Page 20 of Wicked Sinner

She holds her ground, breathing hard, and I can see her pulse racing at the base of her throat.

The space between us is charged with tension—not just anger, but something else.

Something that makes the air feel thick and electric.

She hates me—anyone with eyes and ears could see and hear that, but it’s as if whatever there is between us transmutes that hatred into that indefinable thing that there is between us, an alchemy of desire.

"I was young and stupid," I admit. "I thought I could escape my responsibilities, build a different life. But I learned something important during those years away."

"What's that?" she asks, though she sounds like she doesn't really want to know.

"That you can't run from who you are forever," I say, taking another step closer. "Eventually, you have to accept your place in the world. Embrace it."

It’s not exactly true. At first, it was guilt. Then it was spite. And all of those emotions are layered with so much more, reasons and feelings and things that happened that I’m not going to begin to get into with Bridget right now. Especially when I know she’s not really hearing me.

“My place?” She snorts. “What is my place, Caesar? Locked in here like a broodmare in a stall?”

The crude comparison makes me wince, but I press on. "I think your place is beside me. As my wife, my partner, the mother of my children. I think you could be happy here if you'd let yourself. I could make you happy, Bridget—"

"Happy?" She stares at me like I've lost my mind. "Caesar, you're delusional if you think any of this could make me happy."

"Couldn’t you be?" I ask, and I take a step closer to her, and then another. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, close enough to catch her scent—the honey lavender soap from her shower and the warmer scent that’s hers, the scent that I remember from when it was all over my skin, too.

"You were happy that night in your garage.

I felt it, Bridget. The way you responded to me, the way you came apart in my arms. That was real. "

Her cheeks flush pink, and I know I've hit a nerve. "That was sex," she says, but her voice lacks conviction. "Physical chemistry. It doesn't mean anything. Just because I liked the way you fucked me doesn’t mean that there’s anything else between us—"

I close the distance, moving up nearly against her, daring her to retreat. She doesn’t. She’s as stubborn and rebellious as I am, a challenge that I want to win, and I reach up, cupping my palm against the smooth, delicate skin of her cheek. “Doesn’t it?”

I feel her flinch at my touch, ever so slightly, but she refuses to pull away, only looks at me murderously with those gorgeous hazel eyes.

"Then why is your heart racing right now? I can see your pulse in your throat, Bridget. Your pupils are dilated. Your nipples—” I reach up, brushing a finger against the underside of her breast below the denim of her overalls.

“I imagine they’re hard as diamonds right now. ”

And so am I. My cock throbs from the simple contact, from being so close to her, from her scent filling my senses.

I want to throw her back on the bed and fuck her until she comes screaming around my cock, want to feel her tongue running over my piercings again, feel her exploring me like she did that night—but that won’t help anything.

And right now, she’s more likely to bite my cock off than suck it.

She sucks in a sharp breath, and I feel the victory like a shot of adrenaline. Whatever she says, whatever she claims to feel, her body tells a different story.

“That’s not desire,” she hisses. “That’s fear.”

“Maybe.” I brush my thumb against her cheekbone and feel the shiver that runs through her. “If it is, it’s because you’re afraid of this. Of what's between us. Of how much you want me, even though you hate yourself for it."

She stiffens, and for the briefest moment, I wonder if she’s going to admit that I might be right. Her body sways toward mine infinitesimally, and I feel a puff of her warm breath as she shivers again.

And then she jerks away, slapping my hand from her face.

"Don't touch me," she snarls. "And don't pretend this is about anything other than your ego and your need to control everything around you."

I feel those words cut deeply. I’ve never thought of myself as an egotistical man.

And I don’t believe that’s what this is about.

Not for a moment do I believe that this has anything to do with my ego—or even with control, really, except to make sure that Bridget doesn’t run away.

"Everything I'm doing is to protect you and our child.

To make sure that you and our child have a good life—"

"Bullshit," she snaps. "Everything you're doing is to get what you want. You don't give a damn about what I want or what's best for me."

"What you want is irrelevant if it puts you in danger," I say, my patience finally fraying.

"You have no idea what kind of world you've stumbled into, Bridget.

The kind of people who would use you to get to me.

The kind of violence—" I shake my head. “And beyond that, you are carrying my heir, Bridget! That matters, in my world. I can’t just let you walk away—”

“Men like you can do whatever you want.” She takes a step back, crossing her arms under her breasts. “You’re just choosing not to.”

“I’m choosing to wait until you see sense, until you see that how I feel about you and our child—”

"It doesn't matter what you feel," she says flatly. "Because I'll never be your wife. I'll never say those vows, Caesar. Not willingly."

I let out a heavy breath. Once again, this conversation has gone nowhere. “I had clothes sent up for you, Bridget. Please make use of them. You can’t just keep wearing the same thing you came here in—”

“The same thing you kidnapped me in—”

“Not everything has to be a fight!” I stare at her, wondering what it will take to get her to give even a little. “Please, Bridget. Just—change your clothes. Make yourself comfortable. Eat. I’ll get you anything that I can that you want or need.”

Her face remains impassive, and I sigh, turning back toward the door. “I’ll bring you up dinner later tonight.”

"You can keep me locked up here for the rest of my life, and I'll still never marry you,” she calls after me as I unlock the door. “You can't force someone to love you."

I pause with my hand on the doorknob. "Love?" I turn back to face her. "Who said anything about love?"

The question clearly catches her off guard, and I see something flicker across her face—hurt, maybe, or disappointment.

“Don’t you expect me to love you?”

I shake my head. “I don’t expect love, Bridget. I know there’s desire between us. Chemistry. That was enough for me to make my first offer to you—what we shared that night we met. I wanted more of that, and I thought you would, too. When I found out you were pregnant, that changed everything.”

"Marriage should be about love," she says quietly.

“Not in this world, bellissima.” I pause, looking at her for a moment.

“The women that Konstantin has pushed in front of me as prospective brides? I wouldn’t love any of them.

Some I would tolerate, for what they can offer me.

Others I could respect. Form a partnership with, even.

That is the pinnacle of marriage in this world, Bridget.

Respect, partnership, companionship. The possibility of a meeting of minds and maybe, even, desire until it burns out.

But love and enduring passion are not realistic, and they are not what I’m looking for. ”

“You’re looking for a slave.” She spits out the word, and I shake my head.

“I thought I needed to look for a wife. But I’ve already found one.” I incline my head toward her before opening the door. “I’ll see you later, Bridget.”

I hear her hurl something heavy at the door as I close it behind me, and I pinch the bridge of my nose, wondering how long this will go on.

She’ll tire herself out, surely. Go through the stages of grieving her old life and come to acceptance.

In time, when she sees that I’m telling the truth—that I truly want to care for and give her and our child everything they could want or need—she’ll accept that this new life is best for them both.

And, if she proves I can trust her, I’ll do exactly as I promised. I’ll give her back her freedom, her phone, her access to her friends. Her garage. Everything she wants from her old life—with security to make sure that she’s safe, of course.

I lock the door behind me, knowing that she’s at least partially right—I have taken something from her. But I can give her so much to replace it. All I can do is try to make her see that what I'm offering in return is worth the sacrifice.

I bring her dinner that evening—filet and potatoes au gratin with roasted vegetables from a nearby restaurant, and she’s still in the same clothes. When I come back in the morning with her breakfast, the food is untouched.

Two more days pass in a similar pattern. I bring her meals, which she either refuses to eat or throws at the door. I try to engage her in conversation, and she either ignores me or argues with me. I attempt to reason with her, and she responds with defiance.

By the fourth day, I show up with her breakfast and I see her sitting on the bed, wearing a pair of bike shorts and a long blue tank top over them.

Her hair is up in a ponytail, and she looks slightly sweaty, as if she was doing some kind of a workout.

But all I can think at first is that she’s finally cracked the smallest bit.

She’s wearing something I bought for her.