Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
Isabella
Last night had to be a crazy dream.
There’s no other explanation for my lady’s maid with her head between my legs and her tongue moving over parts of me that only my husband is supposed to touch—til death do us part. People have strange dreams after big events. Once I read that weddings rank in the top ten of a person’s most stressful life events. It makes a certain kind of comforting sense.
But everything else about my new room is exactly how I remember. Blue silk sheets skim my bare skin. Translucent curtains stir over the windows. The canopy drapes gracefully over the posts of my bed. Antique furniture waits for me to sit and what?
I don’t know. Tend to my wifely duties, I suppose.
Embroider something, perhaps.
The door to my room opens, and Lila comes in. Her smile is pleasant and professional. I could almost imagine last night never happened except for the knowing glint in her eyes.
My stomach twists. It was real.
Last night happened. Oh my god, last night happened.
I sit up and pin the sheets to my chest.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Lila doesn’t appear bothered by the fact that I’m still abed and covering myself with the sheets. She glides into the bathroom and returns a moment later with a silk robe that matches my room—white, champagne accents, a pale blue lining. Lila adjusts it over my shoulders like she’s done this every day of her life. “What would you like for breakfast? An omelet? Blueberry pancakes? Pain au chocolat? His grace has already shared with us that you do not eat meat, but we have many other options.”
“Oh, I couldn’t eat,” I manage to say.
She gives me a small smile. “Chef has been up since three a.m. baking. He wants to impress you. He’s a very emotional cook, so unless you want ratatouille every day for a week, I suggest you order a large breakfast and send back your compliments to the chef.”
“Yes,” I say promptly. “I’m ravenous. Please prepare a sideboard in the breakfast room.”
A small wink.
I’m stunned at how Lila moves us swiftly into my new morning routines without a hint of embarrassment. Everything she does is experienced and professional.
I try to match her energy. That’s what I was born to do. Bred to do.
To marry well, and be a good wife to my husband. To let Lila fuss with my hair and bring me clothes from the enormous walk-in closet and lick me between my legs until I’m a soaked, writhing mess if that’s what my husband tells me to do…
God.
I stand up from the chair at the vanity in my sparkling dressing room, cheeks burning. “I’ll go down for breakfast in a moment,” I announce, as if I’m calmly organizing my day instead of freaking out inside. “First I’m going to speak with my husband.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she says, hesitating for the first time since we met.
My cheeks heat. “If you could point me in the right direction.”
“Please follow me,” she says, sounding relieved. Of course I have no idea where to find my husband. Before last night I never stepped foot in this house.
After an hour-long hike through plush carpet and marble and gleaming wood floors in a herringbone pattern, I’m shown in to my husband.
Francisco is working in his study. It’s a large, masculine space with miles of worn leather paneling. It feels like a throne room, and Francisco completes the illusion. He sits behind a large, hand-carved desk, a slash of sunlight across his face. The desk is made of Bocote, one of the most expensive woods in the world, with a gorgeous, contrasting grain. Everything about him is as pressed and perfect as he was for our wedding.
He’s like this all the time, isn’t he? Always in control.
A large gray dog sits at attention next to his desk. His dark eyes narrow on me. He lets out a bark, and Francisco’s eyes come up from the sheaf of papers he’s been reviewing. There’s frank possession in his gaze...and a light there, too. He’s pleased to see me. I try to be less pleased to see him. Try to keep my guard up. There are things I need to discuss with him before this goes any further.
“This is Isabella,” he tells the dog as casually as if it’s human. “My wife.”
Every time he calls me that, another shock of disbelief and pleasure runs down my spine. I like how it sounds. But I don’t like this unmoored feeling I have. The marriage to Francisco was supposed to be advantageous for my family and his. It was supposed to be simple.
The maid’s face between my legs does not seem simple.
The dog’s ears perk up as if he understands his master.
I drop to one knee. “Come here, sweet puppy.”
The dog lets out a whine of excitement and comes running up to me, giving me a big, wet lick across my face that has me laughing.
“Down, Wolf,” Francisco says.
Wolf completely ignores him and rubs his massive, furry body into my arms. Francisco mutters something about poor training and snaps his fingers. Finally the dog glances at his owner and slinks away to sit by the desk again.
Brushing the gray fur off my clothes, I make my way to the chairs on the other side of Francisco’s desk and sit, back straight, chin up. Focus. This is not about the fact that he has an adorable monster of a dog.
“Last night was…unexpected.”
“Was it?” he asks, his tone bland.
“I’d like to discuss it. I’d like to discuss what kind of marriage this is, exactly.” I keep my voice even and calm despite my very frantic thoughts. Despite the desire and shame and confusion that have all descended on me at the same time.
“The usual kind, I suppose. Though I’ve never been married before.” His dark eyes meet mine. “I did prepare you for what it would be like between us.”
“You said you were commanding in the bedroom. That means… what? Giving orders. Following them. Maybe you’d use a flogger. I was prepared for a lot, but not that.”
His lips quirk. “You want me to use a flogger?”
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not laughing, my dear wife. Though what I actually said was that I’ll keep you so sexed up, so blissed out on orgasms that you wouldn’t care that much about how commanding I get. I said you’d learn to love it, and I think I’ve been true to my word.”
True to his word? True to his word? “Last night. I don’t even know what to call it.”
“A threesome.”
A little charge of electricity runs through me. “Yes. That. You didn’t say there’d be threesomes.”
“I didn’t spell out what we’d do every night. Even I haven’t decided that far in advance. I’ll give the orders. You know that much; you just don’t know what the orders will be.”
I’m flushed with both adrenaline and arousal. This is my first fight as a married couple. Neither of us is shouting, but it’s a conflict. One that might break us up before we’ve even made it a week. We’d be slaughtered on Instagram for breaking up so fast. They would crucify me for being a capricious socialite again, but I don’t care about that. I care about the investment in Bradley Hotels. That’s what’s at stake here. “Tell me what you’ll order me to do. Describe it in detail, Francisco. That’s what I need from you.”
He steeples his hands together, considering. There is a very real chance he’ll refuse my request. And then where will that leave me? Like Alice falling through the endless blackness, down the rabbit hole of sexual eccentricity. It doesn’t help that in these seconds I notice how strong his wrists look. How capable his hands look, hands that knew just how to touch me.
Finally Francisco nods. “All right. I will do my best to describe my plans for you. For us. I want things to be plain. To be clear. The last thing I want is drama in this marriage, in my life.”
The last sentence sounds like a warning. “Good,” I say with more confidence than I feel.
“I expect you to be a good society wife, to host dinner parties and galas. And because you have an interest and a talent in it, to manage my hospitality investments.”
Relief fills me. This part I can handle. “Great.”
“And in bed,” he proceeds, “I expect you to be sexually subservient.”
My breath catches. “Sexually?—”
“Subservient, yes. With whatever my requests might be. I’ll never ask you to do anything dangerous, but it won’t always be comfortable. It will be pleasurable, most of the time. Unless you don’t follow my orders well enough. Then there might be corporal punishment.”
I’m failing at one of my first and most important qualities—poise. My cheeks must be on fire. I’ve definitely lost my composure if my face is going up in flames.
Hot embarrassment chokes me like a hand around my throat.
“You misled me.” My voice comes out hoarse. I meet Francisco’s eyes over the offending paper. My skin is hot enough to scorch it, but I try to keep my breathing in check. “This isn’t how the marriage was described to me. You never said anything about corporal punishment.”
“What did you think would happen if you disobeyed me?”
“I don’t know! Nothing.” I’m half up out of my chair. “I’m a grown woman.”
“Then why are you shouting and stomping your foot like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum?” Francisco’s tone makes me feel small.
“This isn’t a tantrum. It’s being upset. A grown woman is allowed to be upset.” My voice shakes. It’s not the voice I should be using in this room, with this man. It’s not the voice I expected to be using at all in this new life of mine. But the even tone I’ve practiced and cultivated and used to my advantage all my life seems as out of reach as the moon.
I’m out of my chair without realizing it, already standing. My emotions jostle one another for prominence, and I hate it. I hate the twist in my stomach and the heat in my face and the desperate sense that I don’t know where to look. I feel used and bought and afraid—and that fear makes my knees quake.
“Isabella.” The corners of Francisco’s mouth turn down.
He is still gorgeous, even when he’s frowning. The hint of disapproval in his eyes makes me feel more afraid.
And it makes me feel a twisted desire. He’s scolding me. Reminding me that my role is to sit quietly across from him. To honor and obey. Not this. It’s not supposed to be this heated.
I don’t sit down.
I can’t.
“This is too much,” I say, backing away. “I can’t do it. I didn’t agree to this. I’m out.”
I have to get away from him and everything in this room. From the gaze that sees everything I’m afraid of and the golden morning sunlight in his hair and the adorable dog. Running from this anointed king is the only way to save myself.
It’s futile. I know it as soon as I take the next breath. I won’t be the daughter who ruins things for her family. I won’t be saving myself, either. There’s no way out of this agreement.
I turn on my heel and go. If I can’t get out of this marriage, then I’ll take the next best thing—getting out of this room, where his eyes can’t follow me.