Chapter 24
KATE
Wolf’s Bentley is waiting at the curb outside the church.
This is the part of the wedding where our guests should line either side of the walkway. They should hold little bags of birdseed because St. Brigid’s won’t allow guests to throw rice. They should clap and call out good wishes as Wolf and I hold hands, laughing as we run the gauntlet.
Well, we’re holding hands, at least.
Everyone else is still inside the church. I wonder if Mam has collapsed, or pretended to faint at least. I’m willing to bet Breagha is crouching beside her, fanning her face, telling her everything will be all right.
You’re talking to my wife.
My.
Wife.
The two words jack a cable into my spine, flooding my body with an electric thrill. I’ve been somebody’s daughter. Sister. Granddaughter.
But no one’s ever called me wife before. No one’s ever fought for me, lashing out with words as cold as a snowball, as sharp as a polished scalpel.
Wolf holds the car door open for me, waiting for me to settle on the seat.
That gives him plenty of time to study the drawing on my chest. It was harder to do than I thought it would be, with the mirror reversing my every motion.
I used up all the ink in the red and green pens, filling in the shapes over and over again.
I’ll never make it as a tattoo artist. A graffiti artist either. The lettering is a mess. The C and the K in fuck are too close together.
Wolf must get tired of staring, because he finally closes the door. I expect him to slam it. This wasn’t the wedding he paid for.
But the door latches with a surprisingly gentle click.
I watch him as he walks in front of the car to the driver’s side, reaching into his inside pocket to retrieve his mobile. His fingers flash over the screen, sending a text. The phone has disappeared before he takes his seat behind the wheel.
The engine starts so smoothly, I barely hear it. That’s the same way Wolf navigates into traffic—cool, controlled, changing lanes like a glacial river.
“Where are we going?” I ask after he clears the first intersection.
“Home.”
Something inside me withers. I don’t want to see the parquet dance floor set up in the garden. I don’t want to hear the too-loud band, luring people into the Macarena and the Chicken Dance.
I’d almost—almost—rather be locked in the basement again. At least my room was quiet.
It takes me a few miles to realize Wolf doesn’t mean my home. He’s taking me to his. To ours, I guess. That was the deal. That is what Da bargained for.
I stare at the simple gold band on my left hand, turning it to catch the sun. Wolf glances over after he merges onto the interstate. “Are you cold?” he asks.
I shrug my bare shoulders.
He reaches over to the control panel and taps a button. Warm air begins to breathe through the vents. I drop my hands into my lap. The Bentley eats ten miles.
“So,” I say. “That was your sister?”
“Nutmeg,” he says. An unguarded smile breaks through his frost, clenching something deep inside me. “Megan,” he corrects himself. “I didn’t think she’d make it.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to talk with her.”
The smile’s gone now. “I am too.”
“Does she live nearby?”
“No.”
Apparently we’re not going to talk about Megan. Nutmeg. I wonder if she has a nickname for him.
The traffic gets worse as we approach DC. We both pretend Wolf needs his full attention to navigate.
Georgetown is a grid of car-lined narrow streets.
Full-grown trees arch over the road, just beginning to leaf out with the fluorescent green of spring.
Somehow I’m surprised when Wolf turns into a driveway, stopping in front of an iron gate that looks like it was transplanted from a castle.
Brick walls stretch twenty feet high to either side.
They’re topped with more iron, long spikes that curve out.
I can just make out strands of wire that must be electrified.
After checking a pair of mirrors mounted on either side of the gate, Wolf thumbs a button under his sun visor. The iron bars glides to the side.
The Bentley comes to a stop on a paved driveway in front of a house that fills a city block. The building is all red brick and rippled-glass windows. The trim is blinding white, with a gleaming black front door.
Not bothering to wait for Wolf, I open my door.
A garage sits to our right, with doors to four separate bays.
A formal garden stretches to the left, boxwood lining beds filled with daffodils and tulips.
A cherry tree arches over the far end, pink-white blooms spilling down the branches.
I hear birdsong and a distant airplane, but no other sound filters in from the secluded street.
When I turn back to the house, a man has appeared on the top step. He looks like Ichabod Crane—tall and thin, his blond-gray hair combed back on his forehead. Dressed in a black suit like an undertaker, he stares at us without emotion.
“Nilsson, this is Kate. Kate, Nilsson.” I assume that’s a last name. Maybe an only name, like Madonna or Cher.
“Madam,” Nilsson says, inclining his head a precise three degrees.
He sounds like a robot, only calmer. He must see that I’m wearing a wedding dress.
There’s no way he can miss the drawing on my chest, the hand-high letters that shout Fuck You.
But nothing disturbs his blank expression. He doesn’t even blink.
Yeah. He’s not at all like Madonna or Cher.
Nilsson steps aside to let us enter the house.
The foyer looks like a set from a feckin’ film.
The floor is made of black-and-white marble, large squares turned on end to make a diamond pattern.
A staircase swoops down from the second floor, the steps covered in rich burgundy carpet, with a banister of polished oak.
“Madam,” Nilsson says. “I took the liberty of setting up your office in the Blue Parlor, in the East Wing.” From his miniature gesture, that means the hallway stretching off to my left. “Don’t hesitate to let me know if there is anything you require.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I realize my voice has been starched and ironed, just like his.
Nilsson turns to Wolf and refers to me as if I’m not there. “Sir, I have unpacked Madam’s belongings in your bedroom as you requested. With your permission, I will let Anna know that you require dinner this evening.”
Wolf turns to me like he’s an international translator. “Anna is our chef. She takes Sundays off, but she can come in for an emergency.”
An emergency. Like our skipping our catered wedding dinner, up in Baltimore.
“No emergency,” I say. I’ve barely picked at my food for the past week. I can’t imagine ever being hungry again.
Wolf nods, apparently in agreement. “In fact, Nilsson, why don’t you take the rest of the evening off? Kate and I can take care of ourselves just fine.”
“That is very kind, sir. I will return the Bentley to the garage, and then I will see you tomorrow morning.” He does that thing with his head again, that tiny little bow, before he lets himself out the front door.
Now that I’m alone with Wolf, the foyer suddenly seems twice as large. I look around like I’m visiting a museum. “Um, does Nilsson get a day off?”
“He does. Sundays, like Anna. They’re married. That gives them some time together.”
I blink. I didn’t realize robots could marry. “Today is Sunday.”
“It is.”
“But he was here to greet us.”
“He wanted to welcome you to your new home.”
I can’t reconcile the kind gesture with the soulless man who just left. Nilsson must have been on the other end of the text Wolf sent outside the church. I wonder what day-off activity we’ve interrupted. “Where do Nilsson and Anna live?”
“Across the street.” He nods in the general direction.
“What a coincidence,” I say dryly.
Wolf takes a step back. “This is as good a time as any to get a few things straight. Nothing about my life is coincidental. I research. I plan. I act. I leave nothing to chance.”
“Except me.”
“You’re not chance. You’re a carefully weighed decision. I want your father’s business. I’m willing to pay the price: Marrying you.”
“Be still my beating heart.”
“Don’t try to shame me into pretending this arrangement is something it isn’t.”
I didn’t expect him to sweep me off my feet, to carry me over the threshold of our joyful home and treat me like his blushing newlywed bride. But I also didn’t expect to be treated quite so much like a business acquisition.
“I’d never dare,” I finally say. “Something tells me you don’t shame easily.”
He stares at the Fuck You on my chest. “So we have something in common.”
He is making this easier for me. He’s reminding me of every reason I have to hate him. He’s Lone Fucking Wolf Enterprises, and I’m a Red Cap Raider, and no mumbled words from a half-asleep priest will ever change that. My fingers twitch against my fluted skirt. I’m ready to change into sweatpants.
I glance at the imposing staircase. I expect Wolf to take me to the second floor, down one of the long halls, to a bedroom befitting a billionaire—the one where Nilsson unpacked my things.
I’m surprised to feel something turn over in my belly, a lazy creature anticipating a massive bed with more pillows than I can count.
But Wolf doesn’t take me to bed. Instead, we walk the length of the house, all the way to the far end of one wing. The heels of his shiny black shoes sound like shots from a pistol. My dress rustles like it’s trying to escape.
A door is set into the wall, carved oak, like every one I’ve seen in this house. But this one is different. This one has an electronic plaque by the side. Wolf sets his palm against the reader, flattening his hand until a light glows green. I barely hear a click before the door glides open.
Recessed lighting traces the curve of a staircase that leads to a lower level. Wolf gestures for me to precede him.
My fingers skim the polished wood of the banister. My feet automatically find the steps. I try to ignore the fact that Wolf is right behind me, that I feel him on the stairs, the heat of his body radiating onto mine.
The staircase opens onto a large room. The lighting is soft down here, pooling across a smooth black floor.
The first thing I notice is the bed—sleek black sheets draped over a high mattress, a heavy iron frame with four sturdy posts, each studded with solid grips.
The second thing I notice is the full-height, X-shaped cross in the far corner, brutal iron bars splayed like a torture device.
The third thing I notice is the cabinet, doors open, shelves full of leather and vinyl and steel.
I’m standing in Cole Wolf’s BDSM dungeon.