Chapter 8
DRASKO
Drasko hissed through his teeth as he opened his eyes, tried to rise, and groaned, falling back onto the sofa he was sprawled on.
Never in his life had he fallen asleep on a sofa.
The sharp pain was splitting his head into pieces. His tongue was thick.
The drawing room was quiet. The sun was blinding.
Drasko squinted around then noticed his trousers—they were lowered to his hips, the buttons undone.
What in the bloody hell…?
Grunting, Drasko sat up, bewildered. Mind dizzy, he felt like he did after being sick and taking too much… opium.
Frowning, he rubbed his face with both hands, shook his head, and buttoned up his trousers, focusing on the feeling down there.
Had he…? No, not a chance.
His new wife had been there last night, with her pretty face and full lips, her eyes too kind, considering what had transpired at the church.
He didn’t… No, he absolutely couldn’t… He’d never… Out of the question… Not to a woman and not remembering…
Yet the unbuttoned trousers were a mystery. Fuck.
He remembered her polite voice, “Mr. Mawr?” Her suspiciously sweet courteous, “Another drink?”
The sudden realization dawned on him.
Oh, the vixen!
The faint sweet voice in another room made his ears perk up. Laced with sunshine and the chirping spring birds outside, it seeped through the open doors of the dining room.
Drasko stood up abruptly, swayed for a second before he got a grip on himself, and stomped into the hallway.
Every step echoed with the memory of last night and the realization of what she’d tried to do. He would teach her a lesson! This nonsense would not stand!
Calm down , he told himself, slowing his pace as he walked into the dining room.
“Good morning, Mr. Mawr.” Samira, the maid, smiled, her orange sari too bright for this morning and his clouded mind.
His glare made her smile go away.
He halted, his gaze pausing on his wife, her eyes on him, trepidation in them as she slowly rose from the table.
“Are you proud of yourself?” he rasped, not recognizing his voice and failing to keep the bitterness down.
She looked enchanting this morning, in a beige dress, her hair done up, so innocent, considering what she had pulled off last night.
She moved away from her chair to the other side of the long dining table separating them. A false smile flickered on her pretty coral lips. “I suppose you are talking about last night.”
“Tell me what happened last night.” Drasko took slow steps around the table.
He waited for her lies—surely, they were about to spill off those pretty lips.
Nervously, she swiped a strand of hair off her face and took a step away from him.
Little coward.
“I suppose we fulfilled a certain agreement,” she said hesitantly.
A chuckle escaped him, though he was oh, so angry.
So, the mystery of the unbuttoned trousers was confirmed—his wife had tried to fake the consummation. Nothing much stunned Drasko these days, except, apparently, his newly acquired and very naive wife.
And he noticed a flicker of panic in her eyes as she started backing away, around the table.
His steps toward her quickened. “Agreement, huh?” he gritted out, his blood boiling.
“The consummation.” She tried to smile but backed away like a thief. “Now that it is done and over with, we can keep our respectful distance?—”
He lunged at her and covered the distance between them in seconds until her back was pressed against the wall and his hands went up against it on both sides of her head.
He lowered his face to hers to look into the eyes of the pretty liar.
“You are truly in over your head,” he grunted.
“P-pardon me?”
Her startled eyes were too close, so were her lips that she licked nervously, a pretty mouth full of lies. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She didn’t fight, didn’t protest. She bloody knew she was caught, and he liked her this way—haughty yet timid and closer than ever.
She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off with a soft, “Shhh. I will be the one talking right now. Your silly lie is one thing. You trying to poison me is a whole different matter.”
“I don’t know what you are?—”
He wasn’t sure what made him bring his hand to her face and drag his forefinger along her cheek—a movement that immediately shut her up and made her tremble.
She was guilty of—what was it?—domestic assault? The thought was ridiculous but made him take her chin between his fingers.
Her sharp inhale was so delightfully precious.
There. Good.
His own fingertips burned at the contact with her soft skin, her pulse thrumming under them.
It wasn’t their first touch, but the first one so charged with emotions.
His eyes dropped to her lips again. His thumb brushed along them, gently wiping away a tiny gasp that escaped her.
She was frightened, yes, so what had made her try such an unspeakable act the night before? She was haughty, yet what made her look so vulnerable when she faced him?
He felt her frail body against the weight of his own. He felt her jagged breaths, the tremor that ran through her. He smelled her morning freshness, the exquisite perfume and the flowery soap. Her closeness was maddening.
“Let us set certain things straight,” he said, breathing through the tension in his body.
“You shall never attempt to harm me again. If this marriage wasn’t absolutely non-negotiable, I would have gladly let you go.
You could have lived on the streets and played in taverns.
I couldn’t care less. But we are in this together now. ”
He tipped her chin, enjoying her submission. “Next. This marriage comes with the obvious.”
He had just decided that, too, wanting to push her, to see how much she would accept.
“We will consummate it,” he said, gloating at the indignation that flared up in her eyes again.
“And you will give the only thing you are capable of giving this union—children. I suggest you start thinking about their names. If you are so scared about the one thing every married man and woman in marriage does in the bedroom, let me know. Perhaps, you’ll need that vial of opium for yourself, after all.
Or”—his lips curled in a smirk—“we can find a way to do it to both our liking.”
Another glare came from her.
“Yesterday was a surprise for both of us,” he continued. “I am not talking about your evening trick but the wedding.” Her cheeks burned with a pretty rosy glint of shame. “Today, I would like to resume my business and expect to hear very little from you. Until we decide on the rules.”
She didn’t say a word.
Perhaps, because of that, his own hostility subsided. Perhaps because her gaze softened, so did his anger. And because of that, the situation acquired another overtone, intimate.
She was a stranger and yet his wife. He could touch her and do things to her.
It was a bewildering thought, and it drove him insane, this very moment, in this very position, when he suddenly felt all of her, her gaze and breaths, her heartbeat and her femininity in that stupidly pretty beige dress of hers, the white ruffles matching the flower hairpins, her hair neatly pulled into a bun.
Fuck.
He had a wife—bought, forced, hostile like an angry cat, and very much off-limits, for now. For the first time in his life, Drasko couldn’t take the woman he wanted, because she didn’t want him back. It was a calamity, indeed.
Oh, and she was lovely. So perfect, flawless, and so very his.
For a moment, he forgot he wanted to despise her. She forgot she wanted to hate him. He saw it in her eyes, an indignant flicker that turned into surprise, her breath caught in her throat.
He forced himself to remove his hand from her face and pushed off the wall.
“Make yourself familiar with your new home,” he said. “Have a great day.”
He turned and started walking away, but couldn’t help himself and added loudly, “Mrs. Mawr.”