Chapter 36
The Bride
I want to cry as I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. This is the first time I see my reflection, something I’ve avoided until today. But it’s been nine days since the attack, and, well, in my mind I thought I’d look better.
The cut makes me look absolutely hideous. I know it’ll fade over time. It’s already scabbed. But… oh, who am I kidding? I’m hideous.
“It’s not that bad,” Jack soothes, gathering my hair and dragging it off my neck so he can cup the nape.
My fingers trace the contours of my face, applying precise pressure to gauge the depth of the damage, wincing when the motion tugs at my shoulder.
“Yeah?” I sniff. “Do you want a matching cut?”
Jack’s answering laugh is deliciously dark and low. “If you want to cut me, wife, all you have to do is say so.”
I gape at his words. Would he really let me? When I meet his gaze in the reflection I know he’s serious. The truth is right there in his green orbs. He’d let me slice him open and bathe in his blood if it would make me happy.
Rather than answering, I allow myself to admire his broad shoulders and the defined muscles of his abdomen, flexing my fin gers against the sink when the healing rope burns on my wrists protest the pressure.
My eyes land on his scar, and I subconsciously lick my lips while tracing it all the way to the flesh marred by the bullet that killed him months ago—before they dragged him back. He shifts, and my gaze follows as though he’s commanding my attention with movement alone.
I study the pumpkin tattoo on his deltoid. “Why did you get that tattoo?” I hear myself ask.
His eyes capture my gray ones in the mirror. “I lost a bet to Nick and Ruby,” he explains.
“What was the bet?”
He inhales sharply and furrows his brows as though something’s annoying him. “You know, I don’t even remember anymore.” There’s a beat of silence before he continues. “I was only sixteen when I got it. But I’m sure it was something super serious.”
My lips pull into a smile. “I’m sure it was,” I agree softly.
“Eve.” Goosebumps erupt all over my skin when he says my name in that breathy and husky way of his. “We should talk about—”
“Not yet,” I interrupt. I know he means Shelby, but I’m not ready.
To my surprise, Jack chuckles. “You never broke once when I tormented you. But now you’re crying over a cut that’ll be completely gone in no time.”
“I’m not crying…” I stop talking as I realize tears are soundlessly trailing down my cheeks. “Oh.”
I can’t help laughing because it does sound ridiculous when he puts it like that.
“You still want me like this?” I test, not because I doubt it, not really—because I want to hear it.
“Always,” he says, no hesitation.
He reaches for my hand—the one he sliced into at our wedding. The silence stretches between us, thick with something unspeakable, as his fingertips dance across the scar.
I yank my hand back before he can brush it again. I know it’s irrational, but I don’t like that he hasn’t kissed or touched me since we were at the warehouse. Rationally, I know it’s because we’ve both been healing. But irrationally, it feels like an insult .
“You think this…” his finger traces the outline of the thin line on my cheek, “… makes you less fuckable?”
“I think it makes me look weak,” I admit, the honesty surprising even me.
“Weak?” He makes a sound that might be a laugh. “Eve, I’ve seen a lot of weak people. You’re not one of them.”
Turning away from my reflection, I take a step to the side, surprised he lets me. “I came in here to shower.” I infuse my tone with confidence I don’t feel right now, even roll my shoulders back and lift my chin.
I step into the shower without looking back at him, leaving the door open. Picking up the detachable head, I adjust the temperature until it verges on scalding and angle the spray low, keeping my stitched shoulder and back dry.
Steam rises around me, creating a thin and constantly moving veil of tendrils between my naked body and Jack’s watchful gaze. I can feel him still there, just beyond the glass—a presence that radiates through the barrier, that prickles against my awareness like static electricity before a storm.
Water sluices over my stomach and hips, between my thighs, washing away the lingering traces of hospital antiseptic and the phantom touch of strangers’ hands. The warmth penetrates muscle and bone, thawing something frozen within me, something rigid with anger and helplessness.
I reach for the soap, lathering it between my palms until bubbles foam white and thick, gliding the suds over my stomach and legs. Just as I close my eyes, I hear it.
“Allowing yourself to be content is a weakness, Eve.” My dad’s words slither through my mind, just an echo from the grave I put him in. “And when you’re content, you let your guard down. Do you want to be let out of the coffin? Then make me want to set you free.”
Charles Mortis was a sadistic asshole, one I don’t regret killing. But being unlikable doesn’t mean he was wrong. If I hadn’t said goodbye to everything he taught me and embraced a life with no rules or regulations, I never would have ended up in Shelby’s clutches.
Or maybe I’d have sensed her intentions sooner an d then been able to do something about it before she made me shed blood and tried to kill Jack. The bitch is tied up in Nicklas’ basement. According to Carolina, Shelby’s all alone in the dark—fed only while sleeping, cut off from any human contact.
While I ponder all that, my hands slide over my skin of their own accord. Thoroughly cleansing each inch of my body with slow precision. I turn slightly, offering Jack a better view through the glass. I imagine his eyes tracking my movements, cataloging each curve and angle.
The thought sends an unexpected current through my nerves, not unpleasant. It settles low in my belly, a warmth distinct from the shower’s heat.
My fingers travel lower, sliding between my legs. When I find my clit, I use my middle finger to apply pressure. God, that feels good. I circle the bundle of nerves faster, harder. I hear Jack’s breath catch, the sound barely audible over the shower’s steady drum.
“Do you want to kiss my lips now?” I ask, never looking away from him.
As he clenches his jaw, I notice the muscle jump beneath his stubbled skin, eyes narrowed and dark with what can only be hunger.
He watches my hand work between my thighs, his own hands curled into fists at his sides, like he’s physically restraining himself from storming in here.
“Yes,” he growls, finally answering me.
I slide two fingers inside myself, feeling the walls of my pussy contract around the intrusion. My thumb takes over the circular motion against my clitoris, creating dual points of stimulation that make my back arch and my thighs tense.
“Mhmm,” I purr. “I bet you do.”
Jack’s expression has transformed—the detached observer replaced by something feral and hungry. His eyes burn with an intensity that should frighten me but instead fuels something darker, something greedier within me.
“Don’t test me, Eve,” he growls. “My restraint only lasts so long.”
Smirking, I circle my clit faster. I love knowing he wants entry to this private domain, this self-pleasure that excludes him even as it’s performed for his benefit.
“Oh, God,” I moan, closing my eyes for a moment as pleasure zips through me.
When I open my eyes again, Jack’s in here with me, and I didn’t even hear him move. Unashamedly, I look down at his crotch. He’s still wearing his black boxer briefs, which immediately cling to every contour of his rigid cock.
The metal rungs of his Jacob’s Ladder are visible through the soaked fabric, a ladder of pleasure I’ve only begun to climb.
He makes no move to remove the underwear, no attempt to join my self-exploration. He simply watches, his restraint more arousing than any touch could be.
Water streams down his chest, running in rivulets through the grooves of his muscles. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, watching up close as my fingers continue their steady rhythm between my thighs.
“Don’t stop,” he says finally, his voice roughened by desire. It’s not a command but something close to a request—the closest Jack Knight has ever come to asking rather than taking.
I push my fingers deeper, curl upward, finding that spot inside that makes sparks shoot behind my eyelids. My thumb circles faster, the pressure increasing as I approach the edge of release.
Jack’s presence changes everything and nothing—I’m still touching myself, still pursuing my own pleasure, but now his gaze adds another layer of sensation, another dimension of intensity.
This moment belongs to me—my pleasure, my body, my choice to share the visual feast with the man who claimed to own me. Water streams between us, washing away boundaries but creating new ones, more complex, more deliberate.
His breath comes faster now, matching my own accelerating rhythm. The air between us thickens with something that feels dangerously like understanding.
Then, just as I’m close, he drops to his knees with such sudden force that water splashes outward in a corona around him. His hands grip my thighs, spreading them wider as he presses his face be tween my legs without preamble or permission.
“You asked if I wanted to kiss your lips,” he rasps. “These are the lips I want to devour.”
The first stroke of his tongue against my already-sensitive flesh tears a gasp from my throat.
“Jack.”
I steady myself with one hand against the slick tile, my injured shoulder twinging under the pressure, while my other hand fists in his wet hair, fingers curling to control his movements with cruel precision. This isn’t surrender; it’s direction.
“Harder,” I instruct, yanking his head closer.
He lets out a throaty chuckle. “First, I have something to ask you.”
“What? Now?” My tone betrays my irritation. But seriously, this isn’t exactly the time to play twenty questions.
“Yes. Now is the perfect time,” he rasps.
“Fine,” I huff.