Chapter 7 #2
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Say that again.”
“Why?” I challenged. “Afraid it’ll remind you this is temporary?”
His jaw tightened. A muscle ticked in his cheek.
“Let this be the last time you mention time limits,” he said, stepping closer, crowding my space without touching me yet. “We’re married. That’s the reality everyone else sees. That’s the only thing that matters.”
I tried to step back, needing air—space that wasn’t saturated with him—but his hand shot out, fingers closing around my waist like iron bands.
He pulled me forward instead.
The contact stole my breath. Not because it was rough—but because it was controlled. Because I could feel the restraint in it, the choice not to grip harder.
“Don’t touch me,” I said, planting my palm flat against his chest.
His heart was hammering beneath my hand.
That—more than anything—shook me.
His grip loosened. Not releasing me. Just enough to acknowledge the line.
“You tempt me,” he said, eyes dropping briefly—not leering, not devouring, but cataloguing, as if he were fighting instinct itself.
“I surely do not intend to,” I shot back, keeping my voice steady despite the heat rising in my chest. “You were the one who barged into my room. Uninvited. Unannounced.”
“This is my room too.”
“No,” I said evenly. “This is the room you assigned me. And you don’t get to claim me just because it’s convenient.”
Silence stretched between us, taut and humming.
Finally, he let go.
The loss of his warmth felt wrong—my body registering the absence before my mind caught up, and I hated myself for it.
He took a step back, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of him.
I adjusted my grip on the towel, suddenly aware of the steam fading, the vulnerability of standing half-naked before a man who’d once known every inch of me.
“If you’re done checking on me,” I said, “you should leave.”
He hesitated.
Then he stepped closer—but stopped a careful distance away this time. Intentional. Controlled.
“You smell like soap and lake water,” he said quietly. “You always—”
He cut himself off.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
“I’m not her,” I said, my voice steady despite the ache blooming behind my ribs. “And I will not replace her. If that’s what you think this marriage is—”
“It’s not,” he said immediately. Too fast. Too sharp. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Something dark and edged flickered across his face—not quite a smile, but close enough to be dangerous.
“Get dressed,” he said. “Dinner in an hour.”
“I have no intention of eating with you,” I replied, voice steady. “Husband or not, for the duration of this marriage. It isn’t in the contract—but it is what I want.”
His eyes darkened. “You will eat where I say. You will eat when I say.” He paused, the silence sharp and deliberate, then added, low and controlled, “And you will eat with me, at my table, every single day, Pen.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t a request.
It was a command.
And I hated the way my body betrayed me, stiffening in reluctant obedience.
I turned away, heading for the wardrobe—but his voice stopped me cold.
“Don’t turn your back on your husband,” he murmured.
His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade.
Then he caught up to me, his expression dark with a raw, desperate hunger—as if he wanted to devour me here and now, yet was holding himself in check, perhaps because of the agreement between us.
His gaze lingered on my chest, dangerous and possessive, while his thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle along my hip—measured, unhurried, claiming.
Every touch sent a jolt through my bloodstream. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Each movement a reminder of something my body had never truly forgotten.
My breath caught despite myself.
“I told you,” I said, forcing the words past the traitorous hitch in my voice, “no sex in this marriage.”
The sentence sounded steadier than I felt.
My heart was hammering hard enough that I was sure he could feel it beneath his palm.
Heat still clung to my skin from the shower, my nerves raw, exposed, my body far too aware of how close he stood. Of him. Of the way his presence filled every inch of space like smoke you couldn’t outrun.
A habit my body remembered even when my mind screamed no.
His gaze dropped—slow, assessing—not leering, not indulgent. He noticed everything. The tension in my shoulders. The way my grip tightened on the towel. The involuntary rise and fall of my chest.
Of course he noticed.
“I remember,” he said quietly. His voice had roughened, scraped raw by restraint. “No sex without your consent. Ever.”
The words landed heavier than a promise.
His hand tightened on my jaw—not bruising, not painful—anchoring me as he stared into my eyes, desperate, as if trying to see straight into my soul.
His thumb brushed the edge of the towel where it rested against my thigh, testing nothing, asking everything.
“But you’re my wife,” he continued, low. “And wives don’t flinch like they’re about to bolt.”
“I’m not flinching,” I shot back, even as my pulse betrayed me.
One corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something darker.
“You are,” he said. “And you’re shaking.”
I was trapped between his body and the wall now, the air compressed. His face hovered inches from mine, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath skim my cheek. Close enough that memory stirred—unwanted, vivid, cruel.
This used to be reverence.
Now it was war.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” I said.
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.
He leaned in just enough for his nose to brush my damp hair, inhaling slowly, deliberately, like he was committing the moment to memory.
“You’re afraid,” he murmured near my ear. “But not only of me.”
My resolve cracked.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then his fingers flexed once—hard—like a man forcing himself to let go of something he wanted far too much.