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I don’t know what’s worse: that Adrian doesn’t think it’s worth it to come home at a reasonable hour on our one-month wedding anniversary—or that it’s my birthday and he has no idea.

You know what? That’s a lie. I know which is worse. I know which one hurts more.

Happy fucking birthday, Loni.

Adrian…

He forgot my birthday. Even though I haven’t been shy about it coming up—it was kind of nice to have something to look forward to—he didn’t mention it at all. Not at breakfast, and not when he sent me a text mid-day that he got roped into an Order meeting after he was getting ready to head out. It was scheduled for six, and he was hoping to be done by seven.

He offered to pick up Italian for dinner; a lucky guess since I used to go to this one restaurant with my parents every year up until Mom got sick. That mollified me a little… only it’s now nine o’clock, and there’s no sign of myhusband.

I shouldn’t be pissed. This last month, sometimes it feels like he’s really trying to treat this marriage as legitimate. Others, it’s clear to me that this setup is like nearly every other Owed-Offering arranged marriage I know of. He gets sex, I get a room, and we basically just exist is this oversized house, living two separate lives except for during meals and on Monday nights.

Funnily enough, I mentioned just last Monday that I was thinking about maybe spending an extra night with Adrian. I mean, it’s inevitable. In my experience, the strongest pairings sleep in the same bed every night regardless—unless the husband decides to go to one of the Used. Since that’s one thing I definitely don’t want… and I’ve come to accept that I’m not going anywhere… why not slowly start integrating my way into his room while keeping mine just in case?

And, no, the fact that I came up with the idea after Adrian laid me out on my stomach, propping my chest up on pillow before climbing me behind me and fucking me lazily for a good half and hour before a flip switched and he pounded me so hard that I had to brace myself against the headboard so I didn’t go through it all while squealing his name wildly… nope. Not at all.

Today is Thursday. Monday was three days ago, and while I enjoyed the sex with Adrian then, the angrier I get tonight, the more I want to grab a Brillo pad and slough on my skin anywhere he touched me.

It’s an unhealthy response. I know that. Finding pleasure in a man who worships my body the way Adrian does… it’s just sex, Loni. It’s just fucking. I’ve always suspected that Adrian used the act to control me when I was seventeen. I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s doing now.

Be a good girl, princess, and you can have your husband’s cock… don’t you want it? I know you want it?—

Ugh!

I thought I was stronger than that. How did this happen? How did I let Adrian Heller worm his way under my skin like an infection I can’t get rid of? Iknewbetter. What happened to my plan of stabbing his gorgeous, sculpted, delicious chest the first chance I got and claiming self defense? Anything to escape him before I did what I always do and let him in while forgetting all the reasons I shouldn’t…

What happened? I know what happened. He smirked when he relayed the story about Damien Libellula and his murderous wife, making it clear that if I ever tried anything like that, it wouldn’t change a thing about our situation.

More importantly, he’dlikeit.

What else should I expect from a man who decided the best way to get a wife was tokillthe man she was promised to marry?

Desmond. Fucking Desmond.

Why didn’t he leave me alone? I was content in Bridgewater. I liked my job, I spoke to my co-workers online and through text, and I had good relationships with most of my clients. Sure, I was a homebody, and the loneliness I’ve been experiencing in Harmony Heights didn’t begin here… but if he hadn’t decided to Claim me the way he had, none of this would’ve happened. I never would’ve been (basically) dragged back to Harmony Heights by Dallas Collins, and Adrian Heller would just be the ghost that continued to torment long after I walked away from him, crying.

And who the hell am I fooling? Not me.

I blame Desmond—and it’s easy to, dead or not—because I know the truth now. I was never safe from this fate. Adrian told me about his plan. Once I was thirty, once we both aged out of the Order’s ridiculous mandate,

I was so stunned when he casually mentioned that over dinner one night that, despite having a mouth that tasted like garlic chicken, I reached over the table and kissed him. It was thefirst—and only—kiss I’ve initiated with Adrian, and it was like something shifted between us at that moment.

If he did that, it would’ve led to his demotion within the Order. Because he’s blood, Jack wouldn’t get rid of him, but his days as the kingmaker, pulling strings behind the scenes like he’s always done… they would be over.

Because of me. Because, for once, he planned on choosingmeover the secret society that owns us all.

At least, that’s what he led me to believe. I know better now.

For a man who seems insistent that I’m his… that I’ve always been his… things likeforgetting my fucking birthdayseem to suggest otherwise.

I can’t believe it.

Am I being ridiculous, holding this against him? Probably. About two months ago, I had every intention of putting in a little PTO, booking myself a facial at one of the spas I’d been researching, and getting day drunk on a bottle of rose. It’s positively selfish, and I ‘d been looking forward to it.

Over the last few days, feeling like we were getting closer to closer, I foolishly started to really look forward to my birthday. And maybe it’s because he ruined so many of them when I was younger…

The year I turned ten, Adrian threw a pool party for no other reason than he suggested it. Everybody in our class went to his house. The only exception was Haven, and we had a slumber party where we played with a Ouija board and tried to curse Adrian’s hair to fall out.