Page 39 of Bloody Vows
I don’t mind letting him know it, either.
“You know,” I tell him smoothly as I sit down at his right, not bothering to wait for him to stand and pull out my chair. “I’m well aware that you own this estate and mansion and everything outside of and within it now, Tristan. We don’t have to eat at one end of a long table like a ridiculous caricature of a king and queen for me to be convinced.”
“Maybe I like it in here. It’s spacious.” He reaches for the decanter of wine that’s sitting between us, pouring me a glass without my asking. It’s red, which is my preference, but right now I wish I preferred white just so I could tell him that.
It’s never been in my nature to be purposefully contrary; that would never have worked with my father. But I can’t help it with him. It’s infuriating to see him sitting where my fatherwould have sat at a dinner party, looking completely at home in surroundings that took my family generations to acquire.
“Well, you can do what you want.” I reach for the wine glass, taking a decisive sip. “Even if it’s ridiculous.”
“I can.” He reaches for his own wine, surveying me as if he’s sizing up an opponent. “I can do exactly as I please now, Simone. This is my house. My staff. You are my wife.”
Mine. The sound of his voice reverberates down to my bones. He makes mefeelowned, and I can’t help but chafe against it, because I don’t want to be owned by anyone.
We both go silent for a moment as the first course is brought in—a pumpkin soup that I don’t have any taste for. There’s no such thing as soup season in Florida, and it’s still hot enough that I’m put off by the thought of eating anything that isn’t cold. I push the bowl aside, focusing on the Caesar salad that’s brought in with it.
I wait for Tristan to take a bite and for the staff to leave again before I speak, taking a deep breath. “We need to talk about something,” I tell him firmly, reaching for my wine glass.
His gaze lifts to meet mine. “I can’t wait to find out what,” he deadpans, and I glare at him.
“It’s about our arrangement.”
Tristan snickers under his breath. “You mean our marriage?”
"Our arrangement," I repeat firmly, and I see the corners of his mouth twitch. His amusement with me, as if I’m a constantly misbehaving but adorable pet, makes me want to slap him. “I downloaded an app to track my cycle, and I’ve looked into how to tell what days of the month I’m most fertile. How to take my temperature, etcetera. Since our marriage is consummated and the only other purpose for… intercourse is to provide an heir, there’s no need for you to visit my room outside of those specific days.”
Tristan looks at me, finishing his bite of salad and reaching for his wine glass without saying a word. I force myself to hold his gaze, but his silent scrutiny makes me feel as if my skin might crawl away from my bones. It feels ridiculous to be talking about this with him in such bland, euphemistic terms, but I can’t bring myself to be more explicit. Not after the things he did to me last night. Not when I can still remember how it felt when he made me come on his fingers this morning.
The tension isthick enough to cut with a knife when he finally speaks. "Visit your room," he repeats slowly.
I can already hear that this conversation isn’t going to go the way I planned, but I push forward anyway. “Yes. I’ll let you know when the time is optimal, and we can… fulfill the requirements of our arrangement. Efficiently.”
Tristan sets his wine glass down with athud. “The requirements of our arrangement.”
“Are you a fucking parrot?” I snap at him without meaning to, the sound of his voice grating beyond what’s bearable. “Yes. That’s what I said. We’ll handle this practically. I’ll take care of the responsibility of tracking my cycle, I’ll let you know when you’re welcome in my room, and you can fuck me as quickly and efficiently as possible. Once I’m pregnant, there’s no need to touch me again until you want another child.”
“Hm.” Tristan regards me with a cool, blank expression that’s impossible to read. I hate that I can’t easily figure out what he’s thinking, that it’s so difficult for me to manipulate him. He looks as if he’s listening, but is only humoring me, and it makes my fingers curl into claws against the tablecloth. “So you want to keep your own room. Sleep there, separately from me. And you want to schedule sex like a business meeting, and handle it just as promptly. In, out, and over as soon as possible.”
I take a slow, measured breath. I know this is bait, that he’s trying to get a rise out of me, and I fight to not give him what he wants. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
He smiles. “No.”
My teeth clench so hard that I feel like they might crack. “What the fuck do you mean,no?”
The smooth line of his lips, curled up with humor, flattens. “Curse at me again,célie, and I’ll make good on my promise to show you how I can put that mouth to better use. Right here at the dinner table.” His cool green gaze meets mine. “Is that what you’d like, Simone? For me to put you on your knees and have you pleasure me with your mouth while I eat my supper? Suck my cock while the staff brings in the courses? I imagine you could make me come before dessert, but since you’ve never had a cock in your mouth before, I can’t be sure…”
“You can’t be serious.” I bite back the addition offuckingjust in time… no matter how much I want to ignore everything Tristan says to me, I can’t ignore the fact that there isn’t a chance that he wouldn’t do exactly what he’s promising. My face burns at the thought of one of the staff, most of whom have worked here since I was a child, walking in on my new husband forcing me to suck him off under the dinner table.
And at the same time, a strange, curling sensation of heat slithers through my belly, a sensation I don’t understand and don’t want to think too long about.
“I’m very serious.” His gaze holds mine. “You can have your own room,” he says finally. “Sleep there if you want. I don’t want to worry about being stabbed in the middle of the night by my wife, and I don’t have any interest in cuddling.” His mouth forms a thin line. “I want pleasure from you, Simone, and your submission. I want a dutiful mafia wife, as I was promised. And yourduty,célie—since you clearly need it explained—is to let me use your body when I want to, to provide me with children,to keep this house in order, and to smile and look beautiful when I want to parade you in front of others. Your duty is to be pleasant, peaceful, and both elegant and gracious in public. So if you want your own room, fine. But as to the rest of it—no.” He shakes his head. “I’ll fuck you when I please, Simone, and you will pleasure me in the ways I ask you to. And if I tell you to come on my mouth or my fingers or my cock, you’ll come for me. Am I understood?”
I smile at him, just as pleasantly as he smiled at me moments ago. “No.”
His jaw tightens. “Simone?—”
“I’ll lock my door every night that I’m not ovulating if I have to. Stay out of my room unless I tell you that I can get pregnant. And no, I won’t come for you. I won’t get down on my knees for you. I won’t do anything except what is absolutely required of me, which is, yes, to keep the house and hang off your arm at parties. I was raised to do all of that impeccably. I was also raised to know that I would need to provide my husband with heirs. Aside from that?” I widen my smile. “My answer is no, Tristan. You get ten minutes inside of me to get your rocks off, a few days a month. Otherwise, figure out how to deal with your rampaging cock yourself.”
“Enough!” He throws his napkin down, rising from his seat, but I’m already out of mine. If he thinks he’s going to humiliate me in front of the staff tonight, he should think twice.
