Page 89 of Betrothed in Fury
Now we’re in the car, en route to Rothguard.
Even before seeing Mom, my mind was chaos, past and present thrashing about in a turbulent storm. Now it’s as though a tornado has converged with another, adding to the mess as it tears through everything in its path.
I’m not sure it was wise to share with Killian what my dear mother told me, especially without knowing if it was her fabrication. But even as cunning as she is, she would have to be a real master of deception to have put on such an extravagant performance today. Not that I can put anything past her after what she did to us as kids.
Still, I thought today would be about fulfilling my obligation as her son, not questioning everything I’d once known about my father.
Killian must sense the sharp increase in my anxiety because he rests his hand on my thigh, the way he did in the waiting area before I saw Mom. Feels like his hand is where it belongs as he strokes his thumb across the fabric of my pants.
Our gazes meet, and I detect sympathy, like when he was fucking me to end my agony.
I’ve had a lot of feelings about Killian Lorde: I’ve hated him. I’ve feared him. I’ve lusted for him. The lust is still there, minus the fear and hate, but there’s something else too—despite his many character flaws, I actually like the bastard. Behind all his abrasiveness and desperate need for power and submission is a man who can show compassion and care, like he did when he insisted I slow down. At the time, I despised him for making me take my time, but my ass certainly appreciates it now.
Yes, I’m realizing Killian’s capable of much more than I give him credit for. He may be a psychopath, but even if it’s just that he wants to protect his possession, it’s good enough for me.
Yet I know the one thing he isn’t capable of…
But the fact that he can’t ever love me shouldn’t bother me, especially now.
I don’t care to think on it, though, so I compartmentalize it, stick it away with all those dark memories I keep tucked far back. It’s the only way to live with them.
“I’m sorry for being so needy back there,” I say, breaking the silence.
“I like when you’re needy, so that’s not an issue.” He cracks a smile.
He’s smiling, after everything I told him?
But his response helps relax me—at least as much as I can, given the circumstances.
“I know you’re close to your brother,” I say, “but I’d prefer to keep this between us for the time being. I need time to sit with this and sort through my thoughts.”
It’s a lot to ask of him, so I’m relieved when he says, “Of course. Do you think she’ll tell Wrath?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past her. I guess I’ll have to play that by ear.” I muse on some excuses I could make to Wrath to buy myself time.
“And how are you feeling about the wedding?” he asks.
It’s strange that, of everything that’s weighing on me, the one thing that has been the source of so much strife the past few weeks—my arranged marriage—doesn’t faze me.
“What about it?” I ask.
“Knowing that our fathers might have deceived us. Has that changed your feelings about your obligations?”
I detect concern in his tone, like it would hurt him if I changed my mind, which throws me. “The opposite,” I say. “I don’t want to believe it, but even if Dad wasn’t as loyal to this family as I’d once believed, that’s not the kind of man I am. And even if this was all some sick way that he and Old Terror could be together beyond the grave, I’ve already had that battle in my soul, and I know this ensures my family’s safety. That’s what matters to me.” As soon as I get the words out, I realize this isn’t only my decision to make, and maybe he asked because of his own fears. “Are you questioning…?”
A jolt of worry courses through me as I consider the implications of Killian refusing, but he quickly says, “Not at all. I already told you, this isn’t about duty for me anymore.”
“That’s right,” I acknowledge, recalling our many fucked-up conversations. “It’s about clipping and training your falcon.”
He gives another stroke of his thumb against my thigh, and despite my uneasiness with his intentions, it’s soothing.
“At least I’ll live in a pretty cage,” I say, my tone laced with bitterness.
“You still think I’m a monster for saying that, don’t you?”
“I thought that when you said it,” I confess. “But maybe a real monster would have thought it and pretended otherwise. Maybethis is just part and parcel of your psychopathy. Your need to control and own everything, even me.”
I should feel violated, like I did the first time he brought it up, yet something about the proposition comforts me, and for once, it isn’t coupled with the shame I might normally feel around it.
