Page 35 of Gilded Shackles
Something like a dangerous smile ghosts his mouth. "Maybe next time."
I take a step back. Clean. Controlled. "I'm going to my room."
He doesn't stop me.
Doesn't say a word.
I walk away with my spine straight, even though my legs are wrecked and every inch of me is still trembling for him. I don't look back. By the time I reach my room, I'm buzzing with rage, desire, humiliation, and confusion, all fighting for first place.
I slam the door shut behind me. "Well," I say to the empty air. "That was productive."
Except it's not empty.
Sir Isaac Mewton trots out from under the bed, stretching like he's returning from a private spa retreat.
"Don't look at me like that," I tell him as he hops onto my lap. "He started it."
The cat blinks. Zero sympathy.
I run a hand over his ridiculous, silky fur, grounding myself until my pulse finally slows.
"It was nothing, Isaac," I lie out loud. "Leftover chemistry. A one-time slip."
But even as I sit there pretending I believe it, I already know it's a lie.
9
ELLE
I'm pretty sure I'm being shrink-wrapped to be shipped off post auction.
Mother is yanking the tight white gown up my hips like she's packaging a corpse and blood flow isn't a thing anymore. It takes everything in me not to elbow her in the throat. Whoever designed wedding dresses hates women. This thing weighs more than my entire trauma.
"Hold still," she snaps. Like I'm a disobedient poodle.
"Maybe if this dress didn't feel like a straightjacket, I would."
I know she won’t hit me. She’s afraid of my soon-to-be husband.
And that makes me smile. I feel like I have just a little power.
Two stylists are circling me like I'm a limited-edition collectible they're afraid to breathe on. Someone is literally steaming my ass. I'm not kidding. There is a steamer. Near my ass. Kill me now.
The younger stylist tilts her head, studying my face in the mirror. "Such unusual coloring," she says lightly. "That golden hair with those green eyes... you must get that from your father's side?"
The room goes cold. Mother's hand freezes on my sleeve for half a second. Just long enough for me to feel it.
"She gets it from no one," Gayle says, voice like a door slamming shut. "Focus on the veil."
The stylist flinches and goes back to work. I file the reaction away, just another of Mother's many allergic reactions to the topic of my father. Some things never change.
My scalp hurts from how tight they yanked my hair. The veil is somewhere behind me being puffed like a parachute.
"You should be grateful," Gayle mutters. "This is a good thing."
"Uh-huh," I give her a skeptical look, but of course she's too focused on making me look like an acceptable transaction.
"Tighten the corset," my mother says, circling me like a hawk. "The waist needs to be smaller."
