Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83384 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83384 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“I’m tired,” I tell him. “I want to sleep.”
It surprises me that when he speaks, his voice is softer now, tender. “You’ll be able to sleep shortly, lass. They’ll change the sheets while you wash.”
Still holding me in his arms, he leans into the large shower and cranks the handle. In seconds, hot clouds of steam fill the room.
“In you go.”
Does he think I need a shower? A pang hits my chest. He thinks I… I don’t know, smell or something? Why does he think I need to shower? Is he that disgusted with me?
To my surprise, he strips his boxers off and joins me.
“Earlier it felt good to wash the Martin filth off me,” he says. “I want the same for you.”
I laugh without mirth, the sound hollow and troubling. “It doesn’t matter how hot your water is, how powerful your soap. You’ll never wash the Martin filth from me. Don’t you know that?”
“Hush.” His voice is so low it’s almost a suggestion. But by now, I know better. I hush.
He’s reaching for my hair, tugging it back, and I have to admit it does feel good when the warm water massages my scalp. He lathers my hair in a fragrant, lavender-scented soap, then rinses me off. Foaming up a washcloth, he rubs it over my back, my tender arse, between my legs. I let him.
“Good girl,” he says approvingly, when I turn to let the water wash me. “You did well, lass.”
It’s almost like this is an apology. A silent act of service that means I’m sorry.
I stand and let him do this. He shuts the water off, steps out of the shower, and grabs another towel before he reaches for me.
“Come here,” he says.
“Again, come here,” I say with a sigh, but I’m tired and there’s little bite in my tone. “Why don’t you snap your fingers.”
Nonplussed, he nods. “We’ll get there.”
The hell we will.
He towels me off and wraps me up, then lifts me up and over the broken glass on the floor. There’s a glass of wine on the bedside table I didn’t notice before, the bed’s made, and there’s a little nightie waiting on one side of the bed.
“That’s to be your side,” he says.
“Oh? Why?”
“It’s furthest from the door. I sleep on the side nearest the door.”
“Really? Why?”
He gives me an exasperated look, as if the answer’s obvious.
“In case of intruders, lass. Don’t tell me your brother and father didn’t teach you that?”
“Teach me what?”
“That your husband sleeps by the door. That if we go out, my position will be in view of an entrance. That when we walk on a sidewalk, I’ll be the one facing the street. The very basics.”
I look away from him while I process this. I shake my head. “Well, no. They didn’t. But they weren’t… the protective sort.”
“Bloody hell.”
I turn to face him. “Why would someone who wants to protect me give me away to the enemy? Hmm?”
“Duty,” he says.
I shake my head and change the subject.
“Did you call someone?” I ask, while I tug on the nightie. It’s short but soft, and comfortable.
“Aye. They brought us drinks, and made the bed. I’ll clean up the bathroom, as well. Now drink,” he orders. “Then sleep.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed and swig the wine. It’s cool, fruity, and sweet, and warms my insides like a hot toddy. I drink until the glass is empty.
“Aren’t you going to drink as well?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’ve got work to do.”
I push the wine glass back on the table and lay down in the bed.
“Now?” I yawn. Is he talking about cleaning up the broken glass? Seems odd to refer to that as “work to do.” My entire body sinks into the mattress. I’m so tired. So bloody tired.
I listen for his response, my eyelids already closing.
He doesn’t answer my question. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
And then I remember. The sheets.
“You want to deliver the sheets yourself,” I say on a yawn.
“Aye. I want to deliver a few things.”
I wonder what he means.
I ask my questions, my eyes still closed. “Aren’t you… are you going to join me?” Isn’t that his job as a married man? A part of me is sad this is how my wedding night’s going to end. Alone. In pain.
“Later,” he says. I open my eyes a little, and from the corner of my eye, I see him open a drawer and remove a pair of jeans.
“When will you be back?”
He doesn’t respond. I close my eyes, so tired I can’t keep them open anymore, and he flicks the light off on the bedside table. He bends down and whispers in my ear. “You’re safe here, now, Aileen.”
But I’m not, and he knows it. I’m not safe from him.
My eyes are closed, and sleep beckons.