My scars itched. When I flinched, the corner of his lips curled with derision. His handsome face darkened and he looked like a fallen angel, with the insistent need for sick vengeance.
“Are you going to throw that in my face for the rest our lives?” I tried to sound strong but my words only came out choked. “I know what I did that night. I have the scars to prove it!”
That was my first mistake – showing him my weakness. Because Killian only did what he was best at. He fed on my rage and my vulnerability.
I had a habit of hiding behind my veil, not just my face but my emotions. Except, Killian could still see me.
A thin piece of fabric was not enough to hide me from his hatred.
Or to protect me from his anger.
And his endless humiliation and torture.
The veil did nothing but remind me that I was damaged goods…and I was at Killian’s mercy.
At the altar, there had been no vows to love and to cherish me. There was no honor in our union, no love in our story… and no redemption for our mistakes.
Killian Spencer vowed to make me suffer for the rest of my days.
That wasn’t a wedding. It had been a one-way ticket to eternal damnation.
He jerked me closer, his lips hovering over mine. I could feel his breath on my skin through the black lace veil. He smelled of his cologne and aftershave, mixed with a strong scent of alcohol. His fingers tightened around my wrist and I winced, feeling his nails dig deeper into my skin. His eyes darkened; they were almost pitch-black.
“Why… why do your eyes look so much like hers? It fucking haunts me,” Killian whispered, the roughness in his voice growing deeper. “You. Are. Every. Reminder. Of. What. I. Lost.”
His bitter words dripped venom, but I didn’t blame him. We were poisonous together. Toxic. And there was really no cure.
“If I remind you so much of her, what makes you think you can consummate this marriage?” I hissed, while also breaking into cold sweats. “Tell me, Killian. Can you really sleep with me? Fuck the woman who reminds you of your broken heart?”
He let me go, like I had burned him, and pushed away from me. The hand that had touched me; I watched as his fingers flexed before he curled them into a fist. Rage and disgust swirled in his bottomless, dark eyes.
Killian took a step back. “You have no fucking idea what you are playing with. You will regret taunting me.”
“What else can I lose? I’ve lost my sister and my freedom. And now I’m stuck with a man who loathes the mere sight of me. You can’t hurt me because I’ve already reached my threshold of pain and misery. But keep trying, dear husband.”
He cocked his head to the side, his stance changing from furious to… almost aloof. He was silently sizing me up, taking my challenge as a threat. After a second of dreadful silence, filled with unmistakeable tension, he finally shifted on his feet and walked away.
When he reached the door, he paused – only to spin around and face me once again. His piercing gaze seemed to knock away my defenses, digging under my flesh, sinking into my bones and burrowing underneath the cage around my heart.
Killian burned me on the spot with a single cutting glance.
And my ashes laid at his feet.
“I will break you, Beasty.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Julianna
One week later
The flowers have started to bloom and the garden smelled like spring and fresh blossoms. Yesterday, I planted new ranunculus seeds but had to wait almost three months before they started to flower.
I had always preferred gardenias and ranunculus over roses. They were not as popular or as well-known as roses, but just as beautiful and meaningful. I rubbed my fingers over the petal of the pink rose, feeling its softness under my fingertips.
The beautiful scent of the roses expanded across the garden as I walked down the path, toward my favorite place. I tucked my thick book under my arm and bypassed the green labyrinth on my way to the Victorian styled gazebo. It sat right next to a little lake and I found myself there more times than I could count. This spot was eerily quiet and lonely, but peaceful.
The domed wrought iron and carved marble made the gazebo. I settled on the bench, opening my book to where I left off this morning. I had read Wuthering Heights more times than I could count and had probably memorized every single line, but it was still one of my favorite classics of English literature. Followed by any work of Jane Austen and Edgar Allan Poe.
Like my love for ancient castles and tragic love stories, I adored anything historical and classic. Sometimes, I wondered if maybe I was born in the wrong era.