Here's a fresh new chapter to keep the good vibes going, and I hope it brings you exactly what you've been waiting for—wink wink. 😉 As always, I'm excited to hear your thoughts, so don't forget to drop a comment and let me know what you think! Happy reading! 💖
As always a huge thank you to my beta ARandomDream for correcting my mistakes ❤️
Chapter 14: Coup de Grâce
Emma couldn't quite pinpoint the exact moment she realized she was being carried up the stairs. It all blended with the haze of dreams, or perhaps the distant memory of when she was a drowsy little girl, so tiny that even Uncle Walter—the most pint-sized of her uncles—could scoop her up effortlessly in one arm and whisk her off to the nursery. Sure, his arm was as comfortable as a wooden bench, and the journey felt more like a bumpy wagon ride, but she was utterly secure, cocooned against a solid male frame, her head resting on a broad, familiar shoulder.
Slowly, the fog of slumber began to dissipate, and before her eyelids even fluttered open, Emma knew precisely who was carrying her.
She also started piecing together the events that led her here. Or at least, most of them. Some fragments had been swallowed by the feverish whirlpool that Hook had dragged her into.
"I'm awake," she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep. Exhaustion clung to her, and her thoughts felt as sluggish as molasses. "I can walk from here."
"You'll topple down the stairs," Hook responded, his voice a mix of gruffness and concern. "Besides, we're almost there."
'There,' as it turned out, was none other than Her Ladyship's Apartments—though in Emma's mind, she cheekily dubbed them The Grand Catacombs, as Hook carried her into the shadowy cavern that was her bedchamber.
He placed her on the bed with a tenderness that almost made her blink in surprise.
Then, without a word and with the urgency of someone avoiding a trap, he summoned her maid and swiftly exited.
Emma found herself staring at the now-vacant doorway, her ears attuned to the faint, carpet-muted footsteps as they echoed down the corridor, culminating in the soft, final thud of his door closing.
With a sigh, she bent to peel off the wayward stocking he'd loosened, now dangling lazily around her ankle like a sleepy serpent.
She reminded herself—because, apparently, one needs these gentle reminders when marrying a man like Hook—that she had always known this would be no stroll through a rose garden. No, she had been fully aware that he'd been festering in a prickly mood all evening, in fact, all day. It was wildly optimistic, she mused, to expect him to behave rationally… and bed her properly… and perhaps even stay the night.
Cecilia appeared just then, as if summoned by magic, gliding in with the poise of someone who either didn't notice or didn't dare acknowledge her mistress's somewhat chaotic attire and the far more chaotic state of her mind. Efficient as ever, the maid prepared Her Ladyship for bed with the quiet competence of someone used to more bizarre scenes.
Once ensconced beneath the covers, with Cecilia gone, Emma decided there was no use agonizing over Hook's reluctance to—how to put it delicately—seal the marital deal.
What hehaddone, however, had been thrilling and unexpected, particularly the grand finale, when he'd made her experience a delightful little seismic event. She knew precisely what that was, courtesy of Ingrid's rather candid explanations. And thanks to her worldly grandmother, Emma was well aware that such magnificent tremors were not guaranteed, especially early in marriage. Not all men were inclined to go the extra mile, after all.
It seemed unlikely that Hook had gone to such lengths just to prove a point, to assert his dominance like some territorial peacock. According to Ingrid, it was torturous for an aroused man to deny himself release. Unless Hook possessed some obscure, arcane method of easing his desire that Ingrid had conveniently failed to mention, he must have endured considerable discomfort.
There had to be a very compelling reason for his restraint.
Emma couldn't even begin to fathom what his reasoning might be. That he desired her was beyond question. He had tried to resist, but his efforts had crumbled the moment she brazenly bared her breasts and practically shoved them under his impossibly arrogant nose… and then, as if that weren't enough, she'd boldly hitched up her skirts and parked herself on his rather essential anatomy.
She flushed at the memory, but the warmth flooding her cheeks had nothing to do with embarrassment. In the moment, she had felt gloriously liberated, deliciously wicked—and oh, how richly she'd been rewarded for her daring.
Even now, she felt as though he'd given her a gift—an extravagant one, too. It was as if it had been her birthday, not his. And after bestowing upon his wife a delightful little earthquake and enduring what had to be significant physical torment, he had, with no small amount of effort, managed to carry her up the stairs without disturbing her slumber.
Oddly enough, she found herself wishing he hadn't been so considerate. It would have been simpler if he'd jolted her awake, laughed at her disheveled state, and left her to stumble upstairs in a daze, drunk on the remnants of passion. Simpler still if he had simply pushed her down, taken his pleasure with brute efficiency, and promptly fallen asleep.
But no. Instead, he'd gone out of his way to be gallant. He'd taught her the art of pleasure and then seen to her comfort afterward. Sweet and chivalrous, indeed—a surprising turn of events.
Her husband was turning what could have been a straightforward case of raw, animal attraction into something far more intricate.
And soon, if she wasn't very, very careful, she might make the most fatal mistake of all—falling in love with him.
By midafternoon the next day, Lady Hookstone discovered that Ashbourne was indeed haunted—though not by the kind of ghosts one might expect.
She found herself kneeling on a threadbare carpet in the highest chamber of the North Tower, a place that seemed to serve as Ashbourne's very own purgatory for abandoned furnishings. Surrounding her were relics of long-forgotten eras: trunks filled with faded fabrics, draperies that had long since lost their grandeur, linens that smelled faintly of dust and time, and an assortment of furniture pieces whose best days were centuries behind them. Crates of mismatched dinnerware and a collection of household gadgets, their purposes shrouded in mystery, added to the room's peculiar ambiance. Beside her knelt Mrs. Ginger, the ever-efficient housekeeper, who seemed unfazed by the spectral atmosphere.
Their attention, however, was entirely captured by a portrait—a striking image of a young woman with raven-black hair, eyes as deep as the ocean, and olive skin that seemed to glow even through layers of dust and neglect. Emma had unearthed the portrait in a shadowy corner, hidden away behind a mountain of trunks and swaddled in velvet bed hangings as if it had been deliberately concealed.
"This must be His Lordship's mother," Emma mused aloud, though her voice wavered slightly, betraying the odd flutter in her chest. It wasn't fear, certainly not. But something about the painting stirred her unease. "The gown, the hairstyle—late eighteenth century, no doubt about it."
There was no need to comment on the obvious resemblance. The woman in the portrait was clearly a feminine echo of the current marquess.
This was also the first portrait Emma had encountered that bore any likeness to him, as though the spirit of the house had been guarding this one—until now.
After Emma's solitary breakfast—Hook having eaten and vanished long before she'd descended—Mrs. Ginger had treated her to a partial tour of the sprawling estate. Their journey included a meander through the second-floor gallery, just opposite their bedrooms, which proudly displayed the family portraits. Yet, aside from the first Earl of Blackmoor, whose droopy-lidded stare bore a faint resemblance to Hook's, Emma found no trace of familial likeness.
Among the gallery's parade of dignified ancestors, not a single female face could be mistaken for Hook's mother. When Emma inquired, Mrs. Ginger had merely shrugged, stating there wasn't such a portrait—or at least, none that she knew of. She had been at Ashbourne only since the current marquess had inherited the title, and he'd replaced most of the previous staff like one might replace threadbare drapes.
So, this hidden portrait had been tucked away during his father's reign. But why? Out of grief, perhaps? Emma wondered if the late marquess had found it too agonizing to gaze upon his wife's image. If so, he must have been a vastly different man than the one immortalized in his portrait—a fair, middle-aged gentleman dressed in somber, Quaker-like simplicity. Yet, his austere attire contrasted sharply with his expression, which exuded anything but humility. No gentle friend had dwelled behind those narrowed, wintery brown eyes.
"I know nothing about her," Emma mused aloud. "Except for the dates of her marriage and her death. I hadn't expected her to be so young. I assumed the second wife would be more… seasoned. But she — she is barely more than a girl."
And who, she wondered with a sudden flare of anger, had shackled this breathtaking child to that sanctimonious old block of ice?
She drew back, startled by the intensity of her own reaction. In a brisk movement, she rose to her feet.
"Have it brought down to my sitting room," she instructed the housekeeper. "You may give it a light dusting, but nothing more. I want to examine it under proper light before any further cleaning is done."
Mrs. Ginger was a no-nonsense import from Derbyshire, arriving at Ashbourne with a sterling reputation and an ironclad set of principles. She had come to the estate blissfully unaware of any old family skeletons and had remained so, thanks to her zero-tolerance policy for below-stairs gossip. Her hiring had been the result of Lord Hook's agent seeking not just competence but incorruptibility. In Mrs. Ginger's world, the care of a family was a sacred duty, not a topic for titillating whispers. Either the conditions were fit for service, or they weren't. If they weren't, one simply handed in one's notice and left with their dignity intact.
Her strict views on gossip, however, did little to curb the loose tongues of the rest of the staff when she wasn't within earshot. As a result, most of them were well-versed in the murmurings about the previous Lady Hookstone. One such gossipmonger was the footman dispatched to move the mysterious portrait to the new Lady Hookstone's sitting room. Naturally, he couldn't resist sharing the portrait's identity with Mr. Mullins.
Mr. Mullins, for his part, resisted the urge to theatrically bang his head against the nearest chimneypiece, though the temptation was strong. Instead, he merely blinked once—stoically, of course—and instructed his underlings to notify him the moment His Lordship returned.
Killian, meanwhile, had spent the bulk of his day in Chudleigh, where he found himself at the Rabbit Hole, deep in conversation with Lord Nemo. Nemo, currently on a leisurely journey south to Devonport for a wrestling match, was the sort of fellow who saw nothing remotely odd about a newlywed husband abandoning his bride for the conviviality of a coaching inn several miles from home. In fact, Nemo found it so unremarkable that he extended an invitation to Killian to join him in Devonport. He mentioned he was awaiting a few more gentlemen who would be arriving that evening and suggested Killian pack up, fetch his valet, and dine with them. They could all depart together, bright and early, the following morning.
Killian accepted the invitation with the sort of reckless speed that would make his conscience wince—if it hadn't already been drowned out by the skull-splitting shriek it had emitted earlier. Hesitation, in his experience, was a flashing neon sign of weakness, and the last thing he needed was for Nemo to suspect he was the kind of man who needed his wife's permission before gallivanting off, or worse, that he couldn't endure a few days apart from her.
Endure it? He could practically revel in it, Killian mused as he hurried up the north staircase to his room. Besides, this little getaway would serve a dual purpose. It would teach her that she couldn't twist him around her delicate little finger. And, unlike last night's lesson—where he'd rather have let carrion crows dine on his most delicate bits—this one would be considerably less excruciating for him.
He would leave, cool his temper, and allow himself the luxury of perspective. Then, upon his return, he would…
Well, he hadn't the faintest idea what he'd do, but that was merely because his thoughts were still muddied with the aftermath of last night. Once he regained his calm, the answer would present itself. There had to be a simple solution lurking in the fog of his mind, but he couldn't begin to see it while she remained so tantalizingly close, her presence like an itch he couldn't scratch.
"My lord."
Killian paused at the top of the stairs, glancing down to find Mullins huffing and puffing his way up after him. "My lord," Mullins repeated, his breath catching up with him at last. "A word, if you please."
What the steward had to say was hardly just a word, though it was delivered with the precise economy of language one would expect from such a paragon of discretion. Her Ladyship had been poking around the North Tower's storage room, and in doing so, she'd stumbled upon a portrait—the previous marchioness, no less. Mullins, ever the soul of tact, thought His Lordship would wish to be informed.
Mullins' tone was so measured, his expression so perfectly composed, that one might have thought he was merely discussing the weather rather than dropping a metaphorical bomb at his master's feet.
Killian, for his part, mirrored his steward's calm, betraying no sign that anything explosive had just landed in his lap.
"I see," Killian replied, as casually as if discussing tea. "How fascinating. I hadn't the slightest idea we had such a thing lying about. And where might it be now?"
"In Her Ladyship's sitting room, my lord," came the crisp response.
"Well, I suppose I ought to take a look at it, then."
With that, Killian pivoted and made his way down the Long Gallery. His heart, traitorously, thumped out an uneven rhythm, yet beyond that, he felt curiously detached. The gallery's parade of portraits—his noble ancestors, men and women he'd never quite felt kinship with—blurred into irrelevance as he walked past them, his mind focused elsewhere.
He marched blindly to the gallery's end, opened the final door on the left, turned into a narrow passage, and kept going. He passed one door, then another, until he reached the last door in the corridor, which stood ajar, waiting.
And there it was—the portrait that wasn't supposed to exist. It stood before the sitting room's east-facing window, propped on a battered old easel that must have been resurrected from the dusty remnants of the schoolroom.
Killian approached the painting, his gaze locking onto it for far longer than he'd intended, though every second felt like a knife twisting in his chest. The pain—sharp and unexpected—coursed through him as he stared into the beautiful yet merciless face. His throat tightened, and a familiar sting burned behind his eyes. If he could have, he might have wept right then and there.
But tears were a luxury he couldn't afford, not with an audience. He didn't need to tear his gaze from the portrait to know that his wife was present.
"Another one of your discoveries," he remarked, forcing a brittle laugh past the rawness in his throat. "And on your first treasure hunt here, no less."
"Fortunate that the North Tower is both cool and dry," she replied, her tone as crisp as the air up there. "The painting was well-preserved, needing only minimal cleaning. However, the frame is entirely wrong—too dark and needlessly ornate. I'd prefer to place her somewhere with more… prominence. Over the dining room mantel, perhaps, in place of that dreary landscape." She stepped closer, stopping just a few paces to his right. "The landscape belongs in a more intimate space. Even if it didn't, I'd much rather gaze upon her."
So would he, though it was tearing him apart to do so.
He would have been content just to look at his impossible, ethereal mother. He would have asked for nothing—nothing more than the smallest of gestures: a gentle hand on his cheek, if only for a fleeting moment. An impatient embrace, perhaps. He would have behaved, he would have tried…
Foolish, sentimental drivel, he chastised himself fiercely. It was just a damned piece of canvas, splashed with paint. A portrait of a harlot, as the entire household, all of Devon, and most of the known world could attest. All except his wife, with her maddening knack for upending reality.
"She was a whore," Killian spat out, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. He wanted it said quickly, brutally, as if by speaking the words aloud, he could exorcize the demons they summoned. "She ran off with the son of a Dartmouth merchant, lived openly with him for two years, and died alongside him on some fever-ridden speck of land in the West Indies."
He turned to face his wife, expecting shock, and there it was—etched into her pale, upturned face. But then, to his utter astonishment, her eyes filled with tears, shimmering like fragile glass.
"How dare you?" she demanded, her voice trembling with emotion as she angrily blinked back the tears. "How dare you, of all men, call your mother a whore? You, who buys a new lover every night with nothing more than a handful of coins. By your own admission, she loved but one man—and that love cost her everything. Her friends, her honor. Her son."
"I might have known you'd turn this into a tragic love story," he sneered, his tone laced with mockery. "Are you about to paint the hot-blooded harlot as some sort of martyr to—what, exactly? Love?"
He wrenched his gaze away from the portrait, the familiar, agonizing howl rising within him. He wanted to scream, to demandwhy?But the answer had always been there, lurking like a shadow. If his mother had loved him—or even pitied him, if love was too much to ask—she would have taken him with her. She wouldn't have abandoned him in the pit of hell.
"You don't know what her life was like," Emma said, her voice soft yet unyielding. "You were just a child. You couldn't possibly know what she felt. She was a foreigner, married to a man old enough to be her father."
"Like Byron's Donna Julia, is that it?" he replied with venomous irony. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps Mama would have fared better with two husbands, each a tender five and twenty."
"You have no idea how your father treated her," she pressed on, undeterred, like a teacher trying to drill sense into a particularly obstinate pupil. "You don't know if he made her life bearable or unbearable. For all you know, he might have made her utterly miserable—which seems likely, given the grim-faced portrait he left behind as his legacy."
And what of me?he longed to scream, to tear the silence have no idea what it was like for me, the grotesque remnant she left behind, cast aside, shunned, mocked, tormented. Abandoned…to endure…and to pay, dearly, for what others so casually took for granted: tolerance, acceptance, the gentle touch of a woman's hand.
He was aghast at the tempest raging within him, the hysteria of a child…who had died five and twenty years ago.
He forced a laugh, donning the mocking mask he had perfected over the years, meeting her steady emerald gaze with a flourish. "If you've grown weary of my sire, by all means, banish him to the North Tower. You could hang her in his place—no doubt she'd make a striking centerpiece. Or better yet, in the chapel, for all I care." He turned towards the door. "No need to consult me on your redecorating whims. I've yet to meet a woman who could inhabit a house for more than two days without rearranging the universe. I'll be thoroughly astonished if I can still navigate this place upon my return."
"You're leaving?" Her voice remained steady, betraying nothing. When he paused at the threshold and turned back, she was staring out the window, her color restored, her face composed.
"To Devonport," he replied, puzzled by the sudden chill her calmness evoked in him. "A wrestling match. Nemo and a few others. We're to meet at nine. I need to pack."
"Then I must alter the dinner arrangements," she said coolly. "I think I'll dine in the morning room. But I should have a nap first, lest I collapse into my soup. I've explored merely a quarter of this house, yet I feel as though I've trekked from Dover to Land's End."
He fought the urge to ask her opinion of the house, what had caught her fancy—besides the haunting portrait of his mother—and what had displeased her—apart from that ghastly landscape in the dining room, which, now that he thought of it, had never been to his taste either.
If only he weren't leaving, he might have uncovered her thoughts over dinner, in the cozy seclusion of the morning room.
Intimacy, he mused wryly, was the very last thing he needed right now. What he truly required was an escape—a place where she couldn't flip his world on its head with her maddening "revelations"…or torment him with the lingering scent of her, the intoxicating softness of her skin, the exquisite curves of her slender frame.
It took every ounce of his self-discipline to walk—not sprint—from the room.
Emma spent ten agonizing minutes trying to calm her racing heart. It was an utter failure.
Unwilling to face Cecilia or any other soul, she took matters into her own hands and prepared a bath. Ashbourne, thankfully, boasted the rare indulgence of hot and cold running water, even on the second floor—a luxury she was keen to exploit.
But neither solitude nor the steaming bath could quell her turmoil, and sleep was an impossible dream. Emma lay on her vast, lonely bed, rigid as a ramrod, scowling up at the ornate canopy.
Not even three days into marriage, and the pompous oaf was already deserting her. For his friends. For a wrestling match, no less.
She shot out of bed, yanked off her modest cotton nightgown, and stormed—naked as the day she was born—into her dressing room. She fished out the wine-red and black silk negligee, slipped it on, and slid into a pair of black mules. She then draped herself in a heavy black and gold silk dressing gown, tying the sash with a deliberate tug and artfully arranging the neckline so that just a hint of negligee peeked out.
After running a brush through her hair with a flourish, she marched back into her bedchamber and exited through the door leading into what Mrs. Ginger had so grandly dubbed the Withdrawing Chamber. Currently, it served as a display gallery for part of Hook's eccentric collection of artistic oddities. It also conveniently adjoined His Lordship's quarters.
She swept across the cavernous, dimly lit room to the door of Hook's private chambers. She knocked. The murmured voices she'd heard on her approach fell abruptly silent. After a tense pause, Smee opened the door. His eyes widened as he took in her provocative attire, letting out a small gasp that he quickly stifled with a polite, throat-clearing cough.
She turned on him the kind of sweet, guileless smile that could charm the devil himself. "Oh, you're still here! What a relief. If His Lordship can spare a moment, I have a little something to ask."
Smee shot a glance to his left. "My lord, Her Ladyship wishes—"
"I'm not deaf," came Hook's irritable reply. "Get away from there and let her in."
Smee retreated, and Emma sauntered in, her gaze drifting leisurely around the room as she made her way—ever so slowly—toward her husband, circling the massive seventeenth-century bed. It was a behemoth of a thing, even larger than her own, a good ten feet square.
Hook, dressed in nothing more than a shirt, trousers, and stockinged feet, stood by the window, scowling at his open travel case, which sat upon a heavily carved table that seemed as ancient as the bed. He stubbornly refused to meet her gaze.
"It's a rather… delicate matter," she murmured, her voice laced with hesitance and feigned shyness. If only she could summon a blush at will, but alas, such an artful touch was beyond her. "Could we possibly speak… privately?"
He shot her a quick, dismissive glance, his attention snapping back to the valise almost immediately. But then, as if some part of him finally registered her presence, he blinked and turned his head toward her again, this time with stiff deliberation. His eyes traveled up, down, and up again, lingering at the suggestive neckline of her dressing gown. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
His face hardened into something like chiseled stone. "Ready for your nap, I see," he growled, glaring over her shoulder at Smee. "What are you standing around for? 'Private,' Her Ladyship said. Are you deaf?"
Smee scuttled out, closing the door behind him.
"Thank you, Hook," Emma said, flashing a bright smile. She stepped closer, plucked a handful of starched, perfectly folded neckcloths from the valise, and let them tumble to the floor.
He looked at her. Then he looked at the discarded linen on the floor.
Undeterred, she pulled out a neat stack of pristine white handkerchiefs and, still smiling, tossed them down to join the neckcloths.
"Emma, I don't know what game you're playing, but it is not the least bit amusing," he said in a dangerously quiet tone.
She snatched up an armful of shirts and flung them to the floor with a flourish. "We've been wed scarcely three days," she declared, her voice sharp as a blade. "You do not abandon your new bride for your gaggle of sapskull friends. You will not make a laughingstock of me. If you're unhappy with me, you say so, and we'll discuss it—or quarrel, if you prefer. But you do not—"
"You do not dictate to me," he cut in, his tone icy and measured. "You do not tell me where I may or may not go—or when—or with whom. I owe you no explanations, and you do not question me. And you most certainly do not storm into my room and throw tantrums."
"Yes, I do," she shot back, her eyes blazing. "And if you leave this house, I will shoot your horse out from under you."
"Shoot my—?"
"I will not allow you to desert me," she continued, unwavering. "You will not treat me with the indifference Nemo shows his wife, nor will you make me the object of the world's scorn—or pity—like she is. If you're so desperate to attend your precious wrestling match, you can damn well take me with you."
"Take you?" His voice rose incredulously. "I'll bloody well take you, madam—straight to your room! And I'll lock you in if you can't behave yourself."
"I'd like to see you try—"
He lunged at her, and she dodged—but a fraction too late. In a heartbeat, she was hoisted up under one of his brawny arms, hauled like a sack of rags toward the door she had so boldly entered.
The door stood wide open and conveniently, it opened into the room. Also fortunate was that only one of her arms was pinned against his solid frame.
She shoved the door shut with a forceful push.
"Bloody hell!"
Cursing was all he could manage at this point. With one hand out of commission and the other occupied, he was effectively trapped. The door handle might as well have been miles away—he couldn't budge it without letting go of her.
He let out another string of oaths, then pivoted on his heel, marching to the bed where he unceremoniously dumped her.
As she tumbled onto the mattress, her dressing gown fell open in a whisper of silk.
Hook's furious blue gaze raked over her, storm clouds brewing in his eyes. "Damn you, Emma. Curse and confound you," he rasped, his voice tight with frustration. "You will not—you cannot—" He reached out, aiming to grab her hand, but she scurried back, just out of reach.
"You're not going to toss me out like a misbehaving child," she declared, retreating to the center of the expansive bed. "I'm not some petulant schoolgirl, and I refuse to be locked in my room."
He knelt on the edge of the mattress, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Don't think, just because you've crippled me, that I can't still teach you a lesson. Don't make me chase you," he growled, lunging for her foot.
She yanked it away just in time, leaving him clutching nothing but her discarded mule. With a snarl, he hurled the slipper across the room.
In retaliation, she ripped off the other mule and flung it at him with all her might. He ducked, and it thudded harmlessly against the wall.
With a low, feral growl, he launched himself at her. She rolled away to the opposite side of the bed, and he lost his balance, sprawling face-first across the bottom half of the enormous mattress.
She could have easily leapt from the bed and made her escape then—but she didn't. She had come ready for a battle royale, and she was determined to see it through to the bitter end.
He dragged himself up onto his knees, his shirtfront gaping open to reveal the taut cords of muscle at his neck and the enticing dark swath of hair her fingers had toyed with the night before. His chest heaved with labored breaths, and when she finally met his gaze, she saw it—anger, yes, but it was only a flicker amidst a far more potent storm.
"I'm not going to wrestle with you," he stated, his voice low and firm. "Nor am I inclined to quarrel. You will go to your room. Now."
The sash of her dressing gown had already slipped away, and the top of the gown slithered down to her elbows. With a casual shrug, she let it fall entirely, then sank languidly onto the pillows, her gaze fixed stubbornly on the canopy above, her lips pressed into a mutinous line.
He moved closer, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Emma, I'm warning you."
She offered no response, didn't even turn her head. She didn't need to. The menacing edge in his voice lacked the bite he intended. And she didn't need to see why he had paused—she already knew.
He didn't want to look at her, but he was powerless to resist. He was a man, after all, and his gaze was drawn inexorably to her. What he saw—what he couldn't help but see—was a sight designed to unravel him. One of the narrow ribbons holding up the bodice of her negligee had slipped down over her shoulder, and the gossamer skirt was artfully tangled around her legs.
She heard his breath catch.
"Damn you, Emma," he muttered, his voice thick with frustration.
She caught the wavering uncertainty in his husky baritone and waited, eyes still locked on the black and gold dragons above her, leaving him to grapple with the war raging within himself.
For over a minute, he stood frozen, the only sound in the room was his ragged, uneven breathing.
The mattress shifted beneath her, sinking under the weight of his surrender. She felt his knees press against her hip and heard the muffled groan of his defeat. His hand landed on her knee, sliding upward with a slow, deliberate stroke, the silk of her negligee whispering secrets under his touch.
She remained motionless, every nerve alive to the sensation of his hand as it journeyed over her hip, tracing a heated path across her belly. The warmth of his caress seeped into her skin, setting her aflame with a fever she couldn't quench.
He hesitated at her bodice, his fingers tracing the delicate eyelet embroidery above her breast. The teasing touch was a cruel invitation, causing her nipple to harden and strain against the thin silk, aching for the attention she craved.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he pushed the fragile fabric aside and brushed his thumb over the hard, aching peak. Then he bent down and took it into his mouth, the warmth of his lips sending a shock of pleasure through her. She had to clench her hands to resist the urge to hold him there, had to bite down on her lip to stifle the cry that threatened to escape, the same cry she had let loose the night before:Yes… please… anything… don't stop.
Last night, he had made her beg, yet he had not truly claimed her. And today, he thought he could simply turn his back and leave, as though she were nothing more than a fleeting distraction. He thought he could abandon her, leaving her wretched and humiliated—a bride in name only.
He didn'twantto want her, but the desire gnawed at him, relentlessly. He wanted her to beg for his touch, to feed his illusion of control.
But control was a lie. His mouth was hot and urgent on her breast, her shoulder, her neck. His hand trembled, his touch growing rougher, more desperate, because he, too, was feverish, consumed by the very passion he tried so hard to deny.
"Oh, Emma," he breathed, his voice a raw, anguished whisper as he sank down beside her. He pulled her to him, his lips trailing hot, urgent kisses over her face. "Fílisé me. Kiss ália sé me. Touch me. Please. I'm sorry." His words tumbled out, desperate and pleading, as he fumbled with the narrow ribbon ties.
I'm 'd actually said it. But did he even know what he was saying? Emma told herself he didn't. He was lost in a primal, ravenous need, just as she had been the night before.
This wasn't true remorse—it was mindless, primal male desire. His hands moved feverishly, tugging the gown down, roaming over her back, her waist, as if trying to memorize every inch of her skin.
He caught her hand and kissed it fervently. "Don't be angry. Touch me," he urged, guiding her hand beneath his shirt. "Like you did last night."
His skin was burning—hot, smooth, and taut under her fingers, with the light dusting of masculine hair that drove her wild. His muscles quivered beneath her touch, his body trembling as if each caress was both torture and salvation.
She wanted to stay angry, to hold onto her pride, but she wanted this more. She'd ached to touch, kiss, and hold him from the moment they met. She had longed for him to burn for her, just as she had burned for him.
He was already pulling the negligee down, baring her hips.
With a sudden burst of passion, she grabbed the edges of his shirtfront and, with one fierce tug, tore it clean in half.
His hand slipped from her hip in surprise. She tore away the shirt cuff, ripping the seam all the way up to the shoulder. "I know you like to be undressed," she said, her voice a sultry tease.
"Yes," he gasped, shifting back to give her access to his other, useless arm. She was gentler with that sleeve, carefully ripping it off, relishing the sight of him finally, utterly exposed to her.
He pulled her against him, pressing her bare breasts to the powerful chest she'd just unveiled. Their hearts pounded in unison, a wild, shared rhythm. His hand found the back of her head, pulling her mouth to his in a kiss that obliterated anger, pride, and every coherent thought in a single, searing moment.
The tattered remnants of his shirt slipped from her grasp as he tore away her negligee with the same fevered urgency. Their hands fumbled together, desperate and clumsy, tearing at the buttons of his trousers until wool ripped and buttons flew.
He parted her legs with his knee, the hard length of him throbbing against her thigh while her own heat surged beneath his touch. His hand found the place where he'd tormented her last night, and he teased her there again, until she cried out, her body trembling with the sweet ache of longing.
She clung to him, her need raw and desperate. "Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Please."
His reply was a breathless murmur, words lost in the haze of desire, and then a sharp sting as he thrust into her.
Her mind spun into darkness, a single thought echoing:Please, God, don't let me dug her nails into his back, holding on to him as if he were the only thing anchoring her to consciousness.
His damp cheek pressed against hers, his breath scorching her ear. "Sweet Jesus, I can't—Oh, Emma," he groaned, wrapping his arm around her and rolling onto his side, pulling her with him. He hooked his arm beneath her knee, lifting her leg to wrap around his waist. The burning pressure eased, and with it, her panic ebbed away. She clung to him, savoring the slick heat of his skin, the heady scent of their shared passion.
He moved within her again, slowly at first, as her body surrendered, the pain fading into a distant memory. He had already given her pleasure, and she expected nothing more. But then it came, a slow, insistent wave that built with every possessive stroke.
Pleasure welled up inside her, warm and electrifying, and her body arched to meet it, joy surging through her in sharp, sweet bursts.
It wasn't the same joy he'd shown her before, but every fiber of her being recognized it and craved more. She rocked against him, matching his rhythm, and the pleasure came in a rush, faster, harder, more intense—a frenzied race to the peak, a lightning strike of ecstasy, and the sweet, soothing rain of release.
