Page 38 of Bloody Vows
“There’s nowhere for me to run.” I give him a sweet smile. “I thought getting stronger would be a better idea.”
“So you can kill me in my sleep?” He smirks, and I grit my teeth, hating how quickly he’s picked up on my inner thoughts.
"Maybe." I finish my set and stand, grabbing my water bottle as I finally turn to look at him. I’m all the way on the other side of the room, but I swear I can feel the heat of his body from here. His physical presence fills the space without him even fully stepping inside. "A girl can dream."
“Mm.” His smile spreads. “I like to hear that you’re dreaming about me,célie. That bodes well for our marriage.”
I set my water bottle down with a hardthunk, crossing my arms over my chest. “You like women who dream about your demise?”
Tristan shrugs. “Depends on how I go out.”
“Horribly,” I tell him flatly. “The kind of death that involves a closed casket.”
His eyebrow rises, that smirk still on his lips, as if the comment doesn’t faze him in the slightest. "I had no idea my wife was so bloodthirsty. It's actually kind of arousing."
“You’re sickening,” I inform him, and he gives a one-shouldered shrug, pushing off of the doorframe to walk closer to me. I take a step back before I can stop myself, wanting to keep distance between us. I hate him seeing me back down, but I don’t want him in my space. I don’t want him taking advantage again.
“I like that you’re not afraid of me.” Tristan’s mouth twitches as he stops, surprisingly not coming into my personal space any further. “You look like you’re about to huck that water bottle at my head, and damn the consequences.”
I’m not afraid of him, I realize. Iamafraid of some things—of what Konstantin might do if this marriage doesn’t work out, of how my body responds to my new husband, of my ability to keep my promise to myself not to enjoy his touch. But I’m not afraid of Tristan himself, although my new husband is certainly deadly enough to warrant it.
I glare at him. “Maybe I am going to throw it.”
“Do it.” He looks unconcerned. “Go ahead.”
The challenge catches me off guard. "What?"
“Throw it at me and see what happens.” His expression is daring, and I glare at him because we both know I’m not going to. I have no idea what the consequences would be, but I’m not in the mood to find out right now, and he knows it as well as I do.
“Fuck off,” I snap, and Tristan’s smile turns satisfied, as if he knew this was how it was going to go the whole time. It makes me want to actually throw the stainless steel bottle at him even more. “Don’t you have better things to do than interrupt my workout?”
“At the moment?” He checks his watch. “No. Soon? Yes. I have a business meeting with Konstantin and my father that I’ll need to leave for shortly.”
So that’s why he’s not engaging.Not because he’d lost interest in tormenting me or doesn’t want me now that he’s gotten both my virginity and my climax, but because he doesn’t have the time. The realization makes my stomach drop.
He might still be easily bored. If he does still want more from me, he might not for long. But it’s the not knowing how long that will be that makes it all so much harder to deal with.
Tristan looks at me for a long moment. “By the way,” he says finally. “I don’t care about you not joining me for breakfast. I’ll be gone for lunch most days. But I do expect you to join me in the formal living room for dinner, appropriately dressed. I’ve instructed Nora to serve dinner at seven-thirty sharp each evening.”
I know he sees the way my jaw tightens, resentment and anger running through every fiber of my body. I can see the victorious glint in his eyes, knowing he’s gotten a rise out of me again.
I don’t know how to deal with this man. I can’t find it in myself to be indifferent to his behavior—to the way he acts as if he owns me, to the infuriating fact that hedoesown everything that’s familiar to me now. The idea of him instructing Nora on dinnertimes and anything else to do with the house makes my head want to explode, but the fact is that he can do so, and is within his right to.
He’s the master of this house now, just as my father was when he was alive. But my father earned all of this, and Tristan stole it.
Stoleme.
“Fine.” I manage a pleasant smile, but I know Tristan isn’t fooled. “I’ll be there.”
“See that you are.” He looks at me once more, his gaze flicking over my body, and then he turns on his heel and strides out, leaving me nearly trembling with frustrated rage.
That evening, as I stand in front of my closet deciding what to wear for dinner, I consider purposely flouting his instructions and wearing jeans and a T-shirt, just to piss him off. But I have my own intentions for dinner tonight, and making Tristan angry won’t help anything. For once, I decide to go along with his wishes and dress formally for dinner.
Nothing about my look is seductive, though. I opt for what could be called ‘ice queen chic’: a fitted black dress that reaches my knees with an asymmetrical ruffle and thin straps at my shoulders. I pull my hair back in a slick, tight bun, and only do the most minimal makeup—a hair-thin cat-eye, nude lipstick.
Tristan is already at the table when I walk into the dining room, five minutes before the appointed time. The table is set for two—which looks ridiculous in the huge dining room. The table can easily seat thirty without the leaves added, and a crystal chandelier above it illuminates the cream and gold wallpaper and antique decorations on the walls. It’s meant to look palatial, and it’s also meant for dinner parties. Even my father had dinners with me in the smaller, informal dining room when there wasn’t a party or business meal happening.
I know what Tristan is doing. I can see it in the look in his eyes when he sits up and acknowledges my presence as I walk in, the set of his shoulders and jaw. This is posturing, him establishing his position here, and it irritates me to no end.
