Bound To You: Chapter 11

****Before reading, please note that this is a continuation of BOUND TO YOU, which is currently available in the Love Is In The Air Anthology. While you don’t need to have read any of the Broken Crown books to enjoy this story, you do need to have read BOUND TO YOU or you will be lost and confused, and that would be wicked sad.

You can find the Love Is In The Air anthology at the following links:

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Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/id1548213903

Nook: http://bit.ly/38KbvGp

Kobo: http://bit.ly/3nOXR96

And if you’re all up to date, then let’s get to the fun! Enjoy!!!

Chapter Eleven

Blanche

The train car is ominously quiet.

            The window is cool against my cheek, the cashmere blanket warm across my legs.  Beneath my shoes, the floor rumbles with a rhythmic vibration that would whisk me off into a dreamless sleep if I weren’t completely haunted by thoughts of him.

            Two hours, John said.

            Pack my things, say my goodbyes, and be prepared to leave for Scotland.

            I managed it all in under thirty minutes because if I can’t be honest with myself than I have no business expecting such honesty from my new husband. And the truth is, I may have been dragged to the altar and forced to exchange vows with a man I barely know, but eagerness still dogged my every step as I entered the private train behind John’s broad frame.

            Gilded sconces from a bygone era lined the hallway. Though unlit, the burnished gold gleamed under the sunlight pouring in from the stretch of windows overlooking the passing English landscape. Bach played faintly overhead, the rise and fall of the fervent melody intermingling with the grate of wheels turning over steel tracks. And the car itself? Pure, exquisite elegance. Soft rugs layered upon parquet floors, jewel-toned draperies hung over the windows, and a sideboard laden with wine and the finest Scots whisky.

            A train fit for royalty—literally.

            Only, I didn’t expect to travel alone.

            Unable to sit for another second, I surge to my feet. The soft blanket falls to the floor and, after tossing it onto the velvet-lined bench, I head for the sideboard. The glasses clink and clack as I snatch up two tumblers, along with a bottle of whisky that goes under my arm like a bouquet of wilted flowers. I don’t bother to look at the label. Whatever it is, it’ll do.

            Ten steps take me across the room.

            A quick rap of my knuckles on the shared door alerts the man on the other side that I’m here, and I won’t be ignored. There’s a slight pause, as if he’s actually debating the merit of answering, before his velvet baritone rings loud and clear: “Come in, wife.”

            Wife.

            Ironic that he’d call me that, since he’s barely spared me a second glance since we left Buckingham Palace three hours ago.

            I shuffle the tumblers into my left hand, then nudge the door open with my right.

            Late afternoon sun filters in through the broad-framed windows, painting the space in swaths of gold and shimmering light. Whereas my room felt cold and barren, despite the blanket tugged over my lap, this one does not. Undeniable warmth immediately dampens the hairs on the back of my neck, and I know without a doubt that it’s the man seated behind a grand, walnut desk who’s responsible for my shortness of breath.

            Like the king he’ll one day be, John sits with his arms planted on the stained wood.

            With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he clasps a stack of papers loosely in his big hands. His dark hair falls lazily over his temple, as if he’s recently shoved his fingers through the thick strands. The casual look ought to make him seem boyish, approachable, even. Only, there’s nothing even remotely youthful about the Prince of Wales.

            The hard line of his jaw is too masculine, too unforgiving, especially when it clenches firmly when I shut the door with my elbow. Instead of sauntering over to him, I watch with muted curiosity as his stare pins me in place, as though he has the means to make me obey his every command with nothing but the intensity of his gaze.

            Kneel, those glittering eyes demand.

            Beg for me, wife.

            It’s with a sharp, indrawn breath that I note the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

            Funny how a pair of spectacles can serve as a reminder that while I’ve had John’s mouth on the heart of me, I don’t know this man worth a damn. Who he’s been in the past, who he hopes to be once he takes his father’s place on the throne, is all entirely lost to me.

            I’ve married a stranger.

            And nothing about that sits right in my gut.

            With a casual elegance that speaks to a lifetime of being groomed to become the future monarch, John sets the papers down and moves a marble weight atop them, so they won’t budge with the gentle sway of the train. Then he reclines in his chair, chin lifted in silent appraisal, a bemused smile curving the fullness of his bottom lip.

            I don’t trust that smile.

            Mainly because it doesn’t come anywhere close to reaching his inscrutable gaze, which shifts deliberately to the whisky tucked under my arm before sweeping back up to my face. A streak of shadow flits across his expression. “Couldn’t sleep?”

            “Not interested.”

            “In getting some rest?” He lifts a brow. “We’ll be a few more hours—”

            “I’m not interested in anything but discussing why you pushed us down the aisle when you could have just as easily told both of our fathers to sod off.”

            Those long, masculine fingers turn white-knuckled where he grips the chair armrests. The raw break in his cool arrogance lasts for a second, not even. “We were caught, Blanche.” He smooths a hand down over his loosened tie. “Or have you already forgotten the feel of my tongue on your clit?”

            A furious blush warms my cheeks, but I press onward, cutting the distance from the door to the desk with a few easy strides that belies my racing pulse. The tumblers go to the walnut surface, the whisky bottle opened with a grunt from behind clenched teeth. Finally, the amber liquid splashes into each glass, one of which I push toward my husband. “We don’t know each other very well, Your Highness. I’d like to change that.”

            A growl reverberates in his chest. “I told you to call me John.”

            Picking up the glass, I offer a sardonic toast to our nuptials before tossing back the whisky. It goes down hot, like fire doused in a thousand shards of glass, but it’s not the first time that I’ve partaken in hard liquor and I doubt it’ll be the last. I don’t shudder nor do I cough. Instead, I make a point of crossing my right leg over my left after I take a seat, the fabric of my trousers pulling taut across my lean thighs.

            The sensual movement draws his attention, as I knew it would.

            If John thinks that he’s won himself a traditional, aristocratic bride who will cater to his every whim and desire now that we’ve wed, he’s sorely mistaken. I will not bend, not for him or any other man. Mum did that for years before she scraped together the courage to escape the earl. I won’t suffer the same fate, not now, not ever.

            “Like I said,” I murmur, pouring myself another shot of whisky, “you could have said no. In fact, you could have made a whole scene about how I propositioned you like some hussy. It wouldn’t even be off base, really, when I did just that. And then—”

            “And then what?” His blue eyes blaze with a fire that feels altogether more dangerous, more potent, than the whisky burning in my gut. “Should I have told your father how eagerly I fell to my knees before his daughter? Should I have mentioned that my cock was so hard, it was fucking leaking as I worshipped you with my tongue, my teeth? Or maybe I should have admitted that I have no regrets from that night, save one: I would have done anything, Blanche, to finish in your sweet cunt and watch my come coat your thighs when I pulled free.”

            My eyes go wide. “John. You can’t just—”

            “You are mistaken, wife,” comes his dark drawl, “if you think either of us could have walked away.”

            Air saws in and out of my mouth, fast, then even faster, with every word that falls from his silver tongue. “You know how I feel about marriage,” I whisper hotly. “You know how I feel about losing myself. Your damned ring wasn’t even on my finger yet and you were already deciding my fate!”

            “Life is nothing but a series of events outside of our control.”

            “Of course, you would say that. You’re a man, a ruler in the home and outside of it.” Nostrils flaring, I’m surprised the tumbler doesn’t shatter in my grip when I drop my gaze to his bare left hand. A churlish snort breaks free from me. “Even in marriage, you can’t be tamed. I wear your ring like a collar around my neck, so that all know who I belong to—and you can’t even say the same.”

            “Don’t tempt me or I’ll give you a hundred more ways to show the world just who owns you.”

            “And here I thought you were all about not breaking my spirit, Your Highness.” Slamming the glass down on the desk, not caring when the whisky sloshes over the rim, I stand, only for the firm grip of his voice to snake out like a whip meeting fragile flesh:

            “Sit down.”

            Mutinously, my teeth grind. “You should have married the woman who holds your heart and left me out of this mess.”

            “I said,” he clips out, “sit down.”

            I do not obey.

            “You don’t scare me, John.” Leaning forward, I notch my chin upward. “You’re too late. I’ve already felt the sting of a man’s hand across my flesh. I’ve already stood, shaking in my bloody boots, as I realized when I was all too young that the one person responsible for my safety, my welfare, would make me his pawn instead. So, no, I will not sit down.”

            Something dark and ugly flashes in his gaze, and the intensity of it is enough to drive a shiver down the length of my spine, all the way down to my toes. “Then stand, dear wife, and let me plead my case.”

            I should go back to my own room.

            I should take this damn ring off my finger and hurl it from the train.

            Instead, I weaponize silence and allow him to dig his own grave.

            As if realizing that I’m giving him a chance to speak, John watches me for a moment, that darkness still lurking like a shroud over his undeniable beauty. “You’re worried about your gilded cage,” he finally says.

            “So what if I am? It’s not like I’ve made it a secret.”

            Palms to the desk, he slowly unfurls his towering frame from the chair to stand. “The thing about gilded cages,” he murmurs, taking his untouched whisky and pouring it into my tumbler, “is how they make us feel like we’re operating alone in the world. That our plight is somehow worse—somehow more destructive—than our fellow neighbor’s.”

            “Don’t you dare make this into some . . . some philosophical debate.”

            “Am I not also locked in a cage?” he asks, his voice low, as he rounds the corner of the desk like some sleek predator on the hunt. Those glasses ought to make him look like a scholarly gentleman, all buttoned up and seasoned with a professionalism that reeks of musty textbooks and monotone lectures. Instead, that single pane of glass seems to provide a window to the man behind the crown, to the very soul of him.

            And that soul is raw, possessive. Vibrantly alive.

            He stops in front of me, a hairsbreadth away, so that I can’t help but feel the heavy rise and fall of his sternum scraping my breasts. It’s a heady sensation, made even headier when he shifts his weight backward to lean against the desk. The new separation feels like he’s taken a serrated knife to my lungs.

            Kneel.

            Beg for me, wife.

            “I’ve spent my entire life locked away behind invisible prison bars, Blanche,” he rumbles, reaching out to touch his fingers to my chin. “I’m the man who watches the outside world with the sharp blade of jealousy protruding from my chest. I’m the man who travels from country to country, shaking the hands of many while feeling what’s left of me shrivel and die until I’m nothing more than a prince, nothing more than the crown that fits on my head. And I’m the man who got on his knees before you and will do so for the rest of our lives, regardless of whether I wear a wedding band.”

            I blink up at him, the rush of my pulse loud in my ears. “So, you want to trap me with you?”

            The blue of his irises darkens to liquid fire. “No, little wolf. I want you to step inside my cage and set me free.”

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Eeeep, can you hear me screaming over the combustible chemistry??

I can’t wait to share Chapter Twelve in next week’s newsletter - prepare yourself for you will need a fan beside you - but until then, leave your feelings below! I am here for you!