Page 32 of The Forbidden Bride He Stole

But there was no reason to think along those lines. He was who he was. He had been created from a very specific set of circumstances and there was no use mourning what might’ve been.

If his mother had not been such a fool over men. She had found a way to stand on her own feet.

If she had not been so easily tricked.

If he had not been so hungry. If he could’ve found a way to exist modestly then perhaps he would not have thrown himself into the life that he had.

But there was no use regretting it. It changed nothing. There was a version of his life, perhaps, where he got an honest job at a shop and lived quietly in Scotland. When he married and had children. Where his childhood was a sad, regrettable footnote, and not a Hydra that had grown trauma on top of trauma and sprouted many heads.

He had not taken that path. He had taken this path. And because of that, he knew he could not have all things. Money, power, and normality. He had seared his own soul to the point he no longer easily recognized right from wrong. If he did, he would never have done this to Hannah.

All of it. From the wedding today to what had followed. To the aftermath of their passion.

He knew that she had consented. His concern was that she hadn’t been entirely aware of what she was consenting to.

And that was not something he had reasoned through in his lust clouded mind.

How could he be half so basic after living the life he had? Hadn’t he had enough damn sex?

Had she thought of someone else the whole time? Used his body as a surrogate for what she really wanted?

Dieu. What did that matter? He was the one who was supposed to care for her, and he didn’t like these echoes of his own shame, of his past, rattling around inside him.

He poured another drink. Because tomorrow he was going to have to face this head-on. And tonight he didn’t wish to think about it at all.

He needed his walls firmly back in place.

When Hannah woke she was sore. That place between her legs was tender, and her skin felt hypersensitive.

She grimaced as she sat up, the memories of the night before coming in hot and fast.

That hadn’t been a dream. She knew it hadn’t been, because there was no way she could have conjured up any of those images in her mind without actually having experienced them.

Her imagination just wasn’t that good.

She lay back down and rolled over, burying her face in her pillow as she groaned.

She was... Humiliated. She had acted a perfect slut for his enjoyment. And then he had sent her away. Was it because he was embarrassed by how much she had wanted him? By how she had acted?

She rolled back onto her back and kicked her feet. Then she pulled her blankets over her face and took two breaths.

Okay. She pushed the blankets down. She was going to deal with this. She was going to deal with herself. She wasn’t a coward. She was about to be the CEO of a major company. She was married to one of the most powerful men in the world. They were married.

That was a whole thing. The whole thing she really wasn’t sure how to handle.

“Deal with it. Get a grip. He’s probably not even here.” Still, when she dressed, it was in a turtleneck and a pair of slacks. It was not flattering, but it covered up a lot of her body. And she just couldn’t handle how exposed she felt. It seemed like the best way forward.

She made her way downstairs and then stopped when she smelled coffee. And heard movement.

Was he really still here?

She took the last few steps at a trudge, and then she entered the kitchen. And there he was. Wearing a low-slung pair of pants, his chest bare.

It was a stark contrast to the way that she had sought to cover her own shame.

How nice for him.

“Good morning,” he said.

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