Page 168 of Hawthorne

They could have seen her. They probably fucking have.

“We’ve seen the marks,” one of the girls whispers, turning her back to me.

Finally, remembering I am stark naked, I grab a blanket from the bottom of the bed and wrap it around my waist.

“What fucking marks?” I ask, confused.

“You fucking didn’t,” Camilla chimes in for the first time, her voice deadly calm.

I know this tone. The keep-it-together tone. Looking at her, I see her head tilting up, dropping the sheet down a little, and I hurry to cover her nipple.

Fuck. I forgot to untie her.

“Finally,” she huffs when I set her wrists free.

With a sheepish smile, I kiss both her wrists, hands, and cheeks before giving her mouth a light smooch.

She lets me, but as soon as I let her go, she goes back to the serious demeanour, scolding the people who just barged into our private moments.

“I fucking told you–No. I ordered you to stay out of my business,” she hisses, and all the girls bow their heads in shame.

“What the fuck is going on?” I exclaim. “Why are two men—one being my fucking brother—and two women barging into my bedroom while I am fu–uhm, spending time with my wife?”

“We’ve heard the rumours and seen the news...” the second girl trails off, and I freeze.

Tension creeps up on my neck at the realisation. And while I commend them for worrying about their queen, it makes me feel both angry and ashamed.

Things have been perfect ever since she said yes exceptfor this.

After that impromptu wedding request, an engagement party followed. Right after we got married, I moved into the palace, begrudgingly leaving my title to my brother. All that time away was pure fucking torture, and I got my revenge on it.

I indulged in her company and her body for as much as I could. I still do.

And because the bed, the privacy of our room is the only place where I havemyCamilla, the true woman. My woman. I get wild sometimes.

We get wild.

And she has had some crazy requests before, too. We got to know each other in the deepest ways possible—both physically and emotionally.

Everything I do is with her consent and for both of our enjoyment. Still, I have left marks.

Marks that left me concerned and apprehensive, despite her telling me she loved them. “They remind me of how good you make me feel,” she had said. And fuck, I ate that up.

But that elating sensation went as quickly as it came back when I saw the first headline in the newspapers.

Queen Camilla the Perfect. Is she so perfect, after all? Maybe our beloved queen is just another bird inside a gilded cage.

That fucking title was followed by an extensive story from a witness that worked in the palace, about how I abused her and made her do my bidding to the point of selling illegal pictures taken inside of the palace. Of her, in her private quarters with some of the temporary marks I have left occasionally, to the entire fucking world to see.

I was livid. And while Camilla told me not to worry, that she’d deal with it, I still noticed.

Everyone’s stances changed. There were stolen glances and hushed whispers. Hesitant reactions and avoidant answers. Everyone fucking believed these lies. That I fucking hit my wife.

“Bloody hell, are you stupid or dense?” she yells, and Edgar finally snaps, falling into a chair and laughing.

Of course.

“My Queen.” The third one takes one step forward. “We have covered the bruises wi–”

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