Page 85 of Bloody Vows
He sets his plate and coffee cup in the sink, walking past me with a waft of cologne that makes my stomach tighten with desire as he leans down to whisper in my ear. “Because arguing with you makes me so fucking hard, Simone.”
And then he’s walking out of the kitchen, only to pause for a moment before calling back: “I’ll arrange the security detail. They’ll meet you shortly and be ready to leave when you are.”
I stare at him as he leaves, unable to completely process the fact that he didn’t stop me. He didn’t force me to stay home. He…compromised,I realize in a rush, and so did I.
Is this what making a marriage work feels like?
It’s actually not all that bad.
An hour later, I’m in the back of one of the Mercedes wagons—one with bulletproof glass—with three of Tristan’s most trusted men and four more following in a second car. I feel like it’s overkill, but I don’t care. And honestly, I’m just glad to be away from the house and able to think, at least a little, without Tristan near me.
“Where to, Mrs. O’Malley?” the driver asks, glancing back at me.
“Downtown,” I tell him, parroting the plan I already gave the security detail. “I want to do some shopping, and then go to lunch. After that, South Beach so I can go for a walk.”
“Understood, ma’am.” Within minutes, we're headed out, and I focus on the scenery outside of my window, letting the blue sky and sunshine ease the tension and stress that seem to have baked itself into my shoulder and neck muscles at this point. I rub my hands over my thighs, still feeling fidgety and ready to be outside.
The driver finds a parking garage downtown, and I wait while they sweep it until I’m given the go-ahead to get out. It still feels restrictive, and I’m well aware of my security detail as I head toward the shops, but I’m not as resentful of it as I would have thought. I get the need for it. It’s not ideal, but very little about my life has been recently.
And at least I’m outside. I breathe in the warm air, soaking in the sights and smells, and sounds of the city, and head to one of my favorite boutiques to start my shopping excursion.
Two hours later, I have a few new dresses, some new pieces of jewelry from a tropical line at my favorite jeweler—all floralpieces with multicolored diamonds—and a new pair of heels. I hand the bags off to the driver to put in the car, and then go to my favorite restaurant, a fancy seafood-focused bistro with al-fresco dining overlooking the water.
One plate of garlic-butter shrimp and scallops with rice pilaf later, and three glasses of buttery white wine, I pay the check and head down the steps that lead out to the beach. Just like Tristan said, I’m sticking to the plan. And it hasn’t been so bad. Other than the slight claustrophobia of havingso manyguards around me, it’s been fine.
Listening to him hasn’t ruined my day. Giving an inch hasn’t made anything less enjoyable for me. Maybe I’ve been too stubborn. Maybe, just maybe, I should find out if it’s possible to be happy in this scenario, to forgive Tristan a little for doing what he was raised to do, just as I’ve always done the same.
I slip off my sandals and walk onto the sand, letting the grains shift between my toes. The beach is moderately crowded for a weekday—tourists and locals alike soaking up the sun and surf. I make my way toward the water, and my security detail follows at a discreet distance. The ocean is endless and blue, stretching to the horizon with a clear sky that makes it look that much more expansive. I stand at the water's edge, letting the waves wash over my feet, and try to make sense of everything that's happened in the past weeks.
I’ve gone from a single heiress on the verge of engagement to an appropriate man to an orphan forced into marrying an Irish mob boss’s heir. I’ve gone from rarely even thinking about sex to knowing what it’s like to be consumed with desire, to lust after a man that I should—and do—hate.
I’ve learned things about myself I never knew before. Not all of them are good, I can admit, out here without Tristan to needle me. Maybe I am a little too stubborn, a little too focused on beingright. Maybe, if I bend a little, I won’t break.
I think of the way Tristan looked at me last night, with so much lust and desire andneedin his eyes. The way he responded to everything I did. The way he matched my challenge, giving me back as good as I gave in bed. It wasfun.
I never thought about sex beingfun. It was a duty, like every other duty I was prepared to follow through on for the sake of my father’s legacy.
But… what if I tried being more like Tristan? He waltzed in and took everything because he believed he deserved it. What if…
What if, instead of a boring, passionless marriage to a man I’m not attracted to and who makes me feel nothing, I deserve passion and fights and wild nights and the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen?
What if Tristan and I deserve each other?
The thought makes me almost laugh. Hewoulddeserve me, after being so high-handed and arrogant as to walk in and usurp my father’s legacy. He deserves to be fought with, pushed back against, driven insane.
And I deserve the way he looks at me, every time I walk into a room.
As much as I don’t want to admit it, I can respect the balls it took to take over something he had no right to. The audacity to claim my father’s abandoned legacy as his own. To take me and try to master me, when he had no right to me, either.
Tristan is the kind of man that, in another time and place, would have been a king.
And I’d be his queen.
I close my eyes and let the sun warm my face, trying to quiet the chaos in my head. But it's impossible. Every time I think I have a handle on my feelings, something shifts, and I'm back to square one.
I've been so focused on protecting myself from wanting him, from becoming susceptible to his not-inconsiderable charms, that I haven't stopped to consider what I actually want. Do I want this marriage to work? Do I want to build something real with Tristan? Am I just fighting him out of a knee-jerk reaction based on years of conditioning, of being toldhow things are supposed to be, when in fact I could be… happy?
"Beautiful day," says a voice behind me, cutting through the noise of my thoughts.
