Page 73 of Hostile Vows
My heart rate quickens. Every inch of my skin tingles under his sweeping assessment. I swallow my obvious intrigue of him and move further into the room, pausing by the couch where a bath towel sits in a heap.
“Do you really think I should grovel?” My words come out softly while I push my nerves aside.
He snarls when I lick my lips. “I do. And you’ll do it on your hands and fucking knees.”
“If you’re not going to listen to me, then you may as well let me go.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Rather than blaming me for this situation.”
“Let you go?” His voice scratches my skin as it blasts into the atmosphere. “Why the fuck would I let you leave when you’re mine?”
“Yours? Yet you want me to grovel as if I’m worthless. Why are you treating me like this, André?”
He slams the tumbler onto the desk, the sound of it echoing in the modern office. He glowers at me, his entire face contorted with raw anger.
“Because no other woman has stood where you are now—as my wife. They’ve never experienced all of me. Nor have they been this close to the real me or even latched onto my intrigue. In fact, let it be known that I’ve never allowed a woman to fuck me the way you did. Not with those sexy fucking kisses or such a slow, vanilla pace. That scenario only occurred because I allowed it to… and now that I know the truth behind it, you will never experience it again. The groveling is simply a requirement that will ensure your role as my wife is maintained. As for getting pregnant—I haven't decided if your cunt deserves my cum again. So yeah, Wifey—groveling is an expectation.”
29
ANDRÉ
“André… please.”
She rushes forward, snatches my hand, threads her fingers with mine, and looks up at me with mesmerizing turquoise eyes. Instantly, my chest implodes. Chills race over my scalp and my pulse goes haywire.
The simple touch of my wife helps to soothe the devil's chatter inside my head. To subdue the bloodlust of my past actions and the violence I’ve yet to unleash.
My unruly dick twitches against my bare abdomen and my balls throb when the scent of her flurries up my nose. She smells like sex and antiseptic. Not a combination that would usually turn me on, but on this woman, it's intoxicating. It's clean and dirty—astringent and musky. A mash of disturbing purity and eroticism.
Where her palm nestles against mine, chills catapult from the burning heat of it, all the way along my arm to my shoulder. If I’m not careful, my veins will explode.
I want to fuck this woman.
On repeat.
I’ve endured a grueling few hours, assassinated a bunch of rapists, demolished a bottle of booze, and snorted a few lines of cocaine. Here she is, gazing up at me like I’m a fucking god. Or the only man who can save her mother.
The crippling realization of that being the most obvious scenario almost has me reaching for my gun. I could kill her—if I wanted this to end and for my life to go back to my version of normal. But it wouldn’t matter. She’d always be right there in the forefront of my mind. Getting rid of her is not an option.
Despite the fleeting thought of pulling the trigger, the rush I’d hunted since the day I slaughtered the pitiful stag hits me tenfold. It’s a sucker punch right to my stomach. I can’t breathe beneath its weight. I grit my teeth, having never found an adrenaline hit to replicate that feeling—until this very instant.
And it's not the act of reaping lives or the alcohol in my system or even the narcotics in my bloodstream—it’s the sensation of her tiny hand in mine. Of the visible desire prickling her skin in shivers and the way she gazes up at me.
The longer her hand stays in place, the more my urges take over. Our connected skin grows hotter and my need becomes feral.
I hate her for it.
I despise how she didn’t trust me to help her mother. How she fucked me under the direct order from a man who doesn’t value her life like I do, and most of all, because I’ll never know if her sexy groans of pleasure were real… if any of it could be real now.
In reality, what woman wants marriage forced upon her? She didn’t. Despite that fact, the dark twist woven through our vows was the hot sex—the undeniable attraction between us from the get-go. Not to mention the mind-blowing way in which she had surrendered and shook. And now I’ve found out she was compliant for other reasons. None of it was genuine.
While my heart made room for her again, she was only faking it.
The morning light is dusky through the large windows, its radiance dappled with wispy clouds in an expansive rose-gold sky. It kisses her pale complexion, transforming my wife into a goddess of surreal beauty.
The fresh bruising on her jaw turns my thoughts dark. Its circumference spreads to her heart-shaped chin where a cute little freckle peeks out at me from the edge of the purplish-blue mass.
She’s playing me.
I whip my hand away and stuff it into my hair, combing from root to tip.
