Page 48 of Sinful Bride

What kind of person gets aroused by being punished? By being bent over a bed and struck with a belt? By being humiliated and called out for their body's betrayal?

I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. I'm exhausted and so tired of fighting. So tired of being angry and trying to maintain control when I have none.

But I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to be anything other than what I've always been—the perfect daughter, the obedient princess, the woman who does her duty no matter what it costs her, who was raised for a certain type of life and now is in something totally different.

And I haven't been doing my duty to my husband. I've been fighting it—fighting him. And now I'm paying the price.

11

DECLAN

Imanage to avoid her all morning. It’s made easier by the fact that even after I go down the hall and unlock her door, she doesn’t come out. I hear her moving around in the bedroom while I'm in the kitchen drinking coffee. The ceramic mug is warm against my palms, but I barely register it. My mind is elsewhere, on what I told her last night. On what I'm planning to do today.

And whether I've completely lost my fucking mind.

I hear the shower running while I'm in my office pretending to review shipment manifests. The numbers blur together as I read the same line three times, still not absorbing the information. All I can think about is the water running over her skin, whether she's sore from last night, if she's thinking about two o'clock the way I am. Whether she'll actually show up.

I feel like a man on the edge of something he can't come back from, and maybe I am. The plan seemed clear last night, a reassertion of control after she undermined me in front of my men and made me look weak. After she pushed and pushed until I had no choice but to push back harder.

But now, in the cold light of morning, I'm not so sure.

Lachlan wouldn't approve of this. I know he wouldn't. He'd tell me there are other ways to handle a defiant wife. Better ways that don't involve humiliation and power plays, crossing lines that can't be uncrossed. He'd remind me that respect earned through fear isn't real respect, that breaking someone down doesn't build them up. That there's a difference between dominance and cruelty.

But then again, I think of all the choices he made to accomplish what he needed to. They weren’t all easy choices. And his road back to the woman he loved wasn’t one that was conventionally romantic, either.

Maybe he would approve. Maybe he'd be the one to say that sometimes you have to be ruthless to survive in this world, that sometimes you have to make hard choices. He certainly made some. And then he handed this all over to me, and now I have a wife that I can’t handle and responsibilities that feel far too large for a man like me.

I don't know. I don't fucking know anymore. What I do know is that I'm angry. Furious, actually, at her for disrespecting me, and at myself for caring so much. At this entire situation that's spiraling further out of my control with every passing day. The anger sits in my chest like a hot coal, making it hard to think rationally.

And I'm sexually frustrated to the point of madness. My hand isn't enough anymore. The fantasies aren't enough. I need her. I need to touch her, taste her, to bury myself inside her until neither of us can think straight. I need to feel her body yield to mine, hear her admit that she wants this. That she wants me.

But she won't let me. She won't admit she wants it, or even stop fighting me long enough to see that this could be good between us if she'd just fucking try.

So maybe this is what it takes. Maybe this is how I break through her defenses and show her—and my men—that I'm in control. That I'm the boss and I won't tolerate disrespect.

The justifications sound hollow even in my own head, like I'm trying to convince myself of something I don't actually believe—building a case for something I know is wrong but am going to do anyway.

I check my watch. One-thirty. The meeting starts at one-forty-five. I need to be settled and composed before my men arrive. I need, for the sake of all of this, to look like a man who knows exactly what he's doing and isn't second-guessing every decision.

I head for my office. My heart is pounding harder than it should be, and my palms are slightly damp. I feel like I'm walking toward something inevitable that will change everything between us.

The office is cool and quiet when I walk in, my mahogany desk taking up most of the space along the back wall, with room for seating several of the men. I had the staff that Elena insisted on hiring bring in the seating last night. It’s also completely solid on the side facing away from me, which is important for what will happen today. No one sitting at the desk can see underneath it. No one will see what's happening under there.

My stomach twists. The reality of what I'm planning hits me again. I'm going to have my wife on her knees under my desk while I conduct a business meeting. I'm going to make her get me off while my men sit ten feet away, knowing exactly what's happening but unable to see it.

It's a power play. Another punishment. A way to reassert my dominance after she undermined me.

It's also fucked up, and I know it.

I pour myself a whiskey and down it in one swallow. The burn helps ground me, so I can remind myself that I'm doing this for a reason. I'm not just some sadistic bastard getting off on humiliating his wife. There's a purpose here.

I’m establishing control over my marriage. Respect. Authority. The words feel like a mantra, like if I repeat them enough times, they'll become true. Like they'll justify what I'm about to do.

But underneath the justifications, there's something darker that I don't want to examine too closely. The truth is, part of me wants this. I’ve fantasized too many times about seeing her on her knees. I want to feel her mouth on me while my men know what she’s doing. I want to prove to myself—and to her—that I can make her submit. That I can break through that icy composure and make her feel something.

Even if what she feels is humiliation.

My men start arriving at one-forty-five. Finn is punctual as always, along with Cormac, who nods at me and takes his usual seat near the desk. Then the others file in one by one. Liam, Aidan, Seamus, the others, all taking their seats in the room. Dante Moretti comes in toward the back of the group, giving the other men who have been with me longer deference. I like that.