Chapter 7
Seven
Sorcha
Isat on my bed and unlaced my boots. Neal was looking everywhere except my face, eyes darting over the whitewashed adobe walls of my bedroom, the ruddy-stained, wood-beam ceiling, the light-pine bed frame and handwoven blankets, and the Madonna and child icon above my headboard as though he’d never so much as set foot in the room.
It was just barely dusk, and a few rays of sunlight still trickled in through the heavy tree cover outside the window.
“Do you want to . . .” I gestured vaguely at my mattress and trailed off. I half hoped this would be what tipped the scale—that now he knew I was committed, knew I wanted him enough to carry his child, he would open up like I so desperately wished he would. That he would love me.
“Of course.” Neal’s voice was flat, disinterested. “Let’s get this over with.”
He swallowed hard.
“You could attempt to make it sound like this isn’t a chore,” I suggested.
“I didn’t . . .” Neal paused. “I just don’t want things to be uncomfortable.”
“This is uncomfortable, Neal,” I said. “Whether you want it to be or not.”
If you’d kissed me on our damn wedding day and slept with me like you were supposed to, it wouldn’t be so bad, I added silently.
He took a deep breath like he was trying to steady himself. Then shook his head as if to clear it.
Neal went to close the shutters.
“Put out the light,” he said.
I didn’t move—too stunned by his brusque disinterest to react. My hopes that he would commit to affection over duty abruptly dwindled.
Neal reached around me and blew out the lamp. He was close now, and in some desperate attempt to salvage my frayed nerves, I leaned in to kiss him. Only to be met with firm hands on my shoulders pushing me away.
“I thought . . .” I trailed off. “Maybe we should kiss? Before we . . .”
“We don’t need to do that,” Neal insisted, stepping back. “Keep your dress on. Close your eyes. Lay down on your back.”
I froze. Close my eyes? Keep my dress on?
What the hell?
Finally, I steeled myself and complied as he settled on the mattress beside me. But before Neal had a chance to do anything, I reached up and gripped his collar, eyes still tightly closed.
Why was I so scared? Wasn’t I supposed to be excited about this?
Maybe I would be—if he hadn’t just refused to kiss me or let me take off my dress.
My breath caught in my throat as I felt Neal shift on top of me, one hand moving to the back of my neck, the other pulling up my dress and moving to skim along the skin of my hip.
I trusted him. Implicitly.
But I’d yelled at him this morning about picking a side—politics or affection. And if his behavior now was any indication, in spite of all my hopes, Neal had chosen politics.
The flicker of hope in my chest extinguished completely.
This wasn’t about love.
But somehow? That didn’t make it any more feasible to suppress the little twinge of excitement in my belly every time he so much as brushed against me.
I finally spoke. “Is it going to hurt?”
“Probably,” Neal admitted. “I’ll do what I can to lessen the pain.”
Kissing me would lessen the pain. Taking my clothes off would lessen the pain. Treating this as anything other than a business transaction would inevitably lessen the pain.
I heard him take off his suspenders, unfasten his pants. Then I felt Neal press a bundle of cloth to my lips—a handkerchief—it smelled like him. That helped. And I hated that it did.
“Bite down on this if it hurts,” he instructed, bending to kiss my forehead, thumb pressing into the back of my neck, grounding—almost soothing. “I’ll be quick.”
“You can open your eyes now,” Neal said when he was done, refastening his trousers and moving off me.
I just shook my head, handkerchief gritted between my teeth.
My breathing was ragged, shallow, knuckles gone white from my grip on the sheets.
It’d hurt like hell. But somewhere, in the darkest corner of my mind, where I dared not let my thoughts linger, a small voice mourned the lost potential, irate with how good it could have been had he just kissed me, held me, taken off my dress, let me open my eyes.
He was warm and strong, and he smelled so damn good.
It hadn’t needed to be like that. That small voice reminded me how much I wanted this. Even if Neal insisted he didn’t.
“There’s water on your desk if you need it,” Neal said, taking the handkerchief from my mouth, rubbing along my jaw, then coaxing my fingers to unclench.
I heard him strike a match, and bright gold bloomed before my closed eyelids.
There was something hot and sticky trickling down my legs—blood? Worse?