Page 33 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
Her breath caught in her throat. She had never felt so alive, so vulnerable, so exposed. Yet, a thrill coursed through her veins.
He’s a beast, a dangerous one. But I can handle him.
“Don’t you know, husband?” she whispered back, her voice barely audible. “I was already ruined when you married me.”
Adam kissed her passionately, his lips demanding, possessive.
She closed her eyes, savoring the moment. He was strong, dominant, yet there was an underlying tenderness beneath his rough exterior.
He is a puzzle. One which I am determined to solve.She had always been drawn to challenges, to the unknown.
The kiss deepened, growing more intense. He pushed her against the wall, his touch both gentle and forceful.
A nearby vase toppled to the floor, shattering into pieces.
A footman appeared, startled by the noise.
Adam pulled away, his gaze still locked on hers. She could see the desire burning in his eyes.
He wants more. He craves more.
“I have work to do,” he said, his voice low and husky.
Chapter Twelve
Rosaline, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, meticulously traced the lines of a leather-bound volume with a trembling finger.
Each touch of the worn leather, each whisper of the turning pages, was a desperate attempt to quell the tremor of fear that threatened to shatter her composure.
The faint scent of old parchment mingled with the polished wood of the study, grounded her, if only slightly.
Her shoulders were tense, drawn up just enough to betray her inner turmoil, though she kept her posture poised. His indifference gnawed at her like a slow, insidious poison, sinking deep into her chest.
He hasn’t even looked at me properly since the day of that kiss, she thought bitterly, the familiar sting of rejection igniting a cold fury within her.
Her finger hesitated mid-trace, lingering over an embossed fleur-de-lis on the book’s cover. The tiny detail, so intricate and perfect, mocked her.
Her gaze drifted to the scars that marred her arms, peeking just beneath the hem of her sleeve.
A botched embossing by fate.
A surge of heat rose to her cheeks as she pulled the fabric down, hiding the evidence of the vicious carriage accident that had claimed her family and left her a broken reminder of the past.
I am a book, doomed to be judged by my cover, even by my own husband.
The scars, a grotesque tapestry of violence, twisted and writhed across her skin, a constant, silent reminder of the night that had devoured her world.
Fear, a venomous serpent, coiled around her heart, its grip tightening.
What if he never sees me for what I am?The thought—a viper—struck, injecting a potent dose of dread.What if no one ever does? Now that I am wed, who would dare to try?
Her hand, a fist of fury, clenched, her nails digging into her palm, carving half-moons into the flesh.
Perhaps this is for the best, and I can pretend my reclusive husband is simply a hermit, and not hiding from the scars.
A wave of nausea washed over her, threatening to engulf her. She forced a breath, slow and deliberate, a desperate attempt to quell the rising panic.
Enough brooding,she commanded herself, setting her shoulders.
