Page 48 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
His gaze rolls over my body as if he’s taking in the sight of me wearing a wedding dress for the last time. There’s a sadness to it, which confuses me. He was the one who wanted this, not me. Then he nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
I grip the nearest piece of furniture and release an enormous breath. Finally, I’m alone. But without my kit, I don’t like it. I don’t like being alone with my feelings. They’re too overbearing and painful. But I don’t have my kit here, and even if I did, there’s no way I could use it.
I grab my bag and walk into the bathroom, then I change into my specially chosen night set and wash my face.
My heart is hammering against my ribcage. As much as I hate it, I had real feelings for Andrew. He made me smile; he calmed me; sometimes he made me feel like I was the only woman in the world. I have to remind myself that the man in this suite and the man who kissed me in front of a roomful of guests isn’t Andrew, but it’s hard when his touch is exactly the same, and his gaze still makes me feel warm and tingly.
Those feelings are quickly overtaken by resentment. I can’t get around the fact he lied to my face. He played me like a pack of cards. He hasn’t considered my feelings once in all of this. He must think he’s such a God that no woman could evernotwant him. He’s probably right, but for one exception: me. And even I was sucked in there for a while.
When I re-emerge into the bedroom, a glass of water is waiting for me on the night stand. I quickly sip it then slide beneath the sheets.
I have no idea if this is the right thing to do. Should I wait for him? Should we spend time talking first? I have nothing to say to him, and anything he does say I will struggle to believe. My thoughts are cut short when he knocks on the door.
“Um, come in.”
It opens and he stands in the doorway, filling it. This place is so dark I can only see his silhouette, but I’m thankful I can’t see the details. The details are what makes my heart forget my conviction.
Slowly, he walks into the room, toward the bed. I hold my breath, gulping it down painfully when his weight makes the bed dip slightly. He’s sitting on the edge, his body twisted toward me, and now I can see the details. His sharp jawline, his violent eyes—less soft now, almost predatory.
I grip the sheets and pull them a little higher toward my chin. His gaze roams every inch of my face. Then he reaches out to move a curl that has fallen onto my forehead, and trails his fingertips from my temple to mythroat. Sparks flair inside my belly as my tight breaths border on hyperventilation.
His lips part and two words rumble through them.
“My wife.”
My heart stammers and seconds pass in hours.
Relief floods through me when he rises from the bed and disappears into the bathroom. I sip more water then return to pulling the sheets up high. I don’t care if I look like a terrified child—it’s how I feel.
When he returns my heart nearly collapses in shock.
He’snaked.
And dear Lord I can’t look away.
Black ink covers one half of his chest and stomach, reaching down his arm in a full sleeve. His cut muscles, rippling to a v below his waist were not molded by a God; they were crafted by the devil. I dare not let my gaze fall—I’m terrified of whatitlooks like, and I know it’s going to be big. Everything else about Andreas is larger than life—his body, his presence, his words—how canthatnot be too?
He stalks toward the other side of the bed, lifts the sheets and climbs in. I turn my gaze to the ceiling, just so I can catch my breath.
I feel him roll to his side and prop his elbow on the pillow, resting his head to watch me.
His breaths are low and earthy, and so heated they singe the tense air.
I swallow repeatedly, until that becomes the only sound in the room.
He raises a hand and moves it toward me, pausingbefore touching my skin. His eyes narrow, asking for permission.
I swallow again then give a brief, timid nod. I used to want him to touch me, but now I’m not sure. I’m not strong like my sisters—I don’t trust myself not to fall into a temporary black hole.
He lays a hand gently on my throat and slides it to my collarbone where it rests for a moment. His palm is soft and firm at the same time, and hot.So hot. I wonder if he’s waiting for my pulse to slow. But I feel like while ever he’s in the same room as me, it will never ease.
Slowly, his palm moves beneath the sheets to my satin top. In the corner of my eye, the muscle in his jaw sharpens. My heart is beating out of my chest so hard he must be able to feel it. His fingers make slow swirls over my heart, then he pushes his hand outward to my right breast. I’m about to pass out with embarrassment when he curves his palm over it and stills.
God, his hand is pulsing hot and my traitorous spine lifts a little off the mattress as if to push my breast into his hold.
His breaths grow labored and my nipple suddenly feels a little uncomfortable. Actually, make thata lotuncomfortable. As if he knows this, he slips his palm to the underside of my breast and lightly brushes his thumb over my nipple.
I gasp.
