Page 37 of The Devil's Pawn

“There.” I let him go.

He retakes my hand, running his thumb over my knuckles. “Thank you.”

The sincerity in those two words steals the breath from my lungs, and a profound sadness settles on my chest. Conflict doesn’t come naturally to me, and this constant battling for my freedom is exhausting.

But necessary.

I tug myself free. “You’re welcome.”

First aid kit in hand, I sweep from the room before I forget what I have to do.

Chapter Thirteen

ALEXANDER

My wife disappears through the door, and for several minutes, I don’t move. For a few moments while she cleaned me up, I forgot we were enemies. I forgot my plan to push her away. I forgot everything other than her gentle touch, the warmth of her hand as she held mine, her soft, quiet breathing as she worked on the injuries to my knuckles.

I want her. All of her. More of her fire, more of her burning rage. More, more, more. It’s unexpected and unwelcome, but I can’t deny it any longer. I want my wife.

Except… I can’t risk it. No matter how I slice and dice this issue, I can’t come up with a solution that won’t draw a barrage of questions. Imogen discovering I don’t intend to ever have children is powerful information that, if I were her, I’d use against me somehow. She knows part of the deal her father struck with mine is to provide children to carry on the family name. Finding out having kids isn’t in the cards for me when my father expects me to produce heirs is something she can hold over my head as a bargaining chip.

Giving Imogen the upper hand in anything is a mistake.

To avoid unwanted pregnancies before marriage, I handpicked the women I had sex with, choosing those who already had kids and were clear in their desire not to have any more, or were career women who’d rather suck out their womb with a vacuum cleaner than have a child. Besides, I made every single one sign a contract before I began a relationship with them, ensuring they were clear what the consequences were if they fell pregnant. The child would never have my name, nor the support and protection of my family, and I’d make sure the woman in question lived to regret their choices. And it worked. None of my exes fell pregnant, at least not to my knowledge.

At one point I considered having a vasectomy and solving this problem once and for all, but societal expectations stopped me. What if my father found out? What message would that send to The Consortium? My father’s position on the council and as head of this family would be in jeopardy if it came to light I’d planned this all along.

I head for my office and fall into the chair behind my desk. I’m exhausted, yet unable to sleep. Insomnia is an affliction I’ve lived with for nineteen years, and I’ve learned to accept my strange sleep patterns. When I crash, I’ll go twenty hours straight without stirring.

Reaching into my pocket, I remove the key to the locked cabinet behind me. I take out my latest journal and open it to a blank page. Journaling is something my therapist suggested years ago as a way to deal with my guilt, and potentially help my wheels stop spinning long enough for me to fall asleep. At the time, I’d scoffed at the idea, but once I tried it, I couldn’t stop. I’ve been journaling daily ever since. It helps to get my thoughts out of my head and onto the page, although regular sleep is still hard to come by.

As I flick back through my current journal, I’m shocked at what I find. Every entry for the last two weeks has contained only one subject: Imogen.

I must have written subconsciously. I have no recollection of writing these words, but as I re-read what’s on the pages, it’s clear she’s consuming me. There’s no mention of anything that has happened to me in the last two weeks other than her.

Nineteen years ago, I shut off my feelings, too afraid that if I let them roam free, I’d lose myself to the rage that burned inside me. So, I became the ice man instead. In control, cool under pressure, a man who kept his smiles for moments when he was alone with his memories.

Yet my wife is thawing me out one blazing argument at a time.

My eyes feel as if they’re full of grit, so I take out my reading glasses and put them on. The thoughts I’ve bled onto the pages are sharper now, and another slug of yearning hits my chest.

If I was the kind of man who lied to himself, I’d say I needed to get laid, but it’s more than that. Sex is just… sex. Pleasant, a release that gives me a few moments of bliss. This battle of wills with Imogen is more than that. It’s raw, exciting, and it makes me feel alive.

I run a finger over my bruised knuckles, an ache setting up camp in my chest. Maybe I can persuade her to take care of me every time I take out a mark. For as long as she’s here, that is. I usually let the cuts and bruises heal on their own, but having my wife tend to me is far more comforting.

Picking up a pen, I let it flow over the page. By the time I’m done, it’s gone one o’clock in the morning, and I’m no closer to being able to sleep than I was before. Dawn is a fewhours off yet. At least in summer, the sun rises early. As soon as there’s enough light, I’ll head to the stables and go for a ride. That usually quietens my mind.

The email from Richard about the groom sits unopened in my inbox. I haven’t had time until now to read it. I open the email and click on the attachment, scanning the details.

William Edgerton, thirty-two years old. Started working here a couple of months ago. References all in place. Nothing unusual or concerning in his application.

I remove my glasses and toss them on the desk, rubbing my tired eyes. I’m well aware of my possessive issues, whether that be of belongings or people. Maybe my issue with the groom has nothing to do with him and everything to do with Imogen. I may not intend to keep her long-term, but as long as she wears my ring, she’s mine.

Yeah, that’s probably it.

“How did it go?” I look up to see Nicholas entering my study. He helps himself to the chair opposite my desk.

“You’re up late.”

---