Page 47 of Checks & Bonds

“Carmen,” I began, trying to keep my voice steady, “where is my wife?”

She paused mid-chop and looked over her shoulder at me. “I believe she’s in her room, Mr. Mathers.”

I nodded, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “When you get a chance, please inform her she’ll be having dinner with me.”

Carmen’s eyes flickered with something I couldn’t quite read—sympathy? Concern?—before she returned to her task. “Of course,” she replied, her tone professional and composed.

As I sat there, the weight of what lay ahead settled heavily on my shoulders. Freya and I had been through hell in such a short time. The Imprinting ceremony had changed everything, binding us in ways neither of us fully understood or wanted.

I didn’t want to be around her, not with everything so raw and unresolved between us. But this was about more than just what I wanted. It was about control, about making sure she understood that despite our tumultuous start, there were expectations—rules she needed to follow.

The kitchen filled with the rich scent of roasted vegetables and seared meat as Carmen continued preparing dinner. The smells were inviting, comforting even, but my appetite was nowhere to be found. My mind kept drifting back to Freya—how she’d looked at me during our last confrontation, the fire in her eyes clashing with vulnerability.

She has to understand.

I drummed my fingers against the marble countertop, trying to shake off the unease gnawing at me. This wasn’t just about dinner; it was about setting the tone for what lay ahead.She needed to see that despite everything that had happened between us, there were lines that couldn’t be crossed.

Carmen finished her preparations and wiped her hands on a dish towel before turning back to face me. “Dinner will be ready shortly,” she said.

I nodded again, appreciating her efficiency and discretion. "Thank you."

She gave a small nod in return before heading towards the stairs to deliver my message. As I watched her go, I steeled myself for what was coming next.

Freya would join me for dinner tonight whether she wanted to or not.

And we would face whatever came next together.

15

Freya

Istood in the hallway outside the office, the heavy oak door closed behind me. My skin still tingled with the remnants of our encounter, every nerve ending singing with a sensation I couldn't shake off. I hated myself for giving in, but the pleasure that coursed through my veins was undeniable.

It had been Henry's grandfather's office—ornate, filled with relics of another time, and yet, it felt like it was made for us in that moment. His hands had moved over my body with an urgency that matched my own. The way he touched me, the way he felt… it was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before.

Even Dan.

Dan had been gentle, loving. But Henry—Henry was something else entirely. His touch was possessive, commanding, as if he was claiming every inch of me for himself. It made me feel alive in a way that scared me, yet I craved it.

The guilt settled in like a heavy fog. Dan didn't deserve to be compared to Henry. Dan had been kind and thoughtful, everything Henry wasn't. But thinking about Dan now felt like abetrayal. A betrayal not just to him but to myself and what we once had.

I pressed my forehead against the cool wall, trying to clear my thoughts. Why did I let Henry get under my skin like this? Why did I allow myself to be so weak?

I took a deep breath and turned away from the door, trying to gather myself. No one could know how much I enjoyed it. Hell, I didn't even like thinking about it.

I had to keep up appearances, maintain control over my emotions and my actions. Letting anyone see how deeply affected I was would give them power over me—a power I couldn't afford to lose.

But even as I walked away from the office, the memory of his touch lingered on my skin like a brand, a reminder of what I had felt and what I could never admit out loud.

The hallway stretched out before me like a path to redemption or ruin; either way, there was no turning back now.

The manor was a labyrinth, but I refused to ask for help. After fifteen minutes of floundering, I finally managed to make it back down a familiar hallway.

I slipped into my room, closing the door softly behind me. The walls seemed to close in, a cocoon of silence that should have brought comfort but instead felt suffocating. My desk sat by the window, scattered with notes and textbooks, a stark reminder of the responsibilities I’d been neglecting.

Sinking into the chair, I pulled out my laptop and opened a blank document. The essay was due in three days—a comparative analysis of Gothic literature’s influence on modern storytelling. Normally, this would have excited me, but now it felt like an insurmountable task.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving. I stared at the blinking cursor as if it held the answers to my tangledthoughts. But no matter how hard I tried to focus, my mind kept drifting back to Henry.

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