Page 46 of Salt in the Wound
Tomorrow would begin a new chapter for us. I would be his in all the ways he’d tried to warn me away from, and maybe, just maybe, a tiny piece of this cold, deadly, hungry man would also be mine.
fourteen
It wasn’t yet dawn when I woke.
I opened my eyes to a room lit only by the glow of the city, my room a chiaroscuro of gold and shadow. Mark stood by my window, his suit jacket and shoes back on, not a hair out of place. His eyes were on the glass, and something flipped between his fingers as he stared at the still-sleeping city.
I sat up, the sheet falling from my naked body. Even though it was still dark outside, it was close to when I’d wake up to pray anyway, and I didn’t feel tired in the least. Possibly because I’d fallen asleep much earlier than normal. Possibly because Mark was still here. Mark was here, and last night had happened, and everything had changed.
“You’re awake,” he said. “Good.”
He turned toward me, setting whatever it was he’d been twirling between his fingers on my desk.
I watched him, not bothering to cover myself, enjoying the way his dark gaze dripped over my collarbone and exposed breasts before coming back to my face.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
I stretched a little to test my body, noticing that his gaze followed my movements, and then I smiled a little as I felt the twinge inside me. What had hurt last night felt like a token this morning, a sweet memory. Proof that Mark had let me on the other side of his curtain. “I’m a little sore, but that’s all.”
I had no idea how to seduce him into more of what we had done last night, no idea how to even begin asking for it. But I wanted it. I wanted him to stride to my bed and put his hand between my legs. I wanted him to use me to get off again. I wanted—I wantedhim. Us. I wanted this breathless ache in my chest to ease.
“Good,” he said. “You didn’t sleep well, so I was worried.”
“I slept better than I have in a long time,” I said. It was the truth. Ever since my trip to Rome this summer, nightmares had awaited me every time I closed my eyes.
My honeysuckle knife flashing in the dark; blood wet and coppery on my face. My uncle laying his hand on my gore-crusted hair in the already hot morning sunshine of Rome.
Your sins to save God’s kingdom.
But the dreams had been muffled last night, blurry. Unable to hurt me in Mark’s strong, possessive embrace.
Mark stepped closer without speaking, and I squinted to read his expression. It was impossible in this light, with his cheekbones and jaw lit in gold and his mouth and eyes partially draped in shadow. I thought of his face last night as he’d put his fingers inside me, as he’d come all over my cunt.
What a good little wife you’ll make.
“So did you figure it out?” I asked. I was unable to stop the excitement blooming in my chest. I was his. I’d fought it for the last two years, resisting him, resisting the way he made me feel, the way crawling and being bound and held and flogged had made me feel, but no longer.
I was his.
“Figure what out?” he asked. His voice was cold again, polite. Nothing like it had been just hours ago.
I should have known then, I think. That something had changed. But I was nineteen, feeling the first flush of submission and sex and love, and I didn’t want to know anything that wasn’t this heady, delirious thrill.
“What to do with me,” I prompted, dropping my legs over the side of the bed to stand. “What happens next.”
Mark regarded me as I stood, not moving. Him dressed, suited, and me utterly naked.
“I have,” he said calmly.
“And?”
“And,” he said, stepping forward, “we won’t need to meet again until the wedding.”
A new buzz started under my skin, but it was one of alarm. Just like before, my body knew before my mind did.
“Sorry?” I whispered.
“We’ve done a commendable job of selling our engagement as real so far, and we’ve now ensured your father has no reason to doubt you. There’s no reason for us to see each other until the wedding, unless, of course, we decide to present the illusion that I’ve collared you. We’ll need to make something of the collaring, a little ceremony at the club, but I’ll make sure it’s brief and to the point.”
