Page 97 of The Traitor
The next impression to grace her awareness was of Sebastian climbing in beside her—an answer to her prayers? He wrapped himself around her, the scent and feel of him already a bodily comfort after only a week of marriage.
“Are you awake?”
How she hated the hesitance in his voice, and how she nearly hated him, for risking death without even telling her. She tucked herself against him.
“Do not attempt to reason with me, Sebastian.”
“I do love you.”
What manner of love had no trust in it? What manner of love insisted on remaining alone with every fear and burden?
“We are in need of wisdom, Sebastian, not flowery sentiments.”
They also needed patience, compassion, and a host of other strengths, but Milly wanted desperately to give him the flowery words back, to explain to him that her anger was a well-dressed, articulate version of innumerable screaming terrors.
Terror that she might have lost him to a Scottish lout with too much pride and even more muscle.
That she might not trust her husband, not now, not ever.
That tomorrow he might face death again, and all because circumstances had conspired to put him in a situation where every possible choice had cost him dearly.
Milly kissed his brow, as he’d kissed hers before departing for London. “I am very, very angry with you, Sebastian. Enraged and disappointed.”
He kissed her mouth, humbly, if a man could kiss humbly.
“You terrify me,” she whispered, kissing him back. “I have married into a war where everybody is held prisoner and the fighting never ceases.”
Sebastian shifted over her, exactly where the most unhappy, desolate part of her wanted him, exactly where he wasnotentitled to be.
“Please, Milly.”
He might have held her to him by force, by reason, by legal arguments and promises of wealth, and yet, they were barely touching. Sebastian poised above her, willing to be banished from the bed and from the marriage.
She knew then the dubious honor of having broken a strong man, and knew as well that Sebastian’s plea—for understanding, for forgiveness, for time—left her broken as well.
She could not allow him to imprison himself in his endless war without even a single ally.
“You belong to me, Sebastian.” Yes, she was hurt and angry, also confused and in need of solitude, but on this point, she would have his concession.
“I belong to you. Wholly to you,” he said, some of the tension draining from him. “I always will.”
Milly pushed at him, and he collapsed onto his back as if winded. She climbed over him, needing to follow up his concession with stern kisses that turned tender, and then passionate.
“Sebastian, this doesn’t—”
He kissed her to silence and shifted them again, so he was above her, poised to join their bodies.
“We’ll talk,” he said. “Later. I understand that. We’ll talk all you please.”
He fell silent on a single, desperate, transcendently gratifying thrust, and Milly gave up on philosophy, strategy, and even thought. She put her rage and fear into her loving, her desperate need to protect him, and her consternation about how to protect herself.
He was ruthless, drawing out her satisfaction into a blend of pleasure and torment that inspired Milly to torment him right back. Never was marital discord so intimately prosecuted, until Milly understood that Sebastian needed her surrender, as she’d needed his.
They were allies, not captives, so she gave herself up to his loving, enduring pleasure upon pleasure, until Sebastian shuddered in her arms, and silence at last reigned over the battlefield.
***
“The women have been gone for hours.” Michael, predictably, was the one to voice the complaint Sebastian also felt.
