Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
The sound of my harsh and hollow laughter is like a slap in the air and cuts her off mid-sentence. She stares at me with a mixture of horror and disbelief. The laughter dies on my lips, replaced by something darker.
“I have no interest in wasting time with you. The terms of our agreement are simple. You’re the mistress of this house, and when I need someone to fuck, you’re supposed to look pretty and oblige.”
Her sharp intake of breath is audible in the silence that follows. Then I see tears well up in her eyes, but she doesn’t cry. Her lips tremble as she asks, “What is wrong with you? When did you turn into this... this monster?”
“Monster?” I repeat, letting the word hang in the air, heavy and accusing. “Is that what I am now? A monster? It does have a nice ring to it though so thank you, I guess, for the compliment.”
She is flabbergasted.
“Are you going to do what’s needed or not?” I ask, my tone cold and clipped, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “The consequences are simple: this marriage will be annulled immediately. You move your things back out, and we go back to having nothing to do with each other. I’ll give you a minute to decide.”
I step back, crossing my arms, my gaze unyielding as I wait. My words hang in the silence between us, as sharp and unyielding as the blade I feel twisting in my chest. Her eyes never leave me, but her fingers tighten painfully around the edges of her oversized hoodie.
She doesn’t respond at first. She just stares at me, her wide, tear-filled eyes searching my face for something—maybe the man I used to be or the man she thinks I still am somewhere beneath all this anger and bitterness. But I’m not him anymore. He died a painful death a long time ago.
Her shoulders rise and fall with each shaky breath. Then I see the exact moment the fight drains out of her. Slowly she rises to her feet. Her movements are fluid. She takes a step forward, then another, until she’s standing just inches away from me.
I can feel her warmth, smell her sweet scent, hear the soft hitch in her breath, and see the glint of unshed tears on her lashes. It hits me like a punch to the gut—this woman I’ve spent years trying to hate, this woman I wanted to make suffer, is still the one person who can unmake me by just standing in front of me. And I hate her for it. I hate myself even more.
But I don’t let it show. I lock my jaw, keeping my face impassive. “Get on your knees,” I command. My voice crackles with unspoken emotions, regrets, and a longing that I’m too proud to admit aloud, but my cock is rock-hard with anticipation.
Her gaze meets mine, defiant at first, but then her eyes soften, searching me for something—an answer, a promise, perhaps even remorse.
“Why are you making something so beautiful ugly?” she asks sadly, as she lowers herself, her enormous eyes looking up at me imploringly. In the past, there would have been no denying those eyes. They can melt a man’s heart, but my heart is a tarnished stone.
I run a finger along her soft cheek and my voice is silky with hate. “Don’t fool yourself, baby. What we have is raw, primitive, compulsive, wicked, and as necessary as breathing, but it is not beautiful. You are mine and you will perform for me for as long as I need you to. When I ask you to do something you will do it no matter how humiliating it is. So save the pretty words. They’re wasted on me.”
Her breath hitches with shock. Then she drops her head and for a while is as still as a statue, then her pale hands rise and find the waistband of my briefs. Every fiber of my being tightens under her touch. She pulls the fabric down. Her eyes widen and, for a moment, she pauses. I see her staring, her lips parted as if she’s surprised by the changes to my body.
Does she remember how it used to be between us? If there’s a flicker of recognition in her mind—of how we once fit together so effortlessly. Two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I want to ask her. I want to know if there have been others—how many others have seen her, touched her the way I have, or made her feel the way I did. But the thought of hearing the answer makes my stomach twist with jealousy. I can’t bear it, so I bury it deep, where it can’t hurt me.
Her hand is steady as she reaches out, hovering for a breathless moment before her fingertips graze the length of my cock. The contact is so delicate, so tentative, it sends a sharp, electric pulse through me. Her fingers brushing against my hot skin feel both foreign and achingly familiar. Heat radiates between us and my breath catches. I remember this. Oh God, I remember this. Raven. My Raven. Mine. Mine. The past comes crashing back with shocking ferocity.