Page 35 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
Pushed it open, went in.
Sat on the bed, heart racing.
He was coming.
To put on a show.
To convince them we were real.
I didn't know what to think.
I sat on the bed for a long time.
Sky outside was pitch black. Elsa said he'd come at four, now the antique clock pointed to nine.
Five hours.
I'd showered, changed, changed back, ended up in my old pajamas from home—cotton, washed a million times, edges frayed. Didn't touch the silk and lace in the closet.
Clock chimed.
Nine-thirty.
I clutched the blanket, stared at the door.
He wasn't coming.
I knew he wouldn't.
Five hours—plenty of time for excuses. Busy, forgot, changed mind—anything. Especially since he didn't want to see me. That day in the hall, he passed without a glance.
I pulled the blanket up, lay down, and closed my eyes.
Footsteps outside.
Heavy, steady, closer.
My breath stopped.
They paused at the door. Silence, seconds, then it opened.
I sat up.
He stood in the doorway.
Moonlight streamed in, hitting him. No suit, just a dark robe, belt loose, collar open, chest exposed. Hair messier than daytime, falling over forehead.
But thoseeyes, clear.
Deep green, cold as ice.
I smelled booze. Heavy, mixed with cigar.
He'd drunk a lot.
He stepped in and shut the door behind him.
My heart pounded.
