Page 21 of Never Fall for an Angel

Never mind what kind of man you’re married off to. It’s your duty to obey his every command because he’s your husband. He’s in charge.

If he beats you, it’s because he’s tired or stressed, or maybe you aren’t doing enough. If he cheats, you should have been sexier. Tried harder to fulfill every one of his desires so he wouldn’t have to find someone on the side who would. Unable to bear children? You may as well be worthless.

You are to remain twenty-five until you reach the age of fifty-five. You are to always look your best but never like you’re trying too hard. You must be a five-star Michelin chef or have some other skill to make up for hiring a chef for the home. Raise his babies. Do whatever nasty, secret stuff he asks you for in the bedroom, and never, ever show your emotions. Men like softness. Men like sweetness.

It’s your job to be all those things and more.

—Sounds like a load of bullshit to me.

“Not enjoying the party?”

“I prefer séances.”

I lay back in my lounge chair on the terrace overlooking the ocean, and Christian chuckles, stepping closer, hands shoved in his pockets while I try to calm my racing heart.

“Your mother is looking for you.”

“Pity,” I grumble. “I don’t want to be found.”

“You and I both know you know where to hide if you don’t want to be found.”

He’s not wrong. I know every inch of this property. Mainly because it’s been my prison for the last eighteen years of my life. I’ve explored every secret passage. Every hidden room. Every spare nook and cranny until there’s nothing left to find anymore since I was four years old.

“I think my mother is trying to marry me off.”

I’d overheard her talking with one of her fancy Pilates friends, stating they were in the process of arranging a meeting between me and one of Marcus’s business partner’s sons. The idea that they could just sell me off sent a bout of nausea through me, and I had to escape.

“And how do you feel about that?” I don’t mistake the bite in his voice, and my heart beats just a little bit harder.

It’s useless, of course. He’s made it clear from the start he doesn’t want anything to do with me. At least not romantically.

I’ll never be anything more than a job to Christian Cross, and that is a hard pill to swallow.

“I won’t do it.”

“And what would you do, instead, little devil?”

I fix him with a look when he stands in front of me, watching me with his hands in the pockets of his suit. The familiar nickname sends a rush of heat through me, settling in my core.

At this angle, he’s daunting. I shift in my seat, and his dark blue gaze slips over me, down the soft pale gold silk of my gown. Over the light curls in my updo that fall around my shoulders. The pink lipstick on my lips. I’ve never felt so seen as I do when his jaw clenches.

I’m not crazy. This man thinks about me a lot more than he lets on.

Interesting.

“I’ll run,” I murmur.

“And what makes you think you’d get far?”

“Would you catch me?” I muse, my heartbeat strumming in my throat. “If I ran, would you find me and bring me back?”

“Find you? Yes,” he murmurs, his voice so quiet that I can barely hear it. “Bring you back?” he pauses, and my heart stalls in my chest. “Not until I’m done with you.”

It’s demeaning, the way he says it, as if I’m nothing more than a toy for him to play with until it breaks. It still doesn’t stop the warmth from gathering between my thighs.

Sliding off the lounge, his eyes catch on the silk of my dress as it cascades down my legs, and the heat hidden in his blue eyes makes my stomach dip awkwardly.

His dark gaze follows me when I saunter over to him, his eyes licking a path of fire over my skin when they slip over my hips, up my waist and breasts, before they finally meet mine. His tongue runs over his teeth, but his hands remain in his pockets.

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