Page 50 of Twisted Love

CHAPTER31

RAVEN

My heart is thudding so hard I can feel the drumbeat in my veins, urging me to hurry. My fingers fumble at the back of the damned dress that clings to my ribcage with no mercy. The bodice cinches tight just under my breasts, then flares out into a gorgeous, calf-length silhouette. A part of me is breathless by how perfect it looks in the mirror—rich fabric catching the lamplight—but another part is convinced I’ll suffocate before the night is over.

Sucking in a lungful of air I can barely pull in thanks to the dress, I push my hair away from my neck and try again to reach the clasp at the back. I should have just kept the other dress on. Now, I’m going to be late. My arms shake with nerves as I drop them in frustration. Tonight is our first real outing since … the incident with the tree. Actually, since our marriage. I’m desperate to make a good impression. I want him to be proud of me amongst all those snobs.

The door clicks behind me suddenly, a soft metallic sound that makes me freeze. I haven’t finished fastening the dress, and if I let go of the front even for a second, it’ll slip down, baring my breasts. My cheeks heat in a mixture of panic. I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already inside, leaving me with no time to gather my wits.

“Earl,” I gasp, clutching at the front of my dress.

He stands there, impeccable in his tuxedo—dark fabric fitting every contour of his broad shoulders and down tapering at his waist. For half a second, my heart skips a beat at how damned good he looks, but then I catch sight of his face: cool, unreadable. The flare of desire I imagined seeing is either gone or was never there.

I’m the first to speak, my voice brittle with nerves. “You look very fetching.”

He offers nothing more than a faint grunt in acknowledgement. Instead, he moves closer, eyes sliding over my half-dressed state without a single spark of warmth. My stomach twists. I can’t tell if he’s just in one of his moods or if he truly doesn’t care anymore.

“Turn around and …” he murmurs, nodding at my hand bunched up in the fabric over my chest. “Let go.”

My heart stalls. The idea of letting go of the front of the dress and exposing myself to his cold almost hostile stare makes my entire body tighten. But I do it, my arms twitching with uncertainty as the material slips out of my hands. The bodice sags down, my breasts are laid bare to his eyes. A flush of heat crawls up my neck because both of us can see that my nipples are hard.

There is absolutely no expression at all on his face. It is completely, utterly, and frighteningly blank.

He steps behind me, but no closer than necessary. His touch is mechanical, almost impersonal, as he tugs the dress into place and fastens it with a surprising efficiency. He must have met a lot of clasps in the years since he’s been gone, must have known a lot of women. If he notices my breath hitch, he doesn’t show it. My skin prickles where his knuckles brush against me, but he doesn’t linger.

Once the dress is secure, I shift away and catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the mirror. My face flushed, my eyes too bright, my chest rising and falling in unsteady waves. When I glance up, I see his reflection behind me: composed, distant, like a statue carved from ice. Completely detached.

I wait, hoping he’ll say something, but his gaze flickers away from me. He crosses the room to the velvet box on the small table by the door.

I swallow hard, the tension in the room thick enough to choke me. He picks up the box—clearly a jewelry case—and for an instant, my heart leaps. Is he about to show a shred of warmth by offering me something? Or is this just another chess move in his ongoing game of reminding me exactly how small and powerless I am next to his wealth?

He says nothing, his shoulders stiff. As he moves under the light I see how tired he is, dark smudges under his eyes that have known too many late nights. He’s been busy with renovations or expansions or something else I’m not allowed to help him with or enquire about. Maybe it’s everything combined—our twisted relationship, the new office, the demands of this new life. Maybe he’s just … done.

My mouth parts, a question forming, but I clamp it shut. What good would it do? He’s not in a talking mood, and I can’t force him to see me the way I want him to. So I stand there, smoothing out the skirt of my dress, trying to steady my breathing as he holds the box in his hand.

He snaps open the box and on a dark blue velvet bed lays an opulent necklace of diamonds and crimson stones, probably rubies. It catches the soft light of the lamp and glitters extravagantly. The sight of it steals my breath. My first instinct is to recoil. I nearly gasp aloud, but I swallow the sound.

This is not me and he knows that too. He knows only I like pretty and delicate things. Why give me something so ostentatious? Clearly, this is not for me. This is either part of the you’re nothing but a gold digger and you’ll dress like one game or it is to impress the snobs at the gala.

He watches me, eyes flat, as though waiting for my reaction to his gift. My heart is breaking. Is this just another part of his plan—to see me flustered, to remind me of how little I have compared to him? I almost shake my head, almost refuse. But then I remind myself that if I want us to move beyond this endless war, I need to try to find out what caused him to become like this. And I won’t do that by letting him provoke me into another pointless fight.

“Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?” he asks quietly, a trace of mockery lacing his tone. “Well, now you have it.”

“Alright,” I manage, my voice strangely calm. “Thank you.”

He makes a sound, something halfway between a laugh and a scoff. Then he steps behind me. I hold my hair aside, and for a moment, the warm brush of his knuckles against my skin on the back of my neck sends a shiver through me. But it’s purely perfunctory efficiency on his part; there’s no tenderness in his touch.

Once the necklace is secured the weight of it feels like one of those slavery collars. Yet I force myself to nod and look down at the stones resting against my collarbone. They sparkle under the gentle light. In their own way, they are mesmerizingly beautiful. I’m sure Charles’s mother will approve of them.

“You can keep it after we’re done,” he says, his voice low. “Consider it a gift of my … generosity.”

I open my mouth to speak, but the words dissolve on my tongue. Yes, if I am wrong and there is no way to reach him, then he has just paid for my father’s medical bills. I just nod, not trusting my voice. His eyes linger on me for a second, then he turns away. My stomach twists. The hostile silence between us is unbearable.

I can’t let him leave it like this. Not when we’re about to face the outside world as a couple tonight, in front of everyone who matters. We will be the talk of the town tomorrow and the stories will get to my mother and cause her pain and anxiety. We can’t look like two strangers forced into the same corner.

I reach out and wrap my fingers around his forearm. He halts, eyes swinging down to my hand. His brow furrows.

I snatch my hand away. “I … I just …” I stammer, uncertain what I’m trying to say. My pulse thunders in my ears, and then I do the only thing that comes to mind. The only way I know how to communicate with him. I rise on my tiptoes and press my lips to his. A brief, soft kiss, too short to be called passionate, but enough to lay my heart bare for a moment.

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