Page 13 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Emerson

“ W hat?”

I stare at Mikhail, confident my hearing is acting up.

My ears haven’t popped since our faster-than-humanely-possible landing, so my hearing could be at fault.

But then why did I hear every snarled word he spoke when he organized a hookup in front of me?

And the gurgles of my stomach when I pushed aside my pain for what I hope will be the greater good?

I don’t want to whore myself out to a man I once loved, but consummating our vows is the biggest payout figure on our marriage contract and the only way I will leave this arrangement with my heart intact.

It’s barely holding on, and we’re still on day one. It won’t survive weeks in this man’s presence, and the knowledge leaves me with only one option.

Do the deed, get it signed off, then leave.

A divorcee tag won’t be as bad as the jilted bride title I was lumped with ten years ago.

I’ll get over it—eventually.

This, though, being rejected by the man who made me feel beautiful no matter the frumpiness of my outfit, hurts.

I’ve aged—obviously—but I have also kept in good shape. My tits are where they’re meant to be, my stomach is flatter than my curvy hips and ass, and I religiously shave even with having no one to admire my gleaming skin.

I’m goddamn hot—just apparently not scalding enough for Mikhail.

“Get dressed,” he repeats, pinching the last of my confidence.

He tries to smooth my hurt with a lie. “Chef is bringing dinner to our room, and Kolya will arrive shortly after him with an updated schedule of our appearances over the next month. He’s old. I don’t want you to give him a heart attack.”

Kolya is in his forties, fifties at the most. He is far from ancient.

A tinge of modesty hits me hard, and it is foreign.

I’ve never lacked confidence, so I try to push past it.

“I’m not hungry. Well… not for food.”

My flirting skills could use a polish, but Mikhail shoots them down like they’ll give him the clap. “You need food. You haven’t eaten since last night.”

“I ate breakfast?—”

His eyes floating up from the floor steal the rest of my lie. I haven’t eaten breakfast since my preteens, and Mikhail knows that. We had many arguments about it because it gave us plenty of excuses for makeup sex.

I can see his fight not to lower his eyes to my breasts, and smell the torment on his skin, but he does it. He maintains eye contact while instructing me to get dressed again.

Victory flares through his eyes when I give in.

As I stomp to the closet to fetch my coat, he says, “Let’s eat. Then we will discuss the terms of our contract.”

“I don’t need to discuss the contract. I’ve read it.” I come across as a whiny brat. That’s expected. That is precisely what I am.

I sling my eyes to Mikhail when he forces his next question through a tight, stern jaw. “Did you read all of it? Or just the parts that included a cash payout?”

I nod during his first question, preferring to lie without words.

But my nod switches to a snarl during his last question.

I skimmed the parts that lacked a monetary figure in front of them, opting for the bread and butter that will keep my family afloat.

For good reason, of course. Time is not in my favor.

With Mikhail’s cocked brow demanding a worded response, my chest sinks with a sigh before I add words into the mix.

“Getting married rewarded us a ten-thousand-dollar bonus. If we fuck—like we have done a million times already, so what’s another one added to the list?

—the figure jumps to one hundred thousand.

Attending a pompous gala with your father’s favorite benefactors will add only five thousand to the tally.

The rest of the terms have a similar value to the gala.

” I roll my eyes, praying the burn of their roll will stop stupid moisture from forming in them.

“Except birthing an heir, and we’d have to have sex to do that.

I also know your thoughts on procreation with someone you don’t know.

Considering you haven’t stopped looking at me as if you have no clue who I am since you arrived at Lidny, I set that dot point aside for a much, much later date. ”

As I suck in some big breaths to calm my climbing anger, I go over the contract terms in my head.

Although extensive, they’re pretty basic.

I’m clueless about why Mikhail is making a big deal out of them.

I know his thoughts on having children out of wedlock and his dislike of schmoozing his father’s backers, so I went for a term that should have been easy for us to cross off.

Or so I thought.

When Mikhail’s nostrils flare as if he’s disappointed in me for my nonchalant and somewhat arrogant reply, anger burns me alive.

He has no right to judge me.

None whatsoever.

“I know what I’ve gotten myself into, Mikhail.”

“I disagree,” he immediately fires back, his narrowed eyes straying to the contract. “So pick something else on the list for us to cross off first, and maybe, if you ever get your head out of your fucking ass long enough to scrub the money signs from your eyes, we will come back to that one later.”

The way he says “that” ensures I can’t mistake what marital privilege tasks he’s referencing, and when paired with the arrogance of his tone, it sends my blood pressure rising.

Too angry to see through the madness swamping me, I shake my head so fast that my hair slaps my cheeks.

“No. This ” — I jab the sole term left on our contract I’m willing to cross off since sex can be seen as an emotionless transaction when it is done with a man who no longer has a heart —“ is what I’ve chosen. This is what I want to do.”

This is about far more than stubbornness. The monetary amount of every other item on our list is a pittance compared to the payout I will get for this. They’ll also take weeks and months to achieve.

I won’t survive being in Mikhail’s presence that long. My heart is already in tatters. It can’t sustain more damage.

With Mikhail seemingly unwilling to budge on his terms, I fold my arms under my chest, soundlessly announcing his strip of my confidence did little to my stubbornness before saying, “It is this or nothing.”

Mikhail doesn’t fold.

Not in the slightest.

“Then I guess I will end this by saying it was nice seeing you again.”

His words are like a punch to the stomach. They wound and devastate me.

I’ve never felt more betrayed.

I’m so angry that I rip my trench coat when I yank it from a coat hanger and stuff my arms into the openings. The sash remains untied around my waist. I’m too hot to consider the icy conditions outside and desperate to leave.

Because I dress in such a hurry, I fail to notice that I’ve reverted to the childish crazy person Mikhail always made me when he gave an ounce of attention to anyone who wasn’t me.

I’m behaving foolishly, but I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. No one had ever evoked such a fierce “mine” mentality from me before Mikhail landed in my life, and no one has since.

I race for the door, seconds from escaping, when Mikhail gives me no choice but to recant my threat. “If you read the entire contract, you’d know that leaving within the first month of marriage will see all gifts, payments, and agreements voided without prejudice.”

Scarcely breathing, I peer back at him. He looks hurt, but I can’t get the notion that he turned me down while I was vulnerable and exposed out of my head. “Like you care what will happen to me or my family.”

His back straightens in an instant. “Then why am I here, Emmy? If I don’t care, why am I here, torturing myself?”

Torturing himself?

Spending time with me is torturous to him?

Ouch.

That hurts more than any rejection could and has me acting like a brat.

My words hiss from my mouth like a snake about to strike. “Our contract says I have to consummate my vows. It doesn’t say it must occur with my husband.”

After a final snarl, I race for the door.

Mikhail beats me to it.

He slaps it shut and then crowds me against it.

He’s so fuming mad that his breaths bead my neck with condensation.

I refuse to tell you the reaction of the rest of my body, or you’ll think I’m insane.

It should be impossible to be furious and horny at the same time, but Mikhail makes it easy.

It’s a fight not to melt when he presses his lips to my ear and growls, “You are my wife.” He touches my chin, lifting and twisting my face until our eyes meet. “My. Fucking. Wife. I will not share you with anyone .”

The sheer possessiveness in his eyes ignites a blaze deep inside me.

Everything ramps up at once—my heart rate, my pulse, the needy throb of my clit.

Even my anger. I can’t breathe for the fear that the expansion of my lungs will place unnecessary space between us.

I can’t concentrate on anything but the brilliance of his icy-blue eyes and the thickness rapidly growing against my backside.

He’s hard enough to conclusively refute his claim that he doesn’t want me. His fat cock digging into my ass cheek surges my confidence back to the record high it held when he called me his and has me wanting to act recklessly.

I won’t, though. Too many years have passed, and too much hurt.

“You don’t own me, Mikhail. No one does.”

He smiles, and despite the mess it causes my panties, I want to smack it off his face.

I would if I could move. He’s standing too close and leaning in deep. There isn’t an ounce of air between us, and my body is ecstatic about his closeness.

The friction is driving me insane. I’m fighting with everything I have not to grind against him, and I almost lose the battle when he whispers, “I may not own you, Emmy. But legally…”—he waits until my internal temperature turns excruciating before finalizing his reply—“you’re mine.”

A moan escapes me when the gravelly delivery of his statement causes me to grind down. I feel every fantastic ridge of his cock, and I shudder at the thought of getting lost in them again.