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She twists her face in horror, and stares at me in disbelief. “That can’t be true.”
My frown deepens. “Haven’t you ever had hate sex?”
Is that even possible?
She mumbles a soft, “No.”
Really? I picture us having hate sex, and then the fact that she’s never done that with another man. A small smile arches across my face before I can stop it. That’s a new experience I could give her.
Even though I won’t. The pact. None of us will touch her, so we can be rid of this marriage and not be tied to the witches.
And I hate her and all that.
Plus, she’s probably lying. I bet she’s had hate sex with more men than she can count. Just the thought fills me with rage, and I fucking hope she’s telling the truth about being a virgin, or I might have to hunt down all her ex-partners.
She looks away from me and heads to the bed, peeling the covers back and crawling in. I take another sip of my drink, my hand clutching the glass tightly. You can do this. You can handle this. She’s not a woman, she’s a witch.
Going to the bathroom, I put my drink down and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I can do this. But my reflection doesn’t look so sure. Using the sink, I splash cold water on my face over and over again until I start to feel more in control of my body and my emotions. Then I strip down to my boxers and finish the rest of my drink.
Ready to face my night, I leave the bathroom and stride toward the bed, approaching it like a foe that needs to be conquered, and climb in, lying next to her. I take in a deep breath and am instantly assaulted by her intoxicating smell. Fucking lilies.
There’s a twitch in my pants. What the fuck? I’m not trying to be turned on by this witch.
I’m supposed to just lay here and sleep next to her, keeping to the agreement of us taking turns and sharing her bed. I’m not supposed to lay here, hard as a rock, and wide awake, thinking about the many things I could do to her.
This is going to be a long ass night.
SIX
Tara
Consciousness stirs at the edges of a sad dream. Of death. Of loss. Of a deep longing that I can’t escape. But the elements of the dream fade away until I’m aware I’m lying in bed, but it doesn’t feel like morning.
I feel like I’m being watched. Weird. I slowly open my eyes, and Prince Drogo is sitting up in bed, leaning on his elbow, staring at me. I let my eyes shift to the right and to the left, wondering if something’s amiss. I close my eyes again, thinking this is my dream, but when I open them again, he’s still staring at me, concern etched across his face.
My heart skips a beat. Is something wrong?
“What is it?” I ask groggily, focused on the softness of his face. I don’t think his face has ever been soft before.
He hesitates, then speaks quietly, “You were crying in your sleep.”
Ugh. My stupid dream. I shake my head and sigh. It’s a dream I’ve had more times than I can count. I was a small child, running after my mom, arms wide, desperately wanting a hug. But my mom was always in the distance, no matter how fast my tiny legs would run. Always so far away, even though I felt a desperate need to be with her.
And then, like always, a vision of my father appeared, not all of him, just the best parts, like his warm, welcoming arms and his comforting face. Instead of continuing to run after my mom, I turn to him. His smile makes my heart glow, and his touch is soft and gentle.
My father’s coughing disturbs the moment, and my heart twists. But his arms never leave me. Closing my eyes, I sigh, feeling at home. With him. He coughs again, a longer coughing fit that shakes his body and mine. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to focus on his presence, trying to ignore the signs of his illness. But when I open my eyes, there’s blood on his lips, and he’s wheezing.
Tears form in my eyes, but I smile because I’m with my dad, and he needs me to smile. He’s dying. Weeks, days, or months of pain and anguish ahead of him, and he needs to forget that. I need to help him forget. Even though I can feel the tears inside me, being stuffed down until it’s painful, I keep my smile wide.
I’d never smiled more than those months before I lost my father.
Touching my cheek, I’m surprised to find it wet. How is it that I never cried when my dad died, but I always cry in my dreams? I hate it. I’m supposed to be stronger than this.
“Tara?” He says my name, strangely gently, and I drop my hand from my cheek.
Why is he speaking to me like this? Where’s the cruelty? Where’s the anger?
“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice sounds strange.
