Page 50 of Bloody Vows
“Men like us aren’t faithful, Tristan. And your wife won’t thank you for it. If anything, she’ll see you as pathetic for not taking what you want.”
“I don’t want anything but sleep tonight.”
My father pauses. “She’s still giving you problems, isn’t she?”
I huff out a breath. “My marriage is fine.”
“I doubt it.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” I grind out. “There are no problems.”
“I know women like her.” My father isn’t giving an inch. “Beautiful, privileged, entitled. They take what they want and give nothing back. Is that really what you want? To spend your life begging for scraps of affection from a woman who thinks she's too good for you?"
I sit up, running a hand through my hair with frustration. “I’m not begging for anything. She’s difficult, like Konstantin said. But I have her in hand. I can manage my wife.”
“I hope that’s true.” Another pause, then he speaks again, his voice flat and commanding. “Don’t ask for her submission,Tristan. Take it. Don’t beg her to obey you. Demand that she does. Show her what kind of man she married."
“That’s what I’m doing.”
“A woman like that needs a firm hand,” he continues, as if I hadn’t spoken. “She needs to be reminded of her place. I’m sure you’ve been too soft, too accommodating. Treat her like the princess she thinks she is, and she'll walk all over you. Treat her like the woman she needs to be, and she'll thank you for it."
I close my eyes, my father's words burning in my chest like acid. This is what I was raised to believe, what I've been taught my entire life. That marriage is about power, about control, about one person submitting to the other. But it feels wrong when I think about Simone, about the fire in her eyes when she fights me.
"I don't want to break her."
"A king doesn't worry about breaking things, Tristan. He worries about building an empire. Your wife is a piece on the chessboard. But she’s only one piece. And she can be replaced, if need be, once you have the foothold you need."
I let out a sharp breath. Replacing Simone, even once I no longer need her to cement my position, has never occurred to me. “She’s mywife.”
“She’s only as irreplaceable as she makes herself. It’s her job to make herself indispensable to you, Tristan. Not your job to make her want to be. Good night, son.”
My father hangs up, the line going dead as I sit there for a long moment before letting my phone fall to the bed.
I don’t know if this is what I want.
Not the empire or the power or the money. I want all of those things. But I don’t know if I want Simone the way my father thinks I should want her. In fact, IknowI don’t.
Broken. Powerless. Crawling to me on her knees, trying to make herself invaluable.
I want the woman who spit fire at me the first day I met her, and I also want that same woman under me, pleading for the pleasure I can give her. I want her fucking me like she’s ravenous for my cock. I want her writhing under my hands and tongue until she’s exhausted.
I don’t know how to make those things fit together. All my life, every woman I’ve ever had has come easily. I don’t know how to fight for one that I want—especially one who just seems to want to fightmeat every turn.
The next day passes, so full of meetings that I actually go for stretches of time without thinking of Simone. I go out for meals, gamble, drink—and don’t so much as flirt with a woman, all desire to fuck anyone other than my wife completely gone. I want her, and no one else. And when I get back home, I’m determined to show her that I mean it.
I’m determined to find a way to have what I need, and what I want. I’m determined to haveher.
It occurs to me that maybe we could simply talk about it. That I could lay out for her how I feel, what I want, and ask her what she wants in return, that doesn’t involve being free of the marriage. I could express to her that I want to find a middle ground.
Simone won’t make it easy, but maybe I could simply… find a way to talk to my wife.
It’s ridiculously obvious, but after the way our relationship began, it feels revolutionary. And, as the next day in Vegas gets off to a start, I feel hopeful.
Until Vitto texts me, then calls, twice in short succession. I step outside to take it, apologizing. “What is it?” I snap as I answer. “I’m in a meeting.”
“You’re going to want to hear this, boss.” His voice is deep, grave, full of trepidation. And, as he begins to speak, I feel myjaw tighten, rage burning through every vein where hope was a moment before.
The second I hang up, I’m already on my way to where my driver is parked.
