Page 39 of Stolen Rival
Patrick’s stare stays on me while I turn my head back to his friend. “Cillian, how did you and Patrick meet?”
Cillian’s face lights up at the question, but after a split second, his brows tent and his eyes swim with concern. “I’m only too happy to share, but are you really okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, or you might vomit, or faint.” He swallows. “Or both. And I know I’m a surgeon, but I don’t do well with vomit.”
That makes me laugh and draws Patrick’s attention once again. Surely laughter isn’t that much of a strange sound to his ears?
“You can slice and dice people on an operating table, but a bit of puke is a step too far?”
His face turns somber. “It smells so bad.”
I roll my eyes. “Aye, worse than cauterizing someone’s insides. I can totally see that.”
One of the Mahoneys snorts, making it obvious that everyone’s listening to my conversation. I need to reassure the doctor that I’m okay before I make Patrick unhappywith me, and I’d really rather he wasn’t unhappy before we go to our marital bed later tonight.
“Yes, yes, I’m okay. You know how it is, wedding day jitters, it all kind of hit me in a rush of emotion.” A ball of grief sneaks into my throat, swelling like a wet sponge.
His face fills with sympathy. “Of course, well, let me distract you with the tale of how Patrick Mahoney saved me from having my arse handed to me by a trio of bullies when we were ten years old.”
“They fucking deserved what they got,” he mutters.
Wow. The man cares about something. Just not me.
It’s not much longer before we say our goodbyes to Cillian and head back to the house, which I suppose I should start trying to call home. I disappear into the library, one of the few places that brings me some kind of comfort in the chaos. The Brothers Grimm are nowhere to be found when I go outside for a walk around the gardens with today’s babysitter, and I eat dinner by myself at the way-too-big-for-one-person dining table.
I’d prefer to see him, to have his presence around me instead of this. His absence feels sinister, like he’s trying to weird me out before bedtime, before he gets to know me much more intimately than any other person in the world.
When it’s time to get ready for bed, I ignore the frilly lingerie the wedding team brought for me to wear tonight and instead put on my oversized pj’s. I don’t shower or shave my legs either. If he’s going to insist on a sexual relationship between us, then he takes me as I am. And if my prickly legs should provide him discomfort in the process? Boo fucking hoo.
I stay in the bathroom for longer than I need to because I’m delaying the inevitable. I don’t know how this works. Willhe come into my room? Will he send for someone to bring me to his? Do we have a special fuck-buddy room?
My head swims with worst-case scenarios while my chest flutters with uncontainable anxiety. By the time I make it onto my cool sheets, I’m trembling. I know what sex is, even if I haven’t had it yet, and I know it’s going to hurt. He doesn’t care about hurting me like someone who actually gave a shit about me would.
The more I think about what’s about to befall on me, the tighter my chest gets.
I never thought I’d lose my virginity to my father’s mortal enemy, to the man who killed my family, the man who kidnapped me and forced me to marry him. But here we are.
When the door opens, my lungs stop working. Patrick’s still in his wedding suit as he makes his way into the room. If he thinks I’m going to undress him like some kind of bride for the king, he has another think coming.
He pauses, staring at me, his eyes panning from my head to my feet. I fully expect him to mention my clothing, and I’m ready to tell him if he expects me to dress in that lace contraption, he should have married someone who liked that kind of thing. Or even knew how to use it. Da brought me up alone, and that meant dressing me like the boys. I can just about handle a bra.
After a few painful seconds scrape by, he breaks the silence. “We’re going to America first thing in the morning. You’ll need to be up and ready to go by seven o’clock. Pack for a three-day trip. Casual clothes will do.” He turns as though to leave, then stops and jabs a finger at me. “Listen up, little lady. You already know how important this trip is to me. If you cause any problems, there’ll be severe consequences.”
Translation: I’ll killyour brother.
I manage a nod, to let him know I understand and will comply.
“Good.” He hesitates, like he wants to say something else, but instead he turns on his heel and leaves.
A whoosh of breath leaves me in a rush. Is he messing with me? Trying to drive my anxiety to kill me off before he gets into bed with me? I mean, if necrophilia is his thing, then he’s going about it the right way. I press my hand to my chest, my heart racing underneath my palm as I try to remind myself how to breathe.
He doesn’t come back. I stay awake staring at the door, listening for any signs of life approaching my room for over an hour, but there isn’t even a whisper of a sound.
I heave out a sigh of relief as I settle in for the night. I don’t know what Patrick is playing at, but I’ll take any silver lining, any small victory, and spending my wedding night with my virginity intact feels like a pretty big win right now.
Maybe he was all talk, and he doesn’tactuallylike sex? Or maybe… maybe he’s gay.
I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
Chapter 21
