Page 116 of Scarred
He twists back, pouring the wine into my glass until it’s almost full. I watch it swirl around, splashing against the bottom of the crystal, imagining that it must be similar to how my insides look as they flip and churn, threatening to spill over with anxiety.
He sets down the bottle, and I lean forward, grabbing both glasses, handing his over before taking mine. “Thank you, sire.”
He sits back, staring at me for long moments, his eyes intense, and for the first time all evening, a trickle of unease swims through my veins. Michael has never looked at me this way before.
“I tire of games,” he says. “Are you here to give yourself to me, Sara?”
The thought alone sends bile surging through my throat, but I grin through the nausea, knowing that Tristan will be here in less than an hour, and he’ll wash all the filthy feelings away.
I run my fingers along my collarbone, tangling in the thin chain of my father’s pendant, while my eyes flick to the wine in his hand—the one that he still hasn’t taken a sip from.
“I just thought we could get to know each other better.” I smile, scooting closer to him on the couch. “We’ll be married soon. Don’t you think it’s time?”
He smirks, setting down the glass, and I curse internally, frustration wrapping tight around my middle, squeezing until it feels as though I’ll burst.
His arm reaches out, wrapping around my waist and dragging me into him. My hands fly out to gain purchase on his chest, and I grip the fabric, my ass practically sitting in his lap. I swallow around the disgust lodging itself in my sternum.
“What is it you’d like to know?” he murmurs, leaning his head down and skimming his lips across my skin.
I play my part—even though, God, it feels as though doing so is the worst type of betrayal—leaning into it, knowing I need to make it convincing. Tristan is depending on me. My hands move to his face, pulling his eyes up to meet mine. I graze my nose against his. “Everything.”
He pulls me flush on top of him now, and my mouth sours with vomit as he grinds his hips into me, his erection digging into my center. He groans as he does it, his fingers tightening from where they’re wrapped around my waist, and I throw my head back, pretending as though what he’s doing is exciting.
Suddenly, he stops, his eyes like two amber pits of fire, and he reaches out to the table, grabbing his glass of wine. Relief trickles through me. But then he pushes the glass against my lips and panic spreads through my chest.
A small sip should be fine. As long as he drinks the rest.
I open my mouth, just a crack, but before I can stop him, he’s gripping my chin and tipping the entire glass of liquid, until it pours down my throat and I choke and sputter, my eyes growing wide and frantic as I attempt to spit it out.
His face drops into a sneer. I move to scramble off his chest, but he grips me by the hair, yanking it until it rips from my head as he stands, dragging me until my knees scrape across the floor, my fingers digging into the skin of his wrist as I flail, trying to break free.
“You stupid woman, did you think I wouldn’t know?”
“I don’t—”
He throws me to the ground, and I tumble, my arm screaming in pain as it slams against the wood. I flip onto my back, pushing myself up with my hands, but I don’t get far, his palm swinging down and cracking across my face until my body flies, skidding across the ground. My hip throbs from the impact.
He leans over me. “Ialwaysknow.” He grabs me by the arm and pulls me to a stand, wincing from the deep ache blooming across my cheek, no doubt already swelling from where he backhanded me.
I reach down, attempting to lift my skirts and grab a blade, but he grips my hand, squeezing until my bones crunch. “Don’t do something you’ll regret. I’d hate to punish you in front of your lover.”
My heart drops.Tristan.
He pulls me into his front, fingers tracing along my hairline. I turn my head away, gritting my teeth. “Would you like to go see him? He’s being kept comfortable, I assure you.”
“You lie,” I spit, not wanting to believe what I can feel in my stomach is true.
He smirks. “Out of the two of us,Iam not the liar here.” I try to flail from his grasp, but he grips my shoulders. “Come tie her hands,” he demands.
My head grows woozy and my movements sluggish as the effects of the laudanum start to grab hold of my psyche, and my breathing stalls, wondering who he’s speaking to. And then my hands are wrenched behind me and cuffed in metal before I can even blink.
Despair works its way through me.This is not supposed to happen.
Michael smiles, releasing me, before putting his arm out and dragging someone into his side. And when he does, my organs scream and curdle, withering as if they poured acid through my insides.
“Hello, milady.”
I clench my jaw, tears of betrayal stinging the back of my lids. “Ophelia.”
