Page 104 of Remi's War (Four Dark Horsemen 2)

However, my relief is short-lived when Remi presses some button on the wall, and instantly the shades separate, letting the sun stream through the huge window and blind me for a second.

I cover my eyes with my arm and the blanket slips down, flashing him my breasts before I adjust it again. The impossible man chuckles in amusement.

“I had them in my mouth last night, Penelope. I’m more familiar with them than you are.”

“You’re disgusting,” I snap, looking around the room and noticing its design for the first time.

Overall, the master bedroom matches the bland mood of the whole apartment, but it has a spacious bed and a chair next to a small table sporting a pack of cigarettes and ashtray. He even has a TV hanging on the wall, so the monster must watch movies.

Although why he bothers, I don't know. His life is way more messed up than any cinematic story.

One door leads to the walk-in closet; the bathroom seems huge, judging by the small glimpses I get from the bed.

Rose petals scatter all over the floor, and some are still stuck to my skin. My cheeks heat up as I remember how he glided them over my skin before fucking me for the second time so hard nothing else but him mattered.

Goose bumps pop on my flesh, and a shot of desire travels through me, but I shake my head, wincing in humiliation.

“Just speaking the truth, chérie.” He walks back to me, and I really hate how he shows off his perfectly carved six-pack, and his low-hanging jeans give too much justice to his overall physique.

God, Penelope please stop being such a whore for this man. He literary kills people and forced you into this marriage. People would call a shrink on you if they knew.

“We have an arranged marriage.” My gaze shoots up to him, and I frown at this statement. “I haven’t forced you into anything, chérie. To save their asses, your family—aka Amalia—used you to cover their backs. Consider it sort of a deal.” He grips my chin, his thumb brushing it, and my eyes widen when I realize I said the words out loud. “You became my wife of your own free will. Never forget it, Penelope, and don’t call yourself a whore again. Now get up.” He adds the last part harsher and heads to the hallway. I grab a nearby pillow and scream into it, horrified he knows about my internal conflict.

And his laughter echoing through the walls only adds to my misery.

“Okay,” I mutter, placing the pillow beside me but still digging my fingers into it. “Clear your head.”

Whatever people do in captivity doesn’t matter, because they do it to survive. My psyche probably protects me from going insane and makes my husband irresistible to me so I won't experience any more pain. We can’t be too strict with ourselves and follow our everyday morals while dealing with murderers; we just need to survive by whatever means necessary.

All this overthinking will really exhaust me in the long run, and I can’t allow it if I want to find a way out of this situation.

And I will.

Because no matter how often he says it was my decision to marry him, it wasn’t. I agreed to marry a stranger who was obsessed with my twin to save her from a problem my presence created.

Not a man with his own dungeon and psycho friends whose hobbies include collecting weaponry and torturing-slash-killing people.

With my mind settled, I throw away the covers and quickly run to the bathroom, hissing when my feet connect with the cold black tile while looking around the space.

It has a bathtub able to fit up to three people, a shower several feet away, and two sinks with two mirrors that show my less-than-stellar reflection.

I gasp at my dark curls going in different directions. I pluck away a few more petals stuck in my hair before running my fingers over the countless hickeys marring my neck. They’re on my collarbone and barely visible on my breasts. The beast staked his claim all over me so no one can doubt whose name I’m wearing.

Getting into the shower, I do my best to scrub myself raw, wishing to wipe away all his touches since they speak about my shame, and after soaking enough under the hot spray, I get out and dry myself off, letting the wet strands of my hair fall down my back.

“Oh my God.”

Clothes.

I don’t have clean clothes to wear.

Dreading and cursing the impossible man once again, I go back to the room, ready to put on one of his shirts, which will probably thrill the possessive asshole to no end. I stop in my tracks when I see a pink bag on the bed.

I even recognize the name; she is a New York designer who recently opened a shop in Chicago.

I hope you like the color. The rest of the clothes will arrive today.

Frankie personally picked your gown for the event tonight, and I will get it to you first thing. Remi preapproved the design.

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