about it, that he feels he can’t escape the responsibility that’s been placed on his shoulders. He feels the weight of that duty keenly, even if he doesn’t want it. Those traditions, the ones of inheritance and legacy, he can’t break away from, whether he cares about them or not.

All too soon, the reception winds down. I’m half-grateful for it and half-dreading it. I’m exhausted from the long day, and my face hurts from smiling at every person who came by to congratulate us. I’m hungry because I barely picked at my food, but I also don’t think I could eat another bite. And now, Rowan and I are meant to head back to his penthouse for our wedding night.

A wedding night that isn’t going to go at all the way I think he’s hoping it will.

Rowan’s Aston Martin is waiting for us outside the reception venue. He helps me into the car, grinning at me as he runs one hand through his copper hair.

“I thought I’d drive us back home for our first night as husband and wife, aye?”

My throat tightens. It’s almost as if he’s forgotten that this isn’t real, that we’re playing at a marriage that is already planned to end in divorce. But I nod, not trusting myself to speak, because he looks genuinely happy.

I bunch the heavy, feathery skirt of my wedding dress around my feet as he closes the door. A moment later, he’s in the driver’s side, revving the engine as he puts the car into gear and pulls away from the venue.

I swallow hard as he pulls out onto the road, his hand leaving the gearshift to touch my leg. I can’t feel his touch through the layers of feathers, and Rowan glances over at me, smirking.

“This dress looks bonnie on you, taibhseach . But I like it better when you’re wearing something that lets me touch you.”

My throat feels too tight to speak, still. I reach up instead, brushing my fingers against the back of his hand, and I feel him tense. As if my touch has the same effect on him. As if just my fingers brushing over the back of his hand sends desire raging through him like a wildfire.

He pulls into the parking garage of his building, killing the engine and coming around to help me out of the car. My heart is beating rabbit-fast against my ribs as we make our way to the elevator, and I draw in a slow breath as we step inside and Rowan taps his keycard against the reader.

“We’ll move your things over in the next couple of days,” Rowan says, as the elevator heads up. “I can have some guys handle it. No need for you to worry. You need to rest as much as you can,” he adds, glancing at me. “Focus on that, and rehab for your ankle. There’s nothing else you need to concern yourself with.”

I manage a small smile. “Thank you,” I say softly, as the elevator door chimes and opens, leading out to the entrance of Rowan’s penthouse. There’s the usual security outside, but they barely glance at me as Rowan leads me to the front door and unlocks it.

We step inside, and I’m reminded of how much more I like this space than when I lived with Chris. I could get used to living here, I think, and before I can banish the dangerous thought away, Rowan scoops me up into his arms bridal-style, my feathered skirt spilling over his arms in a cascade of fabric as he lifts me.

“Holy hell,” he laughs, bringing me in against his chest. “How bloody much can feathers weigh? You weren’t like this the last time I lifted you, lass.”

“Say that again, and I’ll make you put me down,” I threaten. “Are you actually asking me if I gained weight on our wedding night ?”

“Not at all, taibhseach ,” he assures me. “I’m only commenting on the dress, that’s all. Which I’m eager to get off of you,” he adds, and the heat in his voice is unmistakable.

My stomach swoops. I swallow hard, pressing my lips together as he carries me up the stairs, all the way up to his bedroom. I’ve never seen it before—I’ve only ever been on the first floor of the penthouse. Apprehension sweeps through me, and I glance up at him.

“Isn’t there a guest room?”

Rowan narrows his eyes. “No, lass. But aside from that, even with our agreement in mind, I want my wife to sleep in my bed with me.”

My wife. My stomach tightens at the possessiveness of the phrase, the way he says it, as if to remind me that for a little while at least, I am his. He sets me down gently on the edge of the bed, stepping back, and I can see the heat in his eyes as his gaze sweeps over me.

“I’ve wanted this for a long time, Genevieve,” he murmurs, and the way he says my name sends shivers over my skin, my heartbeat picking up to an even faster pace as Rowan shrugs off his suit jacket.

“Wait!” I blurt out, and Rowan pauses, confusion flitting over his face.

“What is it, lass?” he asks, and I draw in a breath, meeting his eyes.

“We’re not…” I let out the breath slowly, my fingers digging into the edge of the bed. “I’m not going to have sex with you tonight.”