Page 31 of Keep Me

I put up my hands in surrender as anger boils in my bloodstream. “Fine!” I shout. “Take care of yourself then, Killian. Cut your whole fucking hand off next time. I don’t care.”

“What are you shouting about?” he groans.

“Just what a royal asshole you are.”

I cross my arms over my chest. He stops in his floundering retreat and turns back toward me. “I’m an arsehole? What about you? You don’t want to help me. You just want your precious money because you’re a selfish little bitch.”

“I just bandaged up your hand, you dick! You should be thanking me!”

“If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t even be this fucking drunk. But after I realized I married such a heinous bitch, I couldn’t wait to get properly smashed.”

My teeth are clenched, and my nostrils flare as I stare at him. For the first time since I arrived here, I’m starting to wonder if I can really do this. Can I get through the next year with this insufferable pig? How am I possibly going to make it that long without killing him?

“Go to bed, Killian,” I mutter coldly.

He sways in his stance, staring at me angrily, and for a moment, I swear I catch a glimpse of disappointment on his face. As if he wanted me to argue back. Instead, I relented. I let him call me a heinous bitch without calling him an ignorant troll in return.

“I’m too tired from cleaning up your whole fucking mess to argue with you right now, so please, just go to bed and leave me alone,” I say in quiet surrender.

His face tenses in frustration. “Gladly.”

He barely makes it to the stairs, and when I envision him tumbling down them and breaking his neck, I hurry behind him. Without a word, I lock my arm around his and pull him up the stairs.

I feel his rueful gaze on my face as I help him, but I don’t look back. I don’t want there to ever be a moment of weakness between us. No sliver of kindness or compassion. Not a hint of attraction.

As we reach the top of the stairs, I let Killian go and watch him as he stumbles to his room, slamming the door once he’s safely inside. Once I’m alone, I take a deep breath and let my exhaustion sink in.

Today was the longest day of my life.

One down. Three hundred and sixty-four to go.

Part Two

Killian

Chapter Eleven

My new wife and I have relaxed into a bearable routine. The only time I have to look at her is at dinner, when we sit on opposite sides of the table. A time or two, I’ve caught her glancing up in my direction.

She has watchful hazel eyes and the world’s fiercest resting bitch face. A slightly downturned mouth, big, full pouty lips, and a brow line so straight, it frames her face in a perfect scowl.

I knew from the moment she stumbled into my house that Sylvie was the perfect girl for the plan my sister was so enthusiastically orchestrating. She didn’t just break into my home uninvited like some entitled brat, but she dared to challenge me at the same time.

I had never met a more infuriating and bold woman in all of my life. If I was going to let my sister win this battle and find me a bride for a whole year, then it couldn’t be some dainty waif of a woman. She couldn’t be polite or delicate. I didn’t want to worry about hurting her feelings or being rude to her.

Sylvie is perfect.

It’s been nearly a month since she arrived. I’ve picked up on her routine. She starts each day with an ungodly amount of coffee.Then she goes into her room and takes the world’s longest shower. After which, she watches the trashiest reality television and eats nearly everything she can get her hands on in the kitchen.

Some days she asks the driver to take her somewhere, usually insisting he pick the place based on her requests.The best bookshop in town. The coziest coffee shop. The seediest pub.Then she leaves for a few hours, and I’m free to roam my own house without worry.

But for some reason, I find myself spending those hours in restless anxiety. The walls start to close in. The house istooquiet.

Icouldgo into town too. I could easily walk into a pub or head farther south and go into the city. I just don’t want to. It’s too crowded and noisy, and people are daft idiots. Why would I want to spend my days there when I have so much space and comfort here?

It’s not that Ican’t—it’s that I don’t want to.

When the front door closes in the distance, I listen for the footsteps. If they are clunky boots on the hardwood, then it’s Sylvie. If they are furious-sounding heels clicking, it’s my sister.

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