17. Drake
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My wife. My wife. My wife.
The chant repeated in an endless loop throughout the night.
During the reception in the estate ballroom, the endless glasses of champagne swirled in my head with the irrevocable fact that Helen was mine—at least by law.
Still, a heady concoction, almost as intoxicating as her smell and the feel of her, pressed against me when we danced as man and wife.
My gaze never strayed from her, even as she danced with her father, and I danced with my mother.
I watched her when her brother led her in an obligatory dance from their mother, and almost broke a glass in my fist when Julian took her for a spin over the dancefloor.
Helen glowed, utterly resplendent and radiant.
The white dress and elegant style of her hair gave her an angelic appearance.
Pearlescent and shimmery under the low crystal chandelier lighting, yet harboring a spark of darkness she kept reined in.
A wrathful goddess when provoked, and an idiotic part of me wanted to provoke her, to draw her attention.
That same voice from the past that brought her into my orbit. Ignoring it took all the strength in my possession.
What would Monty do if I stole her attention for dance after dance? Would she eat the cake from my hand after we cut it? (She did, and I almost collapsed). Were her smiles for me or was she equally swept up in the frantic energy of dancing, good music, and bubbly alcohol on the tongue?
As midnight neared, older family members retired, family heads departed after paying their respects, younger guests and friends stayed to dance as long as allowed.
Helen and I circled one another, prowling the dance floor, eerily aware of the other’s presence at all times.
Stolen glances through writhing bodies and flashing lights as the night wore on and a heated tension unfurled down my spine.
We could have escaped at any point, yet Helen wanted to remain and thank each leaving guest personally.
Drawing out the hour, avoiding the moment we’d take our leave of the venue.
Wedding nights held certain unspoken implications Helen and I hadn’t addressed.
I needed her to know that I expected nothing from our union she didn’t want.
Eventually, the attendees petered out. My mother withdrew early, likely for a handful of pills and a glass of wine to sleep her night away.
Dad clapped me on the shoulder, briefly nodding with all the praise he was willing to give.
The look in his eyes said job well done.
Helen skirted the dancefloor until her parents gestured between me and the exit. And that was that.
Not even ten minutes later estate staff transported our luggage to the back of a black escalade and guards escorted us out. Alone in the back of a dark car on the way to an unmarked location.
It would be fine.
Helen still wore her wedding dress. The ivory material hugged her chest, making the swells of her breasts heave with each breath.
Even in the dark interior of the car, my gaze was drawn to her, and the luscious curves of her in that heavenly white I’d dreamt of ripping off her delicious body all night.
Everything was fine. Perfectly fine.
Her personal guards and two additional cars joined us on the way to the luxury ‘safe’ house we’d be inhabiting for the next week.
The only semblance of a honeymoon allowed given current circumstances.
Not at all what I’d dreamt of treating Monty to for the momentous occasion, but better something modest and secure than another attack by masked competitors.
A torturous sort of apprehension gripped me as the drive wore on.
Helen’s grapefruit scent tickled my nose and the subtle warmth of her radiated against my arm in the enclosed backseat.
Scant inches separated our arms. It would have been easy to reach across and grab her hand, but I restrained myself.
Barely.
My fingers twitched an awful lot. Magnets tuned to her. Traitorous digits yearning to yank the pearl pins from her styled hair, freeing it to tumble around her slender shoulder and run through the honey brown locks.
Half an hour past midnight, our entourage arrived at a modest cottage style home concealed in the trees on an exceptionally hidden plot of land.
Helen’s guards scouted out the interior, and I rolled my eyes at being asked to remain on the sidelines.
Security from the two additional cars made swift work of arranging themselves around the property’s perimeter.
One-story, pale stone, violet toned wisteria creeping up the walls; it only took the guards ten minutes to sweep through the entirety of it.
Helen went first, expression absent as she entered the cozy, warm-toned living space. I followed, tight-lipped and tense. It was fine. Everything was fine.
My shoes clicked on the hardwood in the entryway, then were muffled by the plush carpet between the couch and fireplace.
The stale, cool air of the cottage pressed around us, preternaturally still, like the uncanny calm before a storm.
I kept my focus on starting a fire with the available wood, all while tracking Helen’s near motionless state stuck in the entryway.
“Did you mean it?”
Her voice rendered me a fool, always.
The flame caught and licked at the logs. A small gold and orange glow swept over the walls. I rose and turned with my hands going to my pockets. The grade A idiot that I was said, “Mean what?”
“The apology.” Her gaze was glued to the floor, and her arms hugged across her chest. She seemed conflicted.
I sucked in a breath and ran a hand through my hair. “I did.”
Helen was a statue, and I wished I could reach out and draw her to me.
I wanted to envelop her in my arms and kiss her head and squish the anxiety from her chest. She didn’t speak, and the silence extended for an uncomfortable eternity.
There, looming before me, was the opportunity to expand on everything I needed to say.
I reached out and tackled the moment.
“I was an annoying little rat to you in school, but you somehow found it in you to forgive me and see something good in me—something worthy of your time. And it is and will always be my greatest regret in life that I walked away from you. I hope you know I did it to keep you safe.” I huffed.
“Even that’s a terrible excuse. I should have chosen you then. ”
She made a soft, strangled noise. “Why?”
“I’ve faced no greater misery than the guilt of hurting you and wondering what we could have been. But I need you to know, to understand, today—right now—that I chose you. That I’ll choose you every day for the rest of our lives.”
She audibly swallowed, chest rapidly rising and falling. The increasing glow of the fire highlighted her like an avenging creature, a spirit plagued and incited. Her head shot up, ice-cold eyes piercing through me like twin daggers.
Pierce me, I wanted to say. Pierce me and let me love you.
Helen looked awfully focused, as if she were trying to solve a problem—me.
I was the problem.
“Why?” Her temper flared, bowling over her doe-eyed stare into something furious. “Why say all this? And why did you agree to the arrangement at all?”
“Because you are mine!” I roared back, matching her temper. But my shout broke as my angry fa?ade crumpled. Helen balked, pretty mouth dropping open as I visibly wilted in the dark. “Because—because I am yours. Because I have always been yours.”
People called me The Dragon, but she was the true fire-breathing creature.
With one withering glare and an indecipherable huff, she pivoted on her heel and stomped down the hall, heels clicking rapid-fire on the aged wood.
My confession, my feelings, my heart burned to ash within my chest in the absence of a response.
We’d both had a long, arduous day. The thrilling roller-coaster and the champagne induced haze gave way to exhaustion.
Further exploration of the snug cottage made me realize there was one bedroom, currently occupied by the newly minted Helen Graham.
What might have once been a spare room only operated as a sparsely decorated office.
Luckily, there was a secondary bathroom where I dipped in for a shower.
Hot water pounded my back, not quite scalding enough to burn through whatever ghastly beast squatted like a two-ton weight between my ribs.
My wife—Helen—sought solitude for the night, and I was nothing if not a very good boy where her desires were concerned.
I avoided the master bedroom door and paced into the kitchen to fetch the bottle of whiskey lounging in the cabinet.
Glass in hand, I sulked into the dim living room, only illuminated by a sputtering fire.
I didn’t allow myself to think of her, of touching her, or of what she was doing in the room alone.
My thoughts behaved, straying back to manly things like rugby, and whisky, and torture and all that rot.
Comfortably clad in black sweats and a white t-shirt, I sank into the couch, staring into the dancing flames, absolutely not dreaming about my wife.
When I closed my eyes, her face as she said “I do” was the only thing I saw.
Wood splitting and flames spitting in the fireplace jarred me awake.
My eyes shot open, still half-asleep and dazed.
A rustling from the shadows cracked awareness through me.
Tense, heart thrumming, I peered into the hallway, catching movement.
A specter clothed in silk drifted into the room, moving into the silver moonlight descending from the open curtains.
Sharp whistling wind rattled the shutters against the stone exterior. The sliver of the night sky was smattered with twinkling diamond-like stars. Trees surrounding the property swayed in a dance as old as time.