Chapter 10
CATRIONA
Who knew my wife could be such a good little slut?
If only he also knew how I’m going to make him regret ever saying that to me, he would have kept his fucking mouth shut.
As he guides me into the estate with one hand at the small of my back, I methodically plan all the ways I can make him miserable.
Because if I think about what just happened between us…
I shove the thoughts away, deep inside my mental box of shit I can’t think about, and lock it down tight, along with everything else that I can’t think about.
I don’t have the luxury of losing it. If I’m going to make it out of this with my sanity intact, I have to focus on my end goal: survival. No matter the consequences I receive from my father, the cold shoulder from my sister, or the retaliation from O’Connor.
No matter what it costs.
Even if it costs me my sanity.
My freedom.
My sense of self.
My phone buzzes in my hand with a text from Yasmine. I fish out my phone, wincing at the missed calls from Elizabeth, and I’m instantly a thousand pounds lighter at the sight of Yasmine’s name on my screen.
Yasmine
Your sister is furious. I left her at your dad’s, who is also furious, FYI. If Reggie weren’t with me, I’m sure he would have given me the third degree. Or worse. How did it go?
Me
As good as we can hope for. It’s done. We’re going back to his place.
Yasmine
You mean your old house? Really? You sure you’re ready for that
Suddenly, the tight laces of the wedding dress feel a whole lot tighter around my ribs, and it’s an effort to draw air into my lungs. It had never occurred to me that we’d go back to the beautiful home that had once belonged to my mother. The home where I discovered her broken body.
He wouldn’t… he couldn’t think I’d…
Me
I don’t know
Yasmine
I’m tracking your location. Hate to break it to you, but it’s your old street. Would now be a terrible time for me to say I told you so? Going to that party was a horrible idea
Me
You’re telling me
A breath rattles out of my chest as we pull up to the gate of the last place I ever wanted to see again.
I follow O’Connor through the garage and courtyard to the mudroom, fighting my instincts to flee the whole way.
A short hallway later, we’re in the kitchen.
The earlier relief at Yasmine’s text messages has completely evaporated.
Being back in this house is like being enveloped in shadows.
Thick, oily shadows that fill my throat and choke out all the oxygen.
The last time I’d been here… I don’t even want to think about it.
“You seem tense,” O’Connor says, startling me from my thoughts. No shit. My muscles are drawn so taut, I’m afraid they could snap a bone. “As your husband, I can—”
“Absolutely fucking not. I’m going to stay in my—in a guest room. Don’t worry,” I say, before he can make an excuse to follow me, “I can find it myself.”
I eye the stairs, because the only rooms down here are the entertaining spaces—living room, dining room, formal versions of both, and the kitchen. But he’s blocking my path to get to the stairs. When he doesn’t move, I spear him with a pointed, unamused frown.
“You’ll be staying with me tonight so I can keep an eye on you.
” O’Connor takes my hand to lead me up to the second floor before I can offer an objection.
He’s moving so fast, I can only focus on not tripping on the material of my wedding dress as he drags me behind.
The upside? I don’t have time to linger on the spot where I’d found my mother.
It’s not until we reach the top that I’m able to tear my arm away from his grip. “Stop manhandling me, O’Connor. I do know how to walk by myself. And I’m not staying anywhere with you.”
He points at an open doorway—the same room that had belonged to my parents. And the one we’d shared at the masquerade. Also known as the last fucking place I’d want to be, let alone with him.
When I balk, he lifts an arm to block my escape, his eyes shifting from flat and opaque to flinty and penetrating.
“After what you pulled today, you’ll stay where I fucking put you, or I’ll tie you to the fucking bed.
The choice is absolutely not yours. I suggest you give future actions more thought than you did today. ”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you. I tried to talk to you about it, and you left me no choice.
If anything, today is your fault.” This is the most ridiculous argument I’ve had with anyone, jammed in a hallway, wearing a wedding dress and caked in makeup.
I enjoy dressing up in my suits and designer dresses, but I prefer that armor to this.
O’Connor starts to speak, then clamps his teeth together.
He picks me up by my waist and shoves me bodily through the door, where I stumble.
One of my heels breaks under the strain, and he shuts the door behind us.
The lock slams home, and then he has me pinned against the wall.
I forget how to breathe even though the hand he has at my throat is only a suggestion.
“Here’s the deal, bhean chéile,” he murmurs in a throaty warning, “now that you’ve completely fucked everything, I’m going to keep an eye on you so you can’t cause further damage.
You wanted a husband? You’ve got one. So I hope you’re ready to have me at your side until we’re both in the grave, because I won’t be going anywhere. ”
“If you think you’re going to control me, I hope you’re ready for an early grave,” I hiss, my throat working against his hand as trepidation rains over me. “I can easily make this hell for you, O’Connor.”
“I’m starting to believe you.” He releases his hold on my throat, and I’m halfway across the room before he turns. “Tomorrow, we can discuss what’s going to happen going forward. For now, I trust you won’t cause any more trouble if I leave you to get ready for bed?”
Before I can say anything further, he disappears into a walk-in closet and comes back a few minutes later with clothes. “These should fit. Don’t worry, I’ve already hidden all the sharp implements, so there won’t be any backstabbing tonight. Sorry to disappoint.”
The siren call of a shower is too great to ignore, and I mentally table giving a damn about him being close. It’s not like he hasn’t already seen every part of me. I hope it kills him to know I’m in there, naked.
I snatch the clothes from his hand and stride to the bathroom.
His eyes drill into my back the entire time, but I pretend he’s not even there.
As exhausted and emotionally drained as I am, I don’t really care if he’s watching.
I don’t care about what he means by “what’s going to happen going forward.
” All I want is to sleep for a century, because this week feels like it’s lasted that long.
Forgive me, Mom. I send up a quick prayer as I shed the now lank and wrinkled material of her wedding dress.
As much as I daydreamed about getting married in this dress when I was a little girl after staring at pictures of my parents’ wedding day, now all it makes me want to do is puke.
I shove it into a corner, out of my sight, and a fraction of the nausea abates.
I may never get rid of it, but it’ll be a long time before I can look at it and picture anything positive.
The thought of what we’d done in the limo makes bile rise in my throat.
I practically leap into the shower, not bothering to pull the curtains, and I let the pounding spray slough away the dregs of panic remaining in my chest. For the first time since my eyes cracked open with the dawn light spilling in my bedroom, I have a moment to breathe.
Steam billows around me, clinging like film to the windows and the glass shower wall.
I clean myself all over with thick, rich soap, comforted by the lavender scent that’s almost an exact match for the one I have at home, but not enough that I can stop myself from washing my body over and over again.
Consciously, I know I’m as clean as I can get, but my subconscious is a stubborn bitch and thinks I’ll never be rid of the stains all over me.
From where he touched me. From where he thought he owned me.
I don’t think I can imagine anything more terrible than not having control over the only thing my father couldn’t take from me—my body.
He hadn’t forced me, not really. I was willing to do whatever it took to keep him from wrecking my plans.
Somehow that’s worse.
While I wash myself, taking my time while O’Connor is in the other room, I make myself think of the positives.
Now that I’m back in my family’s home, I’ll have more time to poke around—when O’Connor isn’t hovering, obviously.
Maybe I can get access to security footage, or maybe there are more clues in my mother’s favorite places in the house.
Her library, of course, the greenhouse, perhaps even this very bedroom.
I hadn’t considered it when I’d come up with the insane plan to force O’Connor to marry me, but this is an opportunity I can’t pass up.
Mr. Broussard may have more ideas about what to do with the chance to re-examine the crime scene, even if a lot of time has passed.
I make a mental note to update him during our next call so we can brainstorm.
By the time I step out of the shower, my usual alabaster skin is inked heavily in red and purple. Bruises on my throat, by my nipple, along my thighs. A red flush from the scalding water. Nails bitten to the quick from my nerves over the past week. Teeth scrubbed so hard my gums weep red rivers.
The clothes O’Connor had provided were one of his T-shirts, a white one. Thin. Almost see-through. As well as a pair of pajama pants. Whatever, I think with a mental shrug. It’s his funeral. I’m brushing my teeth when the door opens, and O’Connor strides inside.
“What the fuck? You could knock,” I sputter after rinsing my mouth.