Page 75 of Bloody Vows
Instead, I press my ear to the door.
Another groan, one that I know is Tristan’s—his groan of pleasure that I’ve heard before. That sound continues, flesh meeting flesh in a desperate rhythm, and I feel my thighs squeeze together as I listen to my husband touching himself.
I should be disgusted. I should be appalled that I'm standing here listening to my husband pleasure himself in the bathroom.But instead, I'm transfixed, dampness growing quickly between my legs. I canhearthe desperation in it. He left the office minutes ago—he must have come straight up here, desperate to get his cock out, desperate to come because of our fight. Because ofme.
I bite my lip, resisting the urge to reach down and do the same. Not because he forbade me to, but because I refuse to admit that he’s turning me on just as much. That I want to throw the door open, bend over the sink, and take his cock instead of letting him finish himself off.
Another groan, deeper this time, and I can picture him in there—his head thrown back, his hand wrapped around his cock, his muscles tense with need. The same need I saw straining against his trousers downstairs, the need he walked away from rather than taking what he wanted from me.
Why didn’t he just take it?He always has before. He’s never hesitated to remind me that as his wife, it’s my duty to pleasure him when he desires it. He’s never balked at taking what he considers is his.
But for some reason, this time, Tristan chose to walk away and relieve himself instead of demanding it from me.
I hear him curse under his breath, followed by a sound that might be his fist hitting the counter. My name falls from his lips, rough and desperate, and something clenches deep in my belly.
I should move. I should get away from this door before he comes out and finds me here. But my feet seem rooted to the spot, and before I can force myself to leave, I hear his footsteps approaching, his breathing harsh on the other side of the door.
The door swings open, and Tristan stands there, fully clothed again, looming over me in the doorway. His eyes find mine immediately, and I see the exact moment he realizes what I've been doing. His jaw tightens, and something dark and dangerous flickers in his green eyes.
"Enjoying the show?" His voice is rough, gravelly, and I can hear the edge of anger beneath the surface.
I lift my chin, refusing to be embarrassed even though heat is flooding my cheeks. "I was coming to find you."
"Were you?" He tilts his head, looking down at me. "You should have come in. I wouldn’t have minded.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt. Besides, you’re the one who ran away and hid.”
Tristan laughs. “That’s what you think? That I was hiding from you?”
I shrug, forcing my voice to sound calm, even, although my knees feel weak. "I think you walked away from me downstairs because you knew if you stayed, you'd end up fucking me on that desk, and you're trying to prove some kind of point."
He laughs again, but there's no humor in it. "Maybe I walked away because I'm tired of fighting for scraps. Tired of having to take what I want from a wife who acts like touching her is a punishment."
The words hit like a slap, and I feel my temper flare. "Maybe your wife is tired of being treated like a possession instead of a person."
"Then prove it." He takes another step closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Prove that I didn’t just marry a pretty face and a sharp tongue. Prove that I should give you any credence at all when it comes to matters beyond fucking and giving me heirs. Prove that you can hold your own in this world."
My jaw clenches until my teeth grind together. “You want proof that I can handle myself? Fine. Come with me.”
I turn on my heel and start walking toward the stairs, not bothering to check if he's following. I can hear his footsteps behind me, can feel his presence like a weight at my back, but I don't slow down or look back. I’m actually surprised he’sfollowing, but maybe he’s curious. I’ll show him that I’m not just a decoration.
There’s a lot my father never taught me. A lot that Iamignorant of or have been sheltered from. But I did insist on learning one thing, and though I’ve always been surprised he taught me, I’m also glad that he did. Especially now.
"Where are we going?" he asks as we reach the main floor.
"You'll see."
I lead him through the mansion, past the curious looks of a few of the guards, past the kitchen where Nora is preparing dinner, and out the back door onto the sprawling grounds of the estate. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the perfectly manicured lawn, and I lead Tristan along the walking path, all the way to the back of the property where the firing range is located.
My father resisted my desire to learn how to use a gun, at first. I wore him down, eventually convincing him that if there ever was an attack, it was better for me not to be completely helpless. There have been many times where coming out here and practicing my shooting has made me feel slightly more in control, less as if the world is moving me where it wants me, and more as if I might, at some point, have some small say in it all.
I punch in the code to unlock the door that leads into the cool, dark space, and then the door that leads to the room that houses the equipment and ammunition, ignoring Tristan's surprised look as it swings open.
"Your father taught you to shoot?" he asks, following me inside.
“I had to wear him down.” I select the gun I want and a clip for it, pushing past Tristan to walk to where the targets are. I don’t care about what he thinks of this—I want him to see that I’m capable.
I might even want him to be a little afraid of me.
