Chapter 43 Keira
FORTY-THREE
KEIRA
The walk back to the house takes an eternity.
Every step reminds me that I'm not wearing underwear. That Tristan has them in his pocket. That twenty minutes ago I was pinned against a garden wall with his mouth between my thighs and his name lodged in my throat like a prayer I couldn't release.
I can still feel him.
The scrape of his stubble against my inner thighs. The way he gazed up at me from his knees like I was something worth worshipping.
I slip through the east entrance, already mapping my route to my room. I need a shower and a change of clothes, then I can get back into character.
"Mrs. Calder."
I stop in my tracks, turning to see one of the household staff standing in the hall, hands clasped in front of her. "Mr. Calder requests your presence in his study. Immediately."
Shit.
"Of course. Thank you."
I change direction, forcing my legs to move at a normal pace even though every instinct is telling me to run—out the front door, into the woods, anywhere that isn't here.
But the fantasy is over.
I have to face this head-on.
I've never been inside this study before.
Ewan has several places he retreats to during the day when he's allegedly working, but this isn't one I've seen.
My stomach drops the second I notice the floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the garden. A clear view of everything that happens on his property.
He would have seen me slipping out of the hedge near the garden shed.
"Close the door."
He's standing by those windows when I enter, his back to me, hands clasped behind him.
Did he see me this morning? See Tristan emerge minutes after I did?
No need to panic just yet.
"Sit."
I cross to one of the leather chairs facing his desk and lower myself carefully. My thighs press together and I feel the slickness still there from earlier.
He can't know. He can't possibly know.
Ewan doesn't turn around. Just keeps staring out the window, letting the silence stretch until it becomes its own kind of torture.
"I've been thinking about the dinner party."
My hands curl into fists in my lap.
"I behaved poorly," I say. "I'm really sorry."
"You embarrassed me."
"I know."
"In front of very important associates."
"I know."
He turns then, his face eerily calm. "Dashkov left early. Did you know that?"
I shake my head.
"He was quite disappointed. He had plans for the evening that didn't materialize." Ewan crosses to his desk, trailing his fingers along the polished surface. "He's since become unwell."
"That's unfortunate."
"Mmm." His eyes stay fixed on mine. "I was thinking it might be nice for you to pay him a visit."
Visit the man he was going to sell me to. Is he fucking serious?
I keep my face blank, waiting for the next bomb to drop.
"But that's not what I wanted to discuss." He leans against the desk, arms folded. "I'm going to New York. You're coming with me. We're traveling as a family."
So he's accepted the invitation. This is actually happening.
"There's a gala with some very important people." He studies my face. "You'll be attending."
"Of course."
"You'll be perfect."
"Of course."
"No disappearing. No embarrassing scenes. No giving anyone the impression that you're anything other than a devoted, grateful wife."
I nod. My throat tightens, but I keep my expression neutral.
"Good." He pushes off the desk and walks toward me. "Because I've been thinking about Hale."
My heart kicks into overdrive.
"He's been asking about you. Apparently, he misses his mother." Ewan stops in front of my chair, looking down at me like I'm something he stepped in. "It's sweet, really. Misguided, but sweet."
I stare at my hands balled in my lap.
"Switzerland is still happening. That hasn't changed.
" He crouches until we're eye level, and the forced intimacy makes me suddenly nauseous.
"But I'm a reasonable man, Keira. If you behave in New York—if you're the perfect wife, the perfect hostess, the perfect ornament on my arm—perhaps I'll arrange for you to see him before he goes. "
"I'm not allowed to see him until we leave?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended. "When will that be?"
"Less than a week."
He does this constantly. Dangles the carrot just out of reach, then snatches it away the moment I get close enough to touch.
"I understand," I say quietly.
"Do you?" He reaches out and grips my jaw, forcing me to look at him. "Because I need you to understand something else."
His fingers dig into my skin.
"I own you. I decide what you do, where you go, who you see. I decide who gets to touch you." Venom bleeds into his words. "I am your God, Keira. And if you forget that in New York—if you embarrass me again or give me any reason to doubt your loyalty…"
He yanks me closer, grip tightening until pain blooms along my jaw.
"Hale won't just forget your face. He'll learn to hate it. I'll make sure of it."
I blink back the tears. "I understand."
"Say it."
"You own me."
"And?"
"Everything I am belongs to you."
He smiles. That cold, reptilian satisfaction that makes my skin crawl.
"Good. You understand basic English. Finally."
He releases my jaw and straightens.
"I have a meeting in an hour. You'll dine with me tonight. Wear the blue dress and the pearls." He glances at me with unconcealed disgust. "And fix your hair. You look gross. Did you sleep outside?"
He turns back to his desk, but I don't move.
My mind is racing, grasping for anything that might shift the board even half an inch in my favor. If we don't get out…if Ewan wins…
No. Don't go there.
I need to make this believable. Gain back his trust. Just for a little while longer.
"Ewan."
He glances over his shoulder, irritation flashing across his face like I've committed some unforgivable offense by daring to speak his name.
"I'll be good," I murmur submissively, knowing it's exactly what he wants to hear. "So good you won't have to worry about me anymore. Just let Hale stay. Let me prove myself to you."
He stares at me, then slowly starts walking toward me. I swallow down the rising panic.
He stops in front of me and just stands there. I hold his gaze, forcing myself to look steady, like I mean every word.
Then his hand clamps around the back of my neck.
He wrenches me forward so hard the air punches out of my lungs. His mouth crashes into mine and his teeth sink into my bottom lip. He bites down hard, twisting, until blood floods my mouth. I cry out against him, trying to pull away, but his grip is too strong.
He releases my lip only to grab my jaw, forcing my face up to meet his eyes.
Blood drips down my chin.
"You think I don't know what you're doing?"
He backhands me so hard my vision whites out.
I stagger sideways, catching myself on the edge of the desk. My ears ring. The entire left side of my face is on fire.
"You expect me to believe that performance?" He straightens his cuff like he didn't just split my face open. "I don't care about your promises. They're worthless. Just like you."
Blood drips onto my dress, blooming across the white fabric in a stain I'll never get out.
"If anyone asks about your face, you fell. Understood?"
I nod mechanically.
"Say it."
"I fell."
"And next time you try to manipulate me?" He leans close, his breath hot against my throbbing cheek. "I'll give you something worth lying about."
He returns to his desk and grabs a folder.
"Close the door on your way out."
I hurry out, passing my sleeve against my bleeding lip, waiting for the collapse. For the tears and the familiar spiral that usually follows these encounters.
But it doesn't come this time.
The sadness and anger are there, hovering at the edges where they've lived for years. But they're being overtaken by something hotter. Impossible to ignore.
Ewan thinks I'm too soft to fight back. Too fragile to ever be anything other than what he's shaped me into. He thinks I'm just a thing to be used and discarded whenever it suits him.
He has no idea that his most trusted guard has already had his mouth on me, that my body is still aching from another man's hands.
He has no idea that in hours, I'm going to spread my legs for Tristan Barlowe in whatever dark corner we can find and let him fuck me senseless.
Not because I'm broken.
Not because I'm desperate.
Because I'm choosing to.
This isn't just about wanting Tristan anymore. It isn't just about feeling alive for the first time in years.
It's about taking something back.
About choosing pleasure. Choosing defiance. Choosing myself in a house that was built to erase me piece by piece.
Ewan wants a vessel?
Fine.
I'll be so empty he won't notice when I hollow myself out completely and fill the space with something else.
Something he will never touch.
Something that is mine.