“And what did you say?” We’re not touching, but his gaze presses into my skin.
“That my daughter’s happiness has no price.”
The smirk becomes a grin. “Good job.”
Secrets & Lies. That should be the name of the nighttime drama I’ve somehow fallen into.
I heave a weary sigh and ask, “Could you show me to my room? I’m exhausted.”
“Sure,” he answers. “Follow me.”
He leads me to a door on the opposite side of the landing, and my heart sinks.
O2 has always been fiercely independent. No running into my room because she’s had a nightmare, ever. Maybe that’s something else she gets from her father. But I don’t like being so far away from her in the house.
“Could you put me in a room closer to O2?”
He regards me with a bland look. “Not unless you want her to hear the sounds you make while you fulfill the second part of our agreement.”
My heart drops.
And he opens the door to a large primary bedroom.
Then he says, “Strip.”
CHAPTER 29
BERNICE
I’d somehow let him lull me into a false sense of comfort.
He made me ask him two questions during that Monday morning meeting: What do you want from me? What do I have to do to get my daughter back?
And he answered, “One: You will marry me. That’s the first requirement for me allowing you to act as the mother of my child.”
I was so stunned by the enormity of the first part of the answer to those questions, I’d let it overshadow the rest.
And when he left me alone in that Benton suite with O2, I thought maybe I wouldn’t have to honor it until after the wedding.
Tonight, at his father’s house, I was wholly focused on pulling off the lie of our happy engagement. It hadn’t even occurred to me to think about what he said after dropping that marriage bomb.
“And here’s the second requirement: We fuck. Whenever I want you. Doesn’t matter if you’re bleeding.”
Such crude words tacked on to the end of an already insane order to marry him.
No wonder I’d put it out of my head.
But entering the bedroom—the incredibly large bedroom that takes up the entire length of the house and obviously belongs to him—that second part of the agreement is all I can think about.
Behind me, the door closes, and he bites out, “Strip.” Again.
My brain explodes with panic. It’s been years since I had sex. Not months. Years. And the pandemic isn’t necessarily to blame.
I’d tried going out with a few guys before the New York dating scene came to an abrupt stop. I’d even gotten far enough along in a couple of relationships where, after some grown-up discussion, we decided to try sleeping together.
Both times it had felt the same. Nice, safe, not Griff. Boring side-character sex. Exactly what I wanted.
Well, exactly what I should have wanted. Both relationships had petered out, with me forgetting to text back or being so busy they just stopped asking me to go out again.
Back then, I told myself, I just had to figure out how to prioritize dating better. But deep inside…deep inside, where I stored those ill-advised two weeks with the biker Rockstar, I secretly wondered if he’d ruined me.
If all sex, for the rest of my life, would feel like a dim shadow of what I experienced at the cabin.
And now…
Here I am.
I let out a shuddering breath and start to push the straps of the gorgeous emerald dress down my shoulders.
“Turn to face me.” His voice is a soft command in the dimly lit room. “Let me see you.”
Okay, deep breath.
I turn to face him as I strip. It’s insane how good he looks in the blue summer suit with an open-collar shirt. The tattoos on his face have mysteriously disappeared. I’m assuming laser removal. But the rest of the tats are still there, and they somehow make for the perfect accessory to his business look.
Okay, question, God? Why would you give so much beauty to such an ruthless man? You would have thought all the booze and drugs would have caught up with him by now, but somehow, he’s even more gorgeous than I remember.
He’s chiseled mid-30s perfection staring at me.
Not chiseled perfection.
The monster’s eyes burn with satisfaction while he watches me do his bidding.
But as I push the dress down, I’m deeply aware that my brickhouse body now includes a tummy pooch from having a baby and twenty pounds of weight gain—at least.
Stop this, Bernice, a voice chides inside my head. Stop worrying about your body. Stop admiring his.
Don’t think about the monster. Don’t wonder at his looks. Just do as he says, and get through this.
“I’m not Red, you know,” I tell him. “That was a character I put on because I was lost after my grandma died. You keep calling me Red, but that woman was just something I did for tips. Really, I’m Boring Bernice. That’s who you’re marrying, who you probably don’t really want to have sex with—Boring Bernice.”