Page 44 of The King of Hearts (The Raven Group #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

HER

I ’m sore between my legs, and my breasts aren’t much better.

I guess being fucked raw repeatedly over the span of a few hours will do that to a girl.

I have bruises from harsh grips and bite marks from blunt teeth all over my body.

It hurts to swallow, and I’m not sure if it’s from the rings around my throat from Ryker’s fingers choking me, or if it’s due to the intense throat fucking he gave me last night.

Or it could be from all the screaming I did.

The insides of my thighs carry marks as well.

From his fingers when he forced my legs apart, from the scruff on his cheeks when he ate me like a starved man, and from his teeth when I tried to push him away.

But the thing is, as much as I hated every minute of it, I also came harder than I ever have in my life. I detest my body for betraying me. I feel like a failure to all the women in the world. How could I enjoy something so much that I didn’t want to happen?

The first thing I did when I woke up this morning was search the internet if a baby in the womb could be hurt during rough and rigorous sex. According to several medical websites, a fetus is well protected, and there’s no need to be concerned regarding sex during pregnancy.

Ryker’s side of the bed was cold, indicating he’s been up for a while, something in which I was grateful for. I wasn’t ready to face him yet. Not sure I ever will be, but I know it’s inevitable.

After checking over my body and finding the multitude of evidence of harsh fucking, I got in the shower.

I took one last night, and I wanted to take another after that last round, in which Ryker came all over my breasts and pussy, but he “forbade it,” stating he wanted me to sleep with his cum all over me.

I was so tired that I didn’t put up much of a fight.

I get dressed quickly after toweling off because I don’t want to chance Ryker coming in while I’m naked.

I choose a pair of black shorts and a soft, blue V-neck shirt and leave my feet bare.

For my hair, I toss it up in a high ponytail, which still leaves strands tickling between my shoulder blades.

My head was too consumed with everything that happened yesterday that I haven’t gotten a chance to explore yet, so that’s how I plan to spend my day.

This estate has always intrigued me, so despite the situation, I’m excited to finally be able to look around.

Eventually, I’ll make my way down to the kitchen to find something to eat.

On my way to the door, something on Ryker’s nightstand catches my attention, and I go to it.

There’s a book sitting on top. What to Expect When You’re Expecting .

I pick it up and flip through the pages.

I frown, unable to picture Ryker reading this, but it’s apparent he has, since the spine has been broken and quite a few pages have been dog-eared.

Does he lie here at night reading this? Is he that invested in this pregnancy that he’s actively learning what he can about the stages? And why does that thought send a warmth of tingles down my spine?

Refusing to think about that last question, I set the book back down exactly how I found it and leave the room.

Along the walls in the hall, close to the ceiling, are old-fashioned iron wall sconces that look to be original to the house.

The floors seem to have been updated, though.

Or rather, they’ve been sanded down and refinished to a glossy cherry oak shine.

The walls must have been painted at some point since back in the day, wallpaper was a thing, and these aren’t.

Now they’re a light gray with black trim along the ceiling and floors.

The doors on either side of the hallway also have the black trim.

The knobs on said doors are old but have been polished to a sheen.

When I approach the door that’s one down from Ryker’s bedroom, I test the knob.

It turns, and I slowly push the wooden panel open.

I’m not surprised it’s a bedroom, but what does surprise me is that it seems to be one that’s in use.

A white robe lays across the end of a queen-sized bed.

There’s a burgundy armchair that sits beside it and a couple of bedside tables.

There’s a lamp and a picture frame on one, but from where I’m standing in the doorway, I can’t see the people in the photo.

On the dresser, there’s a hairbrush, several bottles of perfume, a small wooden jewelry box, and several other things.

The walls in this room have floral wallpaper and don’t appear to be updated like what I’ve seen so far of the rest of the house.

Since it looks like the room is in use and not wanting to invade someone’s private space, I back out and close the door. The room next door is also occupied, going by the personal effects on the dresser and the small stack of clothes on the end of the bed. However, that room has been updated.

I wonder who the antiquated room belongs to.

The room across the hall from those two is a linen closet, and the one beside it is an updated bathroom with an old clawfoot tub that’s been repainted black.

The next few rooms are bedrooms, and from the empty looks of them, they aren’t in use. I find the same in the other wing of the mansion.

It’s not until I come to the head of the stairs that I notice one of the paintings on the wall.

I gasp when recognition dawns. I turn and look at the two I just passed by.

These are my paintings that I’ve sold to galleries on the mainland.

I slowly walk back down the hall and check over each one I come to.

All of them are my paintings. There’s eight in total.

The one I’m standing in front of now is the first one I sold five years ago.

It sold only two days after being placed in the gallery who commissioned it.

There’s even the one Braxton mentioned at the Sheppard Ball: The Tree of Death.

How in the hell did Ryker end up with all of these?

Shaking my head at the confounding thought, I go back to the stairs. The staircase is wide and has a deep red runner. At the bottom, I take a left, away from the front of the estate. One of the rooms I come to is locked, and I wonder what’s behind the door. An office, perhaps?

More paintings hang on the walls. Some of them are mine, and some are from well-known artists. Gustav Klimt, Eugene Delacroix, and Raphael are just a few that I recognize. It’s strange and leaves me a little awestruck to see my paintings next to some of the world’s most famous artists.

The next room I come to, the door is cracked open about a foot. I look around the door jam, and I’m pleased to see it’s a library. Although I have the rest of the estate to explore, I can’t miss going inside to look around.

The smell of books hits me immediately when I step inside, and it brings a smile to my face.

There’s no better smell than the crisp pages of a book.

Two walls are filled from the high ceiling all the way to the floor with hardback volumes and paperbacks.

I walk over to a section and run my fingers over the spine of an original Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice .

Beside it is Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.

I walk down the line of books, a little thrill going through me at all of the original works. Most of these volumes are old, but they’ve been well taken care of. Not a speck of dust is on the shelves or the books.

Behind me is a blue velvet chaise lounge, and I can just imagine lying there curled up in front of a roaring fire with one of my books in my hands. Maybe a mug of coffee on the small table beside it, and a plate of macarons sitting on my lap.

Something catches my eye over my shoulder, and I whip around, expecting to see Ryker striding into the room. But it’s not him. It’s a woman sitting in front of a small round table facing the window.

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize someone was in here.”

I expect the woman to turn and acknowledge me. To move in some fashion. To speak. But she does none of those things. Not a sound or a twitch. It’s like she didn’t hear me. Maybe she’s deaf and hasn’t noticed me yet.

I approach her slowly, and that’s when I realize the type of chair she’s sitting in. It’s a wheelchair.

My brows knit.

She doesn’t move a muscle as I come up to her.

She’s turned away from me, so I haven’t seen her face properly.

Her hair is as black as midnight, and it hangs in soft curly waves down her back.

There are streaks of gray throughout, giving away her age.

I can’t see her bottom half because her chair is pushed up to the table, but the top she’s wearing is a peach-colored collared shirt.

I step up to one side of the table and say softly, “Hello.”

Still no response. Her stare is empty, emotionless as she looks out the window in front of her. Her face is slender with a few wrinkles here and there, but her complexion is flawless, not a blemish in sight.

“She’s catatonic. You could put a loaded gun to her forehead and she wouldn’t so much as twitch a muscle.”

I spin around, a surprised squeak leaving my mouth before I can stop it.

Ryker stands just inside the doorway, his hands shoved into the pockets of a pair of black jeans.

The shirt he’s wearing is a hunter-green V-neck and shows off the thick cords of his tanned throat.

His hair looks disheveled, like he’s recently run his fingers through it.

My heart thumps heavily in my chest because my first initial thought is he looks damn hot.

It’s simply not right, and the universe obviously has beef against me. Why does my tormentor have to look so appealing?

“What?” I ask, forgetting what he said.