Page 17 of The Proposal

After I reach the private bedroom, I kick the door closed with my foot and move towards the bed, gently laying her on top of the mattress.

I slide Arabella’s shoes off her feet, careful not to wake her, then toe out of my own and round the bed. I hoped to come in here alone, but my conscience wouldn’t allow that. Whether I like it or not, I’m responsible for this woman and her well-being.

I’m rudely awoken from my dream—where my wife had my dick buried down the back of her throat—when she starts squirming in my arms.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she shrieks. “Unhand me this instant.”

She thrusts her childbearing hips in my direction—her father’s words, not mine—unintentionally rubbing that perfectly round, full arse of hers against my rock-hard, aching cock.

I’m forced to clench my lips together to stifle my groan. It’s the most action I’ve seen all week, and it’s not lost on me that this is what has become of my life. My dick is now only getting attention in a struggle or my imagination.

Is this my karma for all the one-night stands and broken hearts I’ve left in my wake?

“Oh my God, please don’t tell me that’s your, your … thing digging into my backside.”

“I’m beginning to take offence at you constantly referringto my dick as a thing,Bellezza. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe it’s your backside that’s pushing against my dick … not the other way around.”

That has her jutting her pelvis forward, bending her body into the shape of a banana, giving herself the widest berth possible from my anatomy. As offensive as that is, I can’t help but chuckle.

“Why am I in here … in bed with you?”

“You’re my wife … married people sleep in the same bed.”

“If you think I’m sharing a bed with you for the rest of my life, you are sadly mistaken.”

I had intended on setting her up in one of the other rooms when we arrived home … there’s plenty to choose from, but to spite her, I find myself replying, “Sucks to be you then, Arabella, because we’ll be sharing a bed for the foreseeable future.”

“I’d rather sleep on the hard floor than beside you.”

“That can be arranged,” I grumble, removing my hand from her waist and climbing out of bed. I don’t even care what this woman thinks of me, so I don’t understand why her words cut so deep.

I’ve been overlooked and undermined by my father, and unintentionally overshadowed by my brother, my entire life. It’s toughened me and made me develop a thick skin over the years. But for some reason, being so openly despised by this woman cuts deeper than anything I’ve ever felt. It infuriates me to no end, and I find my carefully constructed armour suddenly useless in the face of her disdain.

I sit on the edge of the mattress, giving her my back as I bend to slip on my shoes.

“We should be landing soon,” I grumble as I stand.

When I leave, I slam the bedroom door behind me like a child as I storm back to my seat.

My mother made me believe that marriage was a sacredthing, something to cherish. But it hasn’t even been a full day, and I’m already contemplating a divorce.

I knew my first time back here would be hard, but as we head up the long drive towards the house, I feel physically sick.

My stomach twists, and my eyes flicker, scanning every corner, every shadow as if I’m expecting gunmen to emerge at any moment. The tension in the air is palpable, and the weight of everything that happened the last time I was here hangs heavy on my chest.

Logically, I know the shooting left me with more scars than the ones on my back; my nightmares are a testament to that.

I’ve always been reckless, even as a child, living on the edge, fearless in the face of danger. But the panic rising within me now makes me feel anything but strong. It’s a weakness I can’t shake, and it gnaws at me, reminding me that I’m not as invincible as I once thought.

“Are you okay?” Arabella asks, pulling me out of my inner turmoil.

The fact that she even notices something’s off does nothing to help me right now. If anything, it makes it worse.

When I don’t answer, she reaches out to place her hand on my leg, and without thinking, I push it away.

“Don’t touch me,” I growl, my voice rough and edged with something darker.

She probably thinks that was retaliation for her outburst on the plane, but she’d be wrong. The truth is, I’m teetering on the precipice, balanced on a knife’s edge, and her compassion—her warmth—is the last thing I need right now. It doesn’tsoothe me. It unravels me. Makes me feel more fragile … more out of control.

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