Page 27 of The Duke’s Unwilling Bride

Shining it in her direction, I smirk as she fumbles about, turning from the spot I put her in to look at me. “Are you bringing me down here to kill me? People will look for me. They’ll want to know where I’ve gone!”

I slide my fingers across the swell of her cheek before tapping the apple with my tips. It’s not hard enough to cause discomfort, but it’s enough for her to stop talking and jerk away.

“I’m not here to kill you, silly girl. What fanciful notions you have in your head. Too many gothic novels, I suppose.” Even in the dim lighting, I watch as red splotches her cheeks.

“Then why are we here?”

“Patience. You will see soon enough.” Reaching back behind us, I shut the door and lock it, sliding the key into my pocket.

Her sharp eyes miss nothing, and even now, I can see the wheels turning. No doubt if I give her half a chance, she will chase after that key and free herself. Good thing she’ll never have the chance. Gripping her bound arm, I drag her down the hallway, the gas lamp only giving us so much light while shrouding much in darkness.

Her scent of fear is sour, dank almost as I pull her along. “I’ll scream,” she threatens.

Tipping my head back, I laugh, the harsh sound bouncing off of the walls. I glance down at her before cupping my free hand around my mouth. “Help!” I cry out. Scandal! Someone come see the defilement I’m about to beset on this poor, innocent omega!”

Her eyes widen, sparking in the dancing flames. For the first time since I’ve known her, true terror flickers in the depths. “You’re a madman,” she whispers, almost reverently.

“No,” I correct her. “I’m a sadist. And there’s a vast difference.”

Granted, most of the time, my sadism comes in the form of either forced orgasms or denied orgasms, but something about Lady Teresa calls forth the darker parts of me, the parts that don’t get to roam free. Once more, I grip her arm and haul her forward, not paying any attention when she digs in her heels.

She can fight me all she wants, but I will always win.

CHAPTER 13

Teresa

My breaths come in gasps as Foxford forces me down this never-ending hallway. It’s so cold, far colder than the rest of the house. Could this mean that it’s connected to an outside wall? I long to free my hands so I can brush my fingertips across the wood, to give my mind something else to ponder besides my impending doom.

I know he says I’m being dramatic, that I’m pulling on knowledge from gothic novels, but what else do I have to compare it to? Where else would I know how raving lunatics act? It’s not as if Bedlam was a frequent stop of mine on the rare occasions I went out.

Again, my mind turns, unable to settle. How is it he can shout like that, and no one comes running? Has he somehow insulated the walls so that even the loudest sounds are muffled? It’s quite bizarre he would have something like this unless he really is a murderer masquerading as a gentleman.

That thought gives me pause as my imagination takes over. I so wish I hadn’t read that most recent novel, because now, I can't see anything else but death and destruction all around me.

Fear takes over, flowing through my veins until I’m unable to see, unable to breathe. I wheeze as I tug against the implacable strength of his hand, trying desperately to flee from this nefarious plot. But he doesn’t even budge an inch. It’s as if I’m not even moving.

Jerking against him again, I have no choice but to marvel at the maddening strength flowing through his fingers. Somehow, it’s enough to keep me from running, yet gentle enough not to harm me. Perhaps he’s just saving the torture for when we get to our destination.

If only I could see just a bit further, but I’m impeded by the circle of flame, the small illumination given off by the gas lamp he holds aloft. Narrowing my eyes, I note just how small the little flare is, and that’s when I realize he’s keeping it dim on purpose. All of this is done through design to make me frightened.

Straightening my shoulders, I walk with him, side by side, refusing to allow his scare tactics to continue to take hold. Whatever he has planned for me, it must be all in the name of frightening me. To what end, however, I cannot even fathom. From what I’ve seen of him, he doesn’t seem the sort to be a secret murderer. But then… do I even really know him? Either way, all he’s doing is solidifying in my mind that I want nothing to do with him or this farce of a marriage.

If his end goal is to get me to flee and never come back, he’s doing an excellent job. After tonight, I shall never darken his doorstep again. That is if I can escape what’s coming to me.

Far too soon, or not soon enough, depending on how my insides feel, we get to another door. It swings into this mystery room, and in the dim, flickering light, I can make out shapes, but none of them makes sense. It appears to be furniture, but nothing I can pinpoint as familiar.

He leads us inside and again locks the door behind us. I don’t move. I barely even breathe, as he drifts from my side to light a myriad of lamps around the space, each one revealing a section of this horror show to my shocked eyes. The shapes I saw earlier, the ones resembling furniture, are only called so since that is the closest description I have.

As Aristotle put it, they have the essence of furniture, in that they are made of wood and appear as if they can hold a person or an object, but that’s where the similarities end. In front of me is a long piece that looks similar to a bench, but without a back. Just the seat.

Over in another corner, two beams cross over, making an x. But it’s also covered in a supple material that looks to be leather. It leans against the wall and has similar rings to the ones on Foxford’s bed, but these are much prettier, glinting in the light. Whereas the others were duller, nearly disappearing into the wood. But perhaps that was the purpose, so that common folk wouldn’t notice them right away. But why would he care about something like that in his private chambers?

Soon, Foxford is near me, his fingers tugging at the cravat, holding my arms pinned behind my back. Relief floods my system as blood rushes into the joints, setting them to throbbing. But before I can even say anything, the duke is there, rubbing one of my shoulders, relieving me of the ache.

Unable to help myself, I groan and sway into his touch, not caring that he’s the enemy. Right now, his hands feel far too good for me to resist. His fingers trail down my arm, rubbing and tugging, moving the joint into a rotation. Once he’s satisfied, he moves on to the other.

Such curious behavior from one bent on torturing me. I file it away in my brain for when I can think more clearly. With a stiff nod, he backs away and motions toward the room.