Chapter 26
The Bride
M y legs tremble as Jack guides me do wn the steps of the historic building, his arm around my waist both supportive and possessive. Each movement pulls at tender flesh, a delicious ache blooming between my thighs where he claimed me.
The wind cuts through my torn dress, but I don’t feel cold—my skin still burns from his touch, my pulse still races from being on the edge of that stone railing with nothing but Jack’s grip keeping me from falling.
“Can you walk?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
“I’m fine,” I reply, though the words catch as another twinge of pain—pleasure?—radiates through me. My ruined panties are gone, disposed of somewhere on that balcony, and without them, I feel exposed, vulnerable.
Jack’s cum slides slowly down my inner thigh, a warm, sticky reminder of what just happened between us. He wraps his coat around my shoulders as we approach the ferry, covering the tears in my dress.
The gesture feels strangely tender after the violence of our encounter. I clutch the lapels close, inhaling his scent—cedar, smoke, and something distinctly male that makes my stomach tighten despite the exhaustion settling into my bones.
On the ferry back to Manhattan, I lean against Jack who’s standing behind me. We’re both watching the lights of Governors Island recede into the fog. We’re far enough from the railing that we’re not being hit by the cold spray that rises from the churning water below.
His hands rest on either side of me, caging me in without touching, and I find myself leaning back into his chest despite myself.
“I’m hungry,” I say suddenly, surprising myself with the simple admission. “I barely ate at dinner.”
Jack’s chest rumbles with quiet laughter. “Hard to eat when you’re busy ignoring me.”
I turn to face him, our bodies close in the darkness of the deck. “I was mad at you.”
“And now?” His eyes catch the distant lights, turning them to emerald sparks in the darkness.
“Now I’m hungry,” I repeat, avoiding the question. “Can we stop somewhere?”
“Sure,” he agrees easily. “We have plenty of hotels. One of those could make us—”
I shake my head. “I’m not hungry for fancy food.”
“What are you hungry for?” His tone drops, making the innuendo painfully clear.
“Not that,” I reply quickly. “Something… greasy.”
“Greasy?”
The ferry docks, and Jack leads me to his car, hand at the small of my back. The seat leather is cold against my bare thighs as I slide in, making me hiss. He notices, and his eyes darken as they trail down to where my dress rides up, exposing the bruises already forming on my skin.
As we pull away from the dock, I suggest a known fast-food place. It feels absurdly normal after everything, and I have to bite back a slightly hysterical laugh at the thought of Jack Knight in his perfect tuxedo ordering Big Macs.
“Whatever you want,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes me think he’s not just talking about food.
The drive-thru is nearly empty this late, just a few cars ahead of us. The neon sign casts garish yellows and reds across Jac k’s face, throwing his sharp features into relief. He looks like a fallen angel in the artificial light, beautiful and terrible.
“What do you want?” he asks as we approach the speaker.
“Double cheeseburger, large fries, and a Coke,” I reply without hesitation. “And maybe some of those little apple pies if they have them. And a vanilla milkshake.”
His lips twitch. “Hungry indeed.”
The teenager at the window does a double-take when he sees Jack in his tuxedo, his eyes widening further when they land on me in my tattered dress mostly hidden beneath his coat.
I can only imagine what we look like—disheveled, well-dressed, obviously coming from somewhere formal but looking thoroughly debauched.
“Date night?” the kid asks, trying to sound casual as he hands over our food.
“Something like that,” Jack replies, his tone dismissing further questions as he passes me the warm bags.
The smell of salt and grease fills the car as we drive home, making my stomach growl audibly. Jack’s hand drops to my thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns on my bare skin. “Patience,” he murmurs, and again I have the feeling he’s talking about more than just the food.
As we drive down the last two streets to get to Jack’s house, I can’t help but smile at all the jack-o’-lanterns I see. They’re not as awesome and evil looking as the ones Carolina brought. When we left for the board dinner earlier, I finally got to see their cruel faces.
“Have you seen the Halloween decorations?” I ask as he pulls up to his house and turns the engine off.
“Not yet,” he replies, getting out of the car, taking the food and drinks with him. “But I heard my dear sister-in-law brought some over.”
I hum softly as I get out, ready to show him the evil wonders. But what greets me are not perfectly carved cruelness. Every single pumpkin has been smashed to pieces, and their insides stepped in and kicked around.
“Oh, no.”
Jack chuckles and unlocks the door. “I guess the kids around here don’t approve.”
Pouting, I follow him inside . “Well, I liked them,” I state as I kick off my heels and pad through to the kitchen, setting our food on the counter.
Jack watches from the doorway as I shrug off his coat and start removing the dress. His breath hitches as the fabric falls in a puddle of fabric at my feet, leaving me standing in nothing but my strapless bra. Instead of coming closer, he steps back, giving me space I’m not sure I want.
“You should shower,” he suggests, voice rough.
I shake my head. “Later.” For some reason, I don’t want to wash him off me yet. As I move past him, I feel his gaze like a physical touch on my back.
As I enter the bedroom, I bypass the clean shirts and reach instead for one crumpled on top of the hamper. It’s black, soft from countless washes, and when I bring it to my face, it smells intensely of him—not cologne, but skin and salt and man.
I pull it over my head without hesitation, the fabric falling to mid-thigh. It feels illicit somehow, stealing his scent this way, wrapping myself in it like armor. Or surrender.
When Jack enters the bedroom, his tie is loosened, but he’s still fully dressed in his tuxedo. He reaches for his collar, clearly intending to change, but I stop him.
“Don’t,” I say, the word coming out huskier than I intended.
He pauses, hands frozen at his throat, eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t change.” I swallow, feeling heat crawl up my neck. “Keep the tux on. You look…” I trail off, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing me say it.
A slow smirk spreads across his face, knowing and predatory. “I look what, wife?”
“Too good to take it off yet,” I admit finally, the confession making me feel naked despite the t-shirt covering me.
Jack Knight in a suit is a sight to behold. And thanks to wasting hours ignoring him, I haven’t had my fill of watching him yet. While the jeans and leather jacket are hot as hell, it’s different to the tux.
It’s two sides of the same coin—an extremely at tractive coin. They’re the same, and yet they don’t compare at all.
His smirk deepens as he drops his hands from his collar. “Is that so?” He crosses to me, fingers catching my chin, tilting my face up to his. “And is that my shirt you’re wearing?”
“Yes,” I don’t deny it. “It smells like you.”
Something flickers in his eyes, possessive and pleased. “Come on,” he says, releasing my chin. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
He turns toward the living room, and I follow, feeling strangely lighter than I have in days. As if admitting I want him in his tux has broken some dam inside me, allowing other wants to flow freely.
While Jack kneels to build a fire in the stone hearth, I gather our food and drinks from the kitchen. No wine tonight, though my nerves could use the numbing. If Jack isn’t drinking, neither will I. It feels like solidarity, though I’m not sure with what.
The fire pops and hisses as I settle on the couch, stretching my bare legs across Jack’s lap. The soft drink is cold against my palm, condensation dripping onto my thigh as I take a sip. Jack’s fingers rest lightly on my ankle, his thumb tracing absent circles against my skin.
He looks surreal in his tuxedo, the crisp black fabric a stark contrast to the greasy paper bags and cardboard containers littering the coffee table. A man of his status doesn’t eat fast food in formal wear, yet here he is, stealing one of my fries.
I swat at his hand and toss another fry at him in mock retaliation. “Hey!” he exclaims.
“They’re really good fries,” I smirk. “I’m not sure I want to share.”
We each bite into our burgers, and finish them without a word. Even though the silence between us is comfortable, I’m itching to find out more about him. So, I decide to shatter it with a question.
“What’s your favorite color?”
Jack glances up, brow furrowing slightly. “Is this therapy, Dr. Death?”
“No.” I shake my head, taking a bite of my burger. “Just conversation. Normal people have those, you know.”
His lips quirk. “And we’re normal people now?”
“For tonight,” I say softly, not entirely sure why I’m offering this truce. “Just answer the question.”
He considers, fingers absently circling my ankle. “Black,” he says finally. “Not because it’s empty. Because it hides everything you don’t want the world to see.”
The answer knots low in my stomach. “Makes sense.”
“Your turn.”
I hesitate, then say, “If I had to pick, orange is my favorite. But I love colors in general, which I think my hair proves.” Laughing softly, I playfully lift a strand. “I usually dye it from the shoulders down each season.”
“Do you always go with the same colors?”
“No.” I proceed to explain that for Christmas I usually dye it green. “And… well… you know what color I use for February,” I say sheepishly.
Our eyes meet. “I do.”