Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Pas bon. Not good.
The rest of breakfast is a blur. I think we must've talked of important things. I'm not quite sure. My world is still spinning off-tangent, the foundation of my existence shaken by the possibility that this early on...
No, no, no.
"Liana?"
His tone is sharp, his gaze narrowed, and my cheeks burn at having him catch me thinking of other things.
"What's wrong?"
I'm in love with you?
I love you?
I really honestly love you?
"Are you sure we're not related?" I blurt out instead.
His eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me?"
"Your eyes, um, and mine."
My mother was right, is all I'm thinking now.
"Don't you think they're too much...alike?"
Pride comes before a fall, and I'd rather stick with this ridiculous line of argument than tell him the truth.
"Ah."
His eyes start to glitter, and I'm not sure what to make of it—
"What if we are?"
—until he says that, and I have to remind myself that my husband is Monsieur Le Dernier, who is also notorious for playing with his prey before making them disappear.
And so I force myself to laugh. "Oh, please—"
"That's not the answer to my question."
"Because it's so silly—"
"Is it, ma petite? You know who I am. Do you really think incest is beyond me?"
"Stop it," I censure. "This isn't funny."
"Who says I'm joking?"
I think I'm going to be sick.
Sylvain leans back against his seat, and my stomach starts to churn.
"Liana?"
I slowly raise my eyes to his, and that's when I see the smirk curving over his lips.
Argh!
I fly toward him, the chair scraping across marble as I push away from the table. My fists connect with his chest, solid muscle beneath fine fabric, but Sylvain only laughs, the sound vibrating against my knuckles.
C’est agaçant! How annoying!
I want to hit him again, not hard enough to hurt (I am no idiot to truly attack a man like him), but just enough so he'll know I am absolutely vexed. My fingers curl into a fist, but—
"No more," Sylvain says.
One yank, and I tumble into his lap, my skirt tangling around my legs, my breasts pressed against the muscular wall of his chest. And just like that, my mood swings from a fire-breathing dragon to a breathless little hussy.
"Do you not think it's time?" my husband purrs.
I look at him warily even as the heat and hardness of him overwhelms my senses. "Time for what?"
Sylvain covers my mouth in answer, and my toes curl hard. His lips are firm and warm, gentle and possessive, and I am utterly helpless against it.
Our first kiss as husband and wife, and it completely blows me away.
When Sylvain raises his head, there is so much to see in the dark blue depths of his eyes, a storm of emotions that I can't even begin to comprehend.
"I can never let you go now, tu comprends?"
I nod slowly, because I feel the same way, too.
For better or for worse.
La mariée du monstre.
I am the monster's bride.
Chapter Seven
ANOTHER WAREHOUSE, really?
Sylvain was rather cryptic when he told me after breakfast that we had somewhere to go.
And now this.
I stare through the tinted windows of my husband's bulletproof limo as we pull up to a massive structure of corrugated metal and concrete. Seriously, what is it with mob bosses and warehouses? Is there some secret handbook that says all criminal activities must take place in such big ugly death traps?
The car rolls to a stop, tires crunching on gravel. My husband exits first, his movements fluid and controlled like always. He turns, extending his hand to help me out.
Surely this isn't a trick?
I reach for him, my fingers just grazing his—when he steps back suddenly, leaving me to stumble forward, barely catching myself before I fall flat on my face.
Knew it.
I straighten up, brushing invisible dust from my dress, dignity intact if slightly bruised. Behind me, I hear his security team coughing, but when I glance at them over my shoulder...
Huh.
I feel like we've suddenly played a game of Red Light, Green Light without meaning to, and I'm that awful robot in pigtails trying to blast any of Sylvain's bodyguards I catch laughing.
Oh, whatever.
Sylvain glances at me with a raised eyebrow when I catch up to him. "Everything alright?"
"Oui."
But my husband, though...
"Are you alright?" I ask uncertainly.
Because the shadows in his eyes aren't the usual ones. This isn't the predatory darkness I've grown accustomed to. This...is something else. Something strained and haunted. Something...tormented.
"Do you trust me, Liana?"
Oh no.
It's never good when Sylvain answers my question with another question. That's like Rule Number One in the "Your Husband Might Be Planning Something Terrible" handbook.
"Tell me what's happening. Why are we here? What is this—"
"Answer me." A quiet command, underscored by something I can't quite put my finger on. Urgency? Desperation? Both seem impossible for a man like him.
What are you not telling me, mon roi?
"Do you trust me?"