Page 36 of Wicked Sinner
“That’s not desire,” she hisses. “That’s fear.”
“Maybe.” I brush my thumb against her cheekbone and feel the shiver that runs through her. “If it is, it’s because you’re afraid of this. Of what's between us. Of how much you want me, even though you hate yourself for it."
She stiffens, and for the briefest moment, I wonder if she’s going to admit that I might be right. Her body sways towardmine infinitesimally, and I feel a puff of her warm breath as she shivers again.
And then she jerks away, slapping my hand from her face.
"Don't touch me," she snarls. "And don't pretend this is about anything other than your ego and your need to control everything around you."
I feel those words cut deeply. I’ve never thought of myself as an egotistical man. And I don’t believe that’s what this is about. Not for a moment do I believe that this has anything to do with my ego—or even with control, really, except to make sure that Bridget doesn’t run away. "Everything I'm doing is to protect you and our child. To make sure that you and our child have a good life?—"
"Bullshit," she snaps. "Everything you're doing is to get what you want. You don't give a damn about what I want or what's best for me."
"What you want is irrelevant if it puts you in danger," I say, my patience finally fraying. "You have no idea what kind of world you've stumbled into, Bridget. The kind of people who would use you to get to me. The kind of violence—" I shake my head. “And beyond that, you are carrying myheir, Bridget! That matters, in my world. I can’t just let you walk away?—”
“Men like you can do whatever you want.” She takes a step back, crossing her arms under her breasts. “You’re just choosing not to.”
“I’mchoosingto wait until you see sense, until you see that how I feel about you and our child?—”
"It doesn't matter whatyoufeel," she says flatly. "Because I'll never be your wife. I'll never say those vows, Caesar. Not willingly."
I let out a heavy breath. Once again, this conversation has gone nowhere. “I had clothes sent up for you, Bridget. Pleasemake use of them. You can’t just keep wearing the same thing you came here in?—”
“The same thing youkidnappedme in?—”
“Not everything has to be a fight!” I stare at her, wondering what it will take to get her to give even a little. “Please, Bridget. Just—change your clothes. Make yourself comfortable.Eat. I’ll get you anything that I can that you want or need.”
Her face remains impassive, and I sigh, turning back toward the door. “I’ll bring you up dinner later tonight.”
"You can keep me locked up here for the rest of my life, and I'll still never marry you,” she calls after me as I unlock the door. “You can't force someone to love you."
I pause with my hand on the doorknob. "Love?" I turn back to face her. "Who said anything about love?"
The question clearly catches her off guard, and I see something flicker across her face—hurt, maybe, or disappointment.
“Don’t you expect me to love you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t expect love, Bridget. I know there’s desire between us. Chemistry. That was enough for me to make my first offer to you—what we shared that night we met. I wanted more of that, and I thought you would, too. When I found out you were pregnant, that changed everything.”
"Marriage should be about love," she says quietly.
“Not in this world,bellissima.” I pause, looking at her for a moment. “The women that Konstantin has pushed in front of me as prospective brides? I wouldn’t love any of them. Some I would tolerate, for what they can offer me. Others I could respect. Form a partnership with, even.Thatis the pinnacle of marriage in this world, Bridget. Respect, partnership, companionship. The possibility of a meeting of minds and maybe, even, desire until it burns out. But love and enduring passion are not realistic, and they are not what I’m looking for.”
“You’re looking for a slave.” She spits out the word, and I shake my head.
“I thought I needed to look for a wife. But I’ve already found one.” I incline my head toward her before opening the door. “I’ll see you later, Bridget.”
I hear her hurl something heavy at the door as I close it behind me, and I pinch the bridge of my nose, wondering how long this will go on. She’ll tire herself out, surely. Go through the stages of grieving her old life and come to acceptance. In time, when she sees that I’m telling the truth—that I truly want to care for and give her and our child everything they could want or need—she’ll accept that this new life is best for them both.
And, if she proves I can trust her, I’ll do exactly as I promised. I’ll give her back her freedom, her phone, her access to her friends. Her garage. Everything she wants from her old life—with security to make sure that she’s safe, of course.
I lock the door behind me, knowing that she’s at least partially right—I have taken something from her. But I can give her so much to replace it. All I can do is try to make her see that what I'm offering in return is worth the sacrifice.
I bring her dinner that evening—filet and potatoes au gratin with roasted vegetables from a nearby restaurant, and she’s still in the same clothes. When I come back in the morning with her breakfast, the food is untouched.
Two more days pass in a similar pattern. I bring her meals, which she either refuses to eat or throws at the door. I try to engage her in conversation, and she either ignores me or argues with me. I attempt to reason with her, and she responds with defiance.
By the fourth day, I show up with her breakfast and I see her sitting on the bed, wearing a pair of bike shorts and a long blue tank top over them. Her hair is up in a ponytail, and she looksslightly sweaty, as if she was doing some kind of a workout. But all I can think at first is that she’s finally cracked the smallest bit.
