"What?"
"Out of my bedroom," I growl.
"No."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
She ducks under my arm, then slides into the bed and pulls up the covers to her chin. "I am sleeping here. You take the couch."
35
Saint
"What the fuck?" I glance up at the ceiling.
My wife had thrown me out of our bedroom and I had taken it. The fuck had happened there? Had I actually dragged my sorry arse out of there and retreated to the living room...like a loser? My present condition certainly seems to indicate so.
I shift my frame on the couch in the living room, which had seemed comfortable enough on the face of it, but try squeezing a six-feet-four-inch frame onto the bloody thing for the night...and fuck, it isn’t a laughing matter. How the hell had everything gone so tits up? How had I allowed that tiny woman to get the better of me? Had I actually agreed to turn the marital bed over to her for the night? And why hadn't I simply checked into another hotel room for the night? Why can't I bear to leave her alone, even for one night? Because she is my asset and I can't leave her unguarded. Bull-fucking-shit, what a crock that is. All the time I'd been away at the office, she'd been on her own. Okay not quite. I'd had my people tailing her, yes, even in the hotel. So what? It’s the only way to find out what the hell her endgame is in all of this.
I fold my arm over my eyes, stretch myself, and my bloody legs hang over the side. Shit. Clearly, I am too large for this space. I turn over, punch the cushion under my head. How the hell had it come to this? I am in the most expensive suite, in an iconic hotel owned by me, in a city where I am—okay was— the most eligible bachelor—in a country where I am consistently among the top five richest men. And here I am, spending the night on a couch? Fuck. I turn over and slide off of the couch. Hit the floor on my arse. Insane. This is beyond ridiculous. This is a clear sign that I am pussywhipped.
If I told any of the Seven about this... Well, outside of Sinner—bet that fucker would empathize with what it is to be faced with an angry wife. Jesus, that's the second time in a row I've referred to her as my wife. She's your fake wife, you wanker. As you've reminded her over and over again. And broken her heart. You hurt her, you bloody reprobate.
I drag my fingers through my hair.
But hell, if her words hadn't hit home. She'd struck a nerve—more than a nerve. She'd pushed herself into my deepest darkest space, the place I'd vowed never to let anyone into. She'd insisting on unearthing my secrets, bared my insecurities and held up a mirror to my flaws. Of which I have many. I've never hidden them. And I’m not starting now. I've never denied that I am callous. What was it she called me? A brute. Yep, that's what I am. Someone who doesn't give a fuck about others. Who goes after what he wants and takes it, damn the consequences. So, what am I doing, skulking around in the dark, on my arse in my hotel suite? This space is mine. I push up to my feet. And she is mine—for the duration of this sham marriage. At least. And no one keeps me away from what I own, least of all my sassy, devious, spit-fire of a wife.
I stalk to the door of the bedroom—how dare she shut it on me?—and shove it open. I step into the semi-darkness. The curtains are pulled back and the brightness of the streetlights pours in through the window, illuminating the figure on the bed. I prowl over to her, rake my gaze over the figure tucked in, looking quite comfortable. Her fingers are tucked under her cheek, her lips slightly parted. Her chest rises and falls; her cheeks are flushed. No doubt she'd fallen asleep as soon as I had left, while I had tossed and turned in my make-shift bed.
I grab the sheets and pull them off.
"What the—?" She sits up with a little scream, breasts heaving, naked body glimmering in the moonlight. My throat closes. The blood rushes to my dick. Fuck. I don't have any clothes on either. Good. This should make it convenient.
"Move over," I snarl.
She blinks up at me. "Saint?"
"Who the fuck else?" I growl. Of course, it’s me. Who had she expected? Her late-husband? That fucker, Antonio? I bunch my fists at my side.
She glances down, takes in my stance, then brings up her hands to cover her breasts. Anger thrums at my temples. I am her bloody husband. She doesn't get to hide her gorgeous body from me. And why the hell is she staring at me with fear in her eyes? I wouldn't hurt her. Well, not physically at least— Okay, well...only when it is required. Then, I'll do what’s needed to her body, to give her the most pleasure I can. What is wrong with that? It is for her own good, isn't it?
And the way you hurt her with your words... Is that for her own good too?
I bunch my shoulders, glare at her features.
"Wh...what's wrong?" she stutters.
Nothing. Everything. "You're on my side of the bed."
"Oh," she glances around, then scoots over.
"Not so fast." I swoop down. Another scream leaves her lips. I scoop her up, then plonk down on the bed, with her spread across my lap.
She wriggles. I lean my weight on the small of her back.
"Let me go."
"No."
"What are you doing?" she huffs.
"You were in the wrong."
"Why? Because I slept on your side?" Her tone is incredulous.
"Yes."
"That's preposterous," she tosses her head.
"No, that's cause for punishment."
Her entire body stills, then a shudder crawls up her
