Page 18 of Velvet Chains
Turning to the full-body mirror, I try to shrug off my jacket, eager for a distraction. But the movement sends pain lancing through my shoulder, a vivid reminder of last night’s escapades. A grunt escapes me.
“Let me,” Laura interrupts smoothly, her hands reaching out. She delicately helps peel the jacket off my injured frame.
I see her face in the mirror, still in her wedding gown. She looks ethereal, a vision of beauty that I hadn’t fully appreciated until now. My mother’s necklace rests elegantly on her skin, drawing my gaze down to her cleavage. I know what lies beneath, and the thought makes my balls tighten.
Despite the pain coursing through my body, I can’t help but imagine peeling that gown off her, revealing every inch of her smooth skin. I want to mark her, claim her as mine in every way possible. She is my wife now, and the possessive hunger inside me gnaws at my insides, demanding to be satisfied.
Fuck, what is she doing to me?
As Laura slowly tugs off my jacket, I catch the way her mouth falls open slightly, a small huff of breath leaving her lips when she sees the red blood soaking through the bandages. Her eyes widen, concern etched into every line of her face. Tears build in those ocean-green depths, threatening to spill over.
“This is nothing,” I tell her quickly, trying to brush off her worry. “I’ve had worse papercuts.”
She doesn’t laugh at my poor attempt at humor. Instead, she steps closer, her fingers trembling as she reaches for the buttons of my shirt.
“I thought… I thought you might not make it to our wedding.”
Her words are soft, low, but they hit me like a physical blow.
She cared. She actually cared if I lived or died.
I watch, transfixed, as she slowly unfastens the first button, then the second. Pain and arousal war within me, my cock stiffening against my will despite the agony radiating from my shoulder.
Great, Victor. Half-dead, but still ready to fuck.
“Do you really want me to stay alive?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. I need to know, need to understand why she gives a damn about a man she’s been forced to marry.
She hesitates, her fingers stilling on my chest. When she looks up at me, her lashes are damp, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know… But I don’t want you dead.”
Carefully, she helps me shrug out of my shirt, her breath catching as she takes in the sight of my blood-soaked bandages, the angry bruises mottling my skin. I feel exposed, vulnerable in a way I’ve never been before.
“Why… why do you do this?” she asks, her voice husky.
I shrug, then instantly regret it as pain shoots through me. “It’s what we do. I’m not about to let some punk make off with a cargo worth fifteen million.”
Her eyes pop at the figure, then her lips press tight, a frown forming as she finds her words. “But no amount of money is worth your life.”
I chuckle humorlessly.
How naïve is she?
“Many would disagree with you. Men have been trading their lives for money and power since the dawn of time.”
She frowns, worry still creasing her brow. “I don’t understand.”
Fuck, she’s pitying me.
“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me, kiska,” I sneer, anger rising in my chest.
“I’m not,” she insists, meeting my gaze head-on. “I just… I feel sad for you.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, cruel and cutting. “Nothing sadder than not being able to pay off a bad debt, having your shop burn down, and no money to rebuild.”
Fuck.
I regret it instantly.
Hurt flashes in her eyes, followed by a flicker of anger.
