Chapter 17 #2
“I never claimed otherwise. But if I’m a sadistic bastard, then you’re a filthy little liar.”
“That’s the definition of a power couple,” she taunts.
Silence falls again as we standoff over the kitchen island. Her glaring, me patient and watchful. Because I never play a hand when I can’t anticipate the outcome.
Huffing out a breath, she says, “Fine. I’ll stay in your room.”
“And move all your things in there.”
“Yes,” is bitten out between her teeth. “But I’m going to keep my room in case you piss me off, which I expect will be often. And because I need a place to study without you hovering over me.”
“I don’t hover.”
“You’re always hovering.”
“You’re not here enough to draw conclusions like that.”
She leans on her elbows, fluttering her eyelashes. “Aww, that sounds like you’re missing me, husband.”
For the first time since she moved in, I let my gaze rake over her body. From her pouty lips to her wicked curves. Propped up on the counter as she is, she’s practically on display for me. Realizing it a little too late, she straightens with a scowl.
“Don’t take this as an invitation,” she snaps.
“I wouldn’t dare. But why don’t you go upstairs and… clean up. You’ve still got blood on you.”
She looks down at the stained shirt and crimson specks all over her arms and chest like she’s seeing them for the first time. Her body goes unnaturally rigid, triggering every instinct inside me. I start toward her, then stop, unsure.
“Catriona?”
No answer. Her shoulders jerk with ragged inhales.
“Catriona?” I round the island, but she doesn’t seem to realize I’m there.
It reminds me of the night we had dinner with her father and sister to organize the wedding.
When we’d gone to the study after and she’d turned white in her seat—seemingly for no reason—and it was like she was somewhere else in her mind.
Carefully, I turn her to face me, but even though she’s looking at me, I don’t think she sees me at all. “C’mon, bhean chéile. Come back to me.”
Nothing.
I bite out rapid curses under my breath as I scoop her up into my arms and take the stairs two at a time.
Bursting into our room, I cross blindly to the bathroom, where the shower takes too fucking long to heat.
When it’s warm enough, I step us both under the spray.
She clings to me—and that’s how I know something is terribly wrong.
She’d never let me hold her like this if she were in her right mind.
Her body quakes, and she’s curled into a ball against my chest. I sit heavily on the bench inside the shower, holding her as close as possible. The water helps, I think, but what do I fucking know? I’m used to breaking bodies, not healing them.
The sight of the blood was what seemed to put her in this state, so I grit my teeth and maneuver her shirt up and off her shoulders.
She’d probably skewer me if I tried to take off her bra, so I don’t.
It’s not stained anyway. Then I pump a few squirts of soap into my hands and lather it over her skin.
By the time I have all the evidence of this afternoon erased from her, she’s breathing a little more easily.
My hand keeps going back to her throat to feel the throb of life beneath her skin for reassurance.
Her heart beats steadily under my palm. We’re both soaked through, but I barely notice.
Seeing her react this way is like a knife between the ribs, snaking past the defense of bone to land a direct hit to my soft organs.
She gives a full-body shudder, and then she blinks rapidly, before tilting her head back. Her cheeks flood with color, and I let out a breath. Thank fuck, she’s coming back to me.
“There you are,” I murmur, resisting the urge to run my hands over her body to make sure she doesn’t have any injuries they missed.
“You really will do anything to get me out of my clothes,” she says in a voice so low, I can barely hear it over the shower spray.
“One thing about me is, I’ll always be an opportunist. Do you think you can stand?”
In answer, she pushes herself to her feet and only sways a little. “I can take it from here. Let me go.”
“Don’t—” I clear my throat when the word comes out ragged. “You can barely stand.”
That mask she wears when she feels vulnerable locks down her emotions. “I can take care of myself. Thanks, but no thanks.”
I leave her standing in the shower in her bra and jeans, my slacks and button-up dripping onto the tile, as I move to the attached walk-in closet to strip, dry off, and change into briefs.
Leaving my wet clothes on a hook in the bathroom, I keep my eyes averted, no matter how much I want to see what’s behind the foggy glass.
Panic attacks.
She has panic attacks.
Brought on by her mother? Violence? Blood? All of the above?
I don’t want to know. I shouldn’t care. Usually, there’s a line I can draw between most other people and me. One that protects them and me from the consequences of my life. But that line? It’s getting harder and harder to see when it comes to her.
The water cuts off, and I tense, eyes snapping to the bathroom doorway. From the space underneath, I watch the shadows of her movements and smile wryly to myself. This is what I’ve been reduced to. Watching my wife underneath the bathroom doors.
A moment later, she appears wrapped in a towel before beating a quick retreat to her walk-in closet.
Thankfully, I kept some things there for her in case the time came when she agreed to stay with me.
I wince, thinking of the selection of revealing negligees stocked in there.
A nicer man would have offered something more comfortable.
Unfortunately for her, I’ve never claimed to be a nice man.
“What about this movie night tomorrow?” I ask from the bed, where I’m reclining with my hands behind my back. I know if I try to bring up what just happened, she’ll deflect and reinforce all those walls that keep her nice and safe.
“What about it?” comes her cautious response. She makes a sound of derision, and I can’t help but smile. She must be surveying the offerings in disgust. At least she’s not white with shock.
“Your friend Yasmine mentioned movie night tomorrow when we were at the hospital. Did she mean here?”
There’s a long silence from the closet. Amusement curls my lips at the thought of her needing privacy after the things I’ve done to her body. But I’m not going to argue what makes her feel comfortable. She’s here, and for now that’s enough.
“Do you really care?” comes her voice.
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
“It’s nothing special. We don’t get a lot of time to spend together, so she’s going to come over for drinks and whatever to catch up. Maybe take a swim in the pool. I told her about you. Who you are. She basically knew already.”
She finally emerges from the closet, and my heart trips over itself.
The pink negligee she’s wearing consists of barely enough material to be called pajamas.
Straps so thin that all it would take is one yank to have them come undone.
A slit up the thigh of a short, silky skirt.
And Jaysus I’ll be damned if she’s wearing anything underneath.
A masochist is what I am.
Catriona frowns at the bed, then heaves a sigh before lifting the covers to slide in. I try not to stare at where the negligee rides up her thighs. Try not to obsess on how close she is to me, how she smells like honey and lavender all over again.
“I’m not going to do anything to her for knowing. I’ll even invite Eamon and Mara over after I take care of a few things. We’ll make it a proper party. Frances can make dinner and some appetizers. What’s your favorite?”
She’s studying me warily, but doesn’t say no. “She doesn’t have to do that. I was just going to keep it small and probably get takeout or something.”
“This is your best friend. I insist.”
There’s a stiff silence before she says, “Don’t pretend you care.”
I turn on my side as she clicks off her lamp. The light from mine is the only illumination left in the room. She’s on her back, the golden silk of her hair draped over her pillow, arms crossed protectively over her chest. Always so defensive. Ready to attack.
“Eamon will feel left out, and you don’t want to get on his bad side.”
“Whatever you say. I’m not going to argue against food from Frances. She’s the best part about being married to you.”
Chuckling, I turn off the lights so she can rest. There are bruises underneath her eyes, and I know that panic attack must have sucked the rest of her energy.
“Good night,” I say to the darkness.
“Good night,” she says when she thinks I’ve fallen asleep.
I wake before she does. I know because she would have leaped off the bed if she woke up to find me plastered to her back, legs tangled, and my hand low on her belly.
My cock strains against her ass, hips moving against her as I shake the last remnants of sleep from my brain.
When I realize what I’m doing, I still, but it costs me.
All I can think about is the security footage I’d watched the night of our reception. When she’d gone to the bathroom and touched herself. How she’d whispered my name. I know she wants me. I could make her tell me, show me. But it’ll be so much sweeter when she comes crawling to me.
Lying there is torture, but the twisted parts of my soul urge me to wait, to see what she’ll do when she wakes up and realizes where she is and who’s behind her. It doesn’t take long. She’s an early riser, and the moment the sun is up, so is she.
Her slow, deep breathing cuts off with a gasp, and her body stiffens against mine. I only manage to swallow back a groan as her hips jerk in surprise. This is the best kind of fucking torture.
This is how I wanted to wake up after the night we spent together.
With her all sleepy-soft and dazed. If I’d had the time and the luxury, I would have pressed her forward into the mattress on her belly.
Pressed kisses into her skin from her neck down between her legs.
Made her come with my mouth first and then taken her slowly from behind, fists in the length of her hair.
The soft groan pulls me from my filthy fantasies, and I realize her hips are pressing back against me.
My fist tightens against her stomach before I remember myself and relax in increments.
Her breath comes faster, her hand coming to clasp over mine.
For a second, I think she’s going to arch back into me and make herself come from this alone.
But a second later and with a soft curse under her breath, she carefully extracts herself from my grasp and leaves me in the bed.
Alone.