I’m carrying this woman home.
I’m consummating our marriage.
I’m teaching my wife what her role is now.Chapter 6AileenI’m so angry with him I could spit.
“Put me down,” I say, slapping at his wide, massive chest.
He doesn’t even flinch, just walks down the stairs and toward the exit. I don’t bother to look to see who’s witnessing my humiliation.
The jerk probably thought I wouldn’t know who he was, what he did. And to think, I’m doomed to spend the rest of my life with this arsehole.
“I would’ve thought your punishment before your wedding would’ve subdued you,” he says almost thoughtfully. “Instead, it seems I’ve only raised your ire.”
“I—you—we—argh!” I’m so angry, I’m at a loss for words.
The jerk fixes me with a stern look, one brow arched with authority.
“Noted.”
Noted?
What did he note?
“I am fully capable of walking by myself like an adult!”
“Certainly,” he says in the same infuriating, calm tone.
“Then why don’t you put me down?”
He shrugs. “I need the exercise.”
The hell he does. He’s nothing but raw muscle because of course.
“Oh, you’re funny.”
His jaw clenches. Where are we going?
“And you’re a brat.”
“Am not.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, this time giving me a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I won’t tolerate backtalk, either.”
My throat tightens and my nose tingles with the utter helplessness of the situation.
“Of course you don’t,” I say, and to my horror, my voice wavers, and a lone tear falls down my cheek. “Reckon you’re fully prepared to beat me again, aren’t you?”
For some reason, that seems to strike a nerve with him. His grip on me tightens, and his jaw firms, but he doesn’t speak.
We walk outside and down the small flight of steps to where a fleet of sleek black cars await. My stomach twists with nerves. These cars speak of opulence and power. Prestige. Money. The Martins don’t have cars like this. It doesn’t give me hope, though, but serves as a stark reminder that my future is a wide open expanse of unknowns.
“Ready, sir?” Someone in a uniform stands beside the car. If he’s surprised to see my ogre of a husband carrying me, he doesn’t show it.
“Yes. Straight back to Ballyhock,” he says. Still, he doesn’t put me down but bends at the waist, and places me in the waiting car.
Cormac. His name is Cormac. We’ve had no introduction, but I know that’s his name. And he’s my husband now. My husband, the man I just took tight-lipped, furious vows to.
The lump in my throat grows. I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t.
I’m relieved when he releases me, but the relief is short-lived, because after spouting off a variety of instructions to the driver, he joins me in the car.
I turn from him, looking out the window and cross my arms on my chest.
He slams the door and clears his throat. I suppose that’s some sort of barbaric bossy man signal to look his way, but I don’t bother.
Make me, I think.
“Aileen.”
He spits out my name as if it’s the bitter dregs of a cup of tea.
I don’t respond.
“So this is how we’re going to play things, then?”
That gets my attention. “Play things?” I repeat, still staring out the window, which is fruitless since they’re tinted and there’s nothing to see anyway, but I’m stubborn enough not to look at him. “I’m not playing at anything.”
I can see his reflection in the window, though. He shrugs out of his suit coat and tosses it beside him, then reaches for a glass and decanter.
“You wondered if I’d beat you,” he says, pouring himself a shot of whiskey.
“Again,” I correct. I finally cave and turn to face him. I want to read his body language now.
He swings his drink down in one gulp, sighs, then looks at me, his jade green eyes flashing. “What sort of man do you think I am?”
“Think?” I repeat. “I know. You were the one who humiliated me.”
“Would you have preferred punishment at the hands of Martin’s lackeys? Did you miss the bloodstains on the floor by their whipping post?”
My stomach flips. Gross.
It’s as if he thinks he did me a sort of kindness.
I glare at him. “I would’ve preferred not to be punished at all.”
“I see. Unfortunately, you left me no choice.”
“Oh, really?” Does he think I’m stupid?
In the same calm, placid voice, he responds. “Really. You weren’t mine yet. You were subject to be punished at their hands. I’ve seen what they’re capable of, and something tells me you have, too.”
I have. Still, I refuse to grant him any sort of pardon, if that’s what he’s looking for.
“You humiliated me.”
He nods. “You put the lives of my men and your father’s at risk.”
I look out the window in silence. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. What’s done is done, and my body still aches in remembrance.