In the kitchen, I flip a switch that illuminates a line of pendant-style Edison bulbs suspended from the ceiling above the large, granite island. The plate of polvorones sits in the center, covered in plastic wrap, and I slip one out, turning it over in my hand as I recall his apology from earlier.
Apology, if that’s what you can really call it. I doubt he actually meant it and probably just didn’t like getting called out by Papá for being completely in the wrong. Malachi is a cold-hearted monster now, and he has no capacity to apologize for anything.
And I’m still going to figure out how to get the hell out of this marriage.
That is… if Papá will allow me to.
Suppressing a sigh, I dip my fingertip into the guava paste at the center of the cookie and taste it. Normally, the paste is baked along with the cookie, but I’ve always liked to add it afterward because that way it stays soft and moist, rather than chewy and sticky between my teeth.
Just as I’m lifting the cookie to the level of my mouth, my eyes catch a dark glimmer of red from the opposite side of the kitchen. The low glow of the Edison bulbs makes it difficult to decipher the figure that slowly emerges from the shadows for a second or two, but then it registers.
Malachi.
What is he doing down here at this hour?
Our eyes lock as he continues to approach me, and then my gaze flicks from his on reflex as I notice what looks like a rope of jewels draped around his neck. He’s also carrying a crystal tumbler of amber liquor and a gun.
My hand stills with the cookie right in front of my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
The silver moonlight and dim, gold hue from the bulbs cast his hard, aristocratic features in sharply carved angles, and his pewter eyes glint back at me like those of a wolf stalking its prey. He rounds the corner of the large island and stops only a few inches from me, and then he sets the scotch on the counter.
The steel hue of his irises is glazed with intoxication, and his eyes bore holes into mine. “I wanted a cookie.”
I slide the plate toward him and take a step back. “Knock yourself out.”
He steps forward and wedges the barrel of the gun under my rib cage. The coldness of metal seeps through the thin satin of my robe, and a chill shoots down my spine. “Feed it to me, Duchess.”
“Oh.” I lift my brows, feigning snark and incredulousness in an effort to mask my bone-rattling fear. “Are you planning to shoot me, Malachi?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” His words are a barely audible growl, and though there’s a glaze on his eyes and the pungent scent of alcohol on his breath, he doesn’t slur. He reaches forward with his free hand to press his palm against the base of my spine and pushes the pistol harder into my ribs. “I hope you don’t force me to choose before I’m ready. I don’t think you’ll like the outcome.”
“I hate to break it to you,” I say in a steady, assertive voice despite total fear infusing my veins, “but if you murder me, it’s not going to go over well with your parents, my parents, or the public. Or the law, for that matter.”
“Unlike you, I’m royal by birth, Duchess.” He arches one dark eyebrow. “I would face no repercussions.” He cocks his head at an angle. “Henry VIII had two wives executed for adultery.”
“I didn’t commit adultery, and this isn’t the sixteenth century, genius,” I clip, leaning away from the pistol but into his palm, “and you’re not the fucking King of England. This is Corwick. Phillip is the heir, and you’re just the spare. You can’t get away with shit.”
“You haven’t committed adultery during this marriage,” Malachi counters, as though insinuating I cheated on him before. His silver, wolf-like eyes don’t stray from mine as a low, sardonic chuckle rumbles deep in his chest as he lifts the pistol away from my ribs, but keeps his hand on my back. “But I suppose the rest is true. Nevertheless, it would still do little to deter me.” He reaches with the pistol toward the plate of cookies and dips the barrel into the guava paste, pulling it back with a tiny red-orange glob stuck to the tip, and then he points it right at my mouth. “Have some, Duchess. I know these are your favorite.”
I cut my eyes downward, and I am literally staring down the barrel of a gun, and Malachi is fucking crazy, so the best thing I can do is comply.
I carefully draw the tip of my tongue over the guava, staring at his eyes while he stares at my mouth. His tongue mimics the motion of mine, sweeping across his upper lip while his fingers clutch at the satin on my back.
“You always did have a beautiful mouth.”
His words sound like a compliment, but I know it’s a threat. I also know he can probably sense the kindling of heat that’s rolling low in my belly despite my fear of him right now. I have let that secret slip on a number of occasions since he reappeared; that, despite hating him, I still want him; that he’s still a drug that I’ve been hooked on ever since my carnal desire for him came to life in me as a teen. He already used that knowledge to humiliate and toy with me on the night of the party last week. And I already know he’s going to use it again tonight.
Malachi drags the tip of the barrel down over my bottom lip, smearing the guava, and then lowers the pistol and inclines his face over mine. His breath is hot, yet light against my mouth, and fear wars with lust as my core clenches with wanton longing.
He draws his tongue in an upward sweep over my bottom lip and then murmurs, “Still a delicious combination.” He parts his mouth over my lip to suck hard before releasing it. “I always loved the taste of these cookies on your mouth.”
My breath catches, and I can barely back my words with my voice. “What are you doing, Malachi?”
“I decided I will consummate this marriage after all, Duchess.” My heart palpitates, and he raises the pistol again. “And I will do so right here in this kitchen. And I don’t need your fucking consent. Do you know why?”
I swallow hard, and he pulls me harder against him, but the hardest thing of all in this situation is his cock that is now pressing against my lower abdomen, separated by only a few layers of clothing. “Because you turned into an evil, godless man.”
“Wrong.” He dips the tip of the pistol into the guava again and then lowers it to reach between my thighs. Frigid steel skates across my skin and then draws up toward my pussy, which is now wet and aching in potent betrayal to me. “Because I am so well acquainted with your body that I can sense your arousal from miles away. The scent of how much you want me is so thick in this kitchen that there’s barely room left for oxygen. I know that you’re wet, and aching, and you need me to relieve you.”
Malachi drags the pistol all the way up to slide between the lips of my pussy, and the stark contrast of cold, rigid steel against my hot skin causes my breath to hitch and my eyes to snap shut. He draws it forward and back in long, smooth strokes, and my knees are on the cusp of buckling beneath me, because he’s not wrong.
“Don’t you, Duchess?” He pulls my chest flush against his as he continues to stroke. “I don’t need you to say a word because your body is practically screaming for it. Isn’t it?”
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of either denying or confirming his accusation.