Page 29 of Iron Bride

I’d opened the bottle of Redbreast Whiskey— something that had been aging since before I was born. I don’t know why I opened it now. I had always thought to keep it for a special occasion. Instead of celebrating, I drowned in it, staring out the window as the snow blanketed the city below.

I don’t know how many hours had passed before the door opened. The quiet footsteps of Mrs. Giovanna Green came over the soft rug.

She waited, probably trying to figure out what to say.

I saved her the trouble and spoke first.

“Is he your lover then?” I asked, not deigning to look at my bride.

The honeymoon was over. It had never even started.

“How can you ask that?” she whispered. “You know I was a virgin when I came to you.”

“I didn’t ask if you’d fucked him.” I brought the whiskey to my lips, and downed the half-empty glass, before pouring myself another. “I asked if he was your lover.”

You could have cut the tension with a knife as the silence grew between us.

“I don’t understand.”

“Let me rephrase then,” I said with a sad, pathetic chuckle. “Are you in love with Marco Rossini?”

Was that why she had begged so beautifully for his life? Was that why she had fallen to her knees for a man who was complicit in cutting her flesh?

“No, Cillian.” Her answer was concise. No prevaricating or attempts to sidestep. “I amnotin love with Marco, or anyone else. I have never been in love. Nor do I think I ever will be.”

The latter was meant to be a slap in my face.Cute.

“But…” The gentleness of her tone was harsher than a blow to the head, and I looked up to watch her as she stepped towards me. She was graceful, her movements languid and sweet. If I wasto be bound to someone I didn’t know, then at least I was given a beauty. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For?” I asked, taking another drink as she came closer.

Her fingers crawled to her legs, bunching up the fabric of her dress until it rose to mid-thigh. Those pale, supple legs caught my attention—as pale as the snow outside. She straddled me, and I was paralyzed by all the warring emotions that flooded my drunken mind.

Lust. Was that an emotion? Probably. Desire, denial, anger, frustration… it flavored everything with bitterness and spice.

“For letting him go.” She brought her hands to my shirt, and began to unbutton it, laying her cool palm on my bare skin.

But all I saw was another deception. Another ploy.

What did my wifereallywant from me?

“For listening to me.” She bent down, her lips grazing my Adam’s apple before kissing my jaw.

“You’re my wife,” I whispered, swallowing the tension that crawled up my throat.

“Not all husbands listen to their wives.” She planted a kiss on the spot behind my ear, and I almost groaned. “Nor do most wives have a husband who they want to touch.”

“What are you doing, Gia?” I wanted to get to the bottom of it. To figure out what she wanted.

“I want to accept the truce you offered. To be allies.”

Fat chance.I chuckled, taking another drink.

As I placed the glass back down on the end table, she picked it up from my hand, and downed the contents herself. She wiped a drop that slipped from her doll-like lips.

She put the glass down, never breaking eye contact with me.

“This part of our marriage works.” Her hands slipped down, as she brazenly undid my belt, pulling out my cock, and fisting it in her cold hand. “Marriages have been based on much less.”

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