Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I sink down against the wall in the corner. He stands and watches the numbers tick past—twenty, thirty, forty floors into the air—and doesn’t speak, leaving me to soak in a puddle of my own misery.
The worst part of this isn’t the shame, even though that’s bad enough.
The worst part is I shouldn’t feel shame at all. Rationally, I know my abuse isn’t my fault. But I still blame myself for it and feel pathetic that it went on for so long, and it’s like my father’s still hurting me even after the hitting stopped.
He wriggled his way into my head. All those nights getting called worthless and stupid left their mark, and I’m starting to think maybe he was right, if I’m letting it keep eating at me.
The elevator slows and the doors open to a gorgeous apartment.
It’s exactly the kind of place I never dreamed I’d live inside. The sort of apartment I see on TV and think that’s an entirely different world. Unless I was nannying the kids or something. White walls decorated with modern paintings like ink-dripped canvasses. Hardwood flooring shines under the recessed lighting. The walls are covered in expensive molding and even the switches are all gold and copper. Huge windows overlook Chicago with an incredible view of the lake from the living room. Tasteful rugs, a couch in front of a fireplace, a gourmet kitchen, and access to a renovated roof deck.
“This is our bedroom,” Julien says, showing me the master suite. Attached bathroom, office, and dressing room, plus closets bigger than my living room back home.
I brush right past that, because absolutely no freaking way, and sit down on the edge of the bed in the first guest room I can find. “This’ll do nicely,” I say, bouncing up and down.
Julien stands in the doorway giving me a hard look. He’s got my suitcase at his heels and I think he’s going to try to argue, but instead he steps aside. “If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want.” I pull my stuff into the room. He remains on the threshold, not following me inside. “And I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, not making eye contact with him as I unzip my bag. I didn’t have time to get everything, but there should be enough.
He takes a deep breath. I can tell he’s struggling to keep himself under control. His eyes move down my body and I feel disgusting, because I know he’s picturing the bruises all over my skin, marking me and scarring me.
“You’re my wife now,” he says, voice level and smooth, but there’s still a hint of anger beneath his calm exterior. “Nobody will ever touch you again.”
“Including you.” I don’t know why I say it. Maybe this is the only way I can claw back some shred of dignity, by standing up to my new husband.
The only man that has ever protected me from my father.
That’s not fair. Nobody else knew—at least, not the extent of how bad things had gotten.
But still, Julien is the first person to do something about my father’s abuse.
His face twists into frustration. “You think I want that right now?”
“I mean it, Julien. This relationship is just on paper. You got me out of that house and I’m grateful, but don’t think that extends—”
“I’m not interested in fucking you just because you think you owe me. You don’t owe me a goddamn thing.” He snarls at me, taking a step into the room. I flinch back, shocked at his anger, at the raw animalistic rage flowing from him.
Julien’s terrifying when he’s angry. There’s a darkness radiating off him. I felt it back at my father’s house when he was beating Dad into a pulp, but it’s back, and it’s intoxicating. He’s a gorgeous, dark god of a man, a demon made of flesh and sex and death, and I hate him as much as I want him, and maybe that’s why I’m so intent on making it clear that he can’t have me.
“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page then. You keep your hands to yourself.”
“I have enough to worry about right now than touching a woman that so clearly doesn’t want to be touched.”
“And yet you kissed me earlier today. Remember that little detail?”
“As if you didn’t love it,” he snarls, obviously frustrated. “You were practically melting on my tongue.”
I gasp in horror. “Melting? I was trying not to gag.”
“Please, wife, you were panting for more afterward. Your cheeks were flushed with desire.”
“My cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.”
He gives me a knee-melting stare filled with heat and dark promises. “When I kiss you again, my beautiful pussycat, you will beg for it first. I can promise you that. For now, I’ll keep my hands to myself, because I’m not a fucking monster. But don’t forget: you are my fucking wife.”