Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Oh dear.
When I regain consciousness, I find myself cradled against my husband's chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. He's still fully dressed, still his usual devastating self...while I'm a mess of tangled hair, exposed breasts, and crumpled silk.
Quelle horreur.
I wish I didn't remember a thing. But instead, I remember everything. And when I scramble up while trying to cover my nakedness—
My husband gently pulls my wrists down.
Ugh.
He wants his pound of flesh, and because not once has Monsieur Le Dernier pretended to be a gentleman in his victories—
His gaze meets mine, and oh, the way those dark blue eyes of his gleam.
It annoys me to death.
"Well, ma petite?"
How softly he says the words, knowing that this will piss me off even more.
"Yes," I bite out. "I need to build my strength and stamina." I give him all the words he wants. I just want to get this over with.
"And?"
I look at him crossly. What else does he need me—
"Your other question."
What other—
Oh.
Right.
"You should answer me while I'm giving you a chance to do so," he suggests.
Oh, really now?
"Unless, of course, you wish for another demonstration..."
And just like that, my half-baked and ill-advised attempt to challenge him comes to an end.
"Non, monsieur," I say quickly. "I, er, remember now."
"And?"
And of course he really wants to hear me say it.
"And I g-get it now..." My words end in a stammer when my husband lazily reaches for one breast, and I'm thrown into confusion as he starts kneading my flesh.
"Ce qui est quoi, exactement?" Which is what, exactly?
It's so hard to think, with him squeezing my breast like this.
But...I suppose that's the whole point, too.
"Only you, monsieur," I say reluctantly, resignedly. "Only you can make me feel this way."
My husband's lips slowly curve in a smirk, and the sight of it actually makes me want to squeal and snarl at the same time.
Tellement, tellement folle.
Oh, how crazy this man makes me feel!
"Indeed."
After that is a blur. He helps me dress, and he does so with such breathtaking efficiency that I realize I'm actually jealous. Because expertise comes at a cost, and I need to know the exact numbers. Just how many women has my husband undressed for him to be this good?
I'm determined to know the answer. But I have no chance of asking, with my husband's property now coming into view as the limo turns off the main road, and trees are closing in around us.
Wrought iron gates manned by armed guards swing open as we approach, and we climb up a winding driveway that seems endless. Centuries-old sentinels of wood and leaves watch over us from every side, their branches creating dappled patterns from overhead.
I've stopped trying to figure out how much land my husband owns by the time a sprawling manor finally emerges. Its every stone and arch narrates a story of classic French architecture, its manicured gardens, a landscaped ode to a lifestyle of understated elegance. A royal existence that's earned from sweat and blood, rather than birthright.
It's the most beautiful house I've ever seen. And somehow, that makes this situation even more terrifying.
This isn't the lair of a monster. It's the home of a king, and my confusion only grows in leaps and bounds. Who is this man I'm married...when he's not playing the role of Monsieur Le Dernier?
The car stops, and my husband (oh, how surreal it still feels, to think of him in this manner)...
Well, he's still the king of rudeness, that's for sure, with the way he allows me to step out of the car all on my own.
His staff is already lined up on the front steps, their gazes sharp but not cruel, their faces impassive but not hard.
"My wife, Liana."
I can't help but jerk when my husband suddenly speaks, his every word bearing the full force of his power and authority.
"I will appreciate everyone's support in making her feel at home."
His staff starts clapping. A few even smile. And although I try my hardest to look for any signs of disapproval, distrust, or deceit—
There's nothing.
Rien du tout.
Absolutely nothing.
In each and every one of his servants, I only see loyalty...to him.
If their master says I am his bride, then so be it.
C'est la vie.
And in this sense, we are completely alike, his servants and I.
Chapter Four
"AND THIS IS OUR INFORMAL library." Erin steps back from the doorway so I can enter if I wish. The room is a bibliophile's fantasy—two stories tall with a spiral staircase connecting the levels, walls lined with leather-bound books in rich jewel tones, and reading nooks tucked into window alcoves that overlook the gardens. If this is informal, I'm clearly not posh enough because I can't even imagine what their version of formal looks like.
We move on to the next stop in her house tour, and I can't help but notice how every hallway we walk through is vast, elegant, and remarkably...impersonal. There are no framed photos, no trophy cabinets, or a shelf of souvenirs on display from previous trips. There's just nothing at all that reveals the character of its owner. It's simply one expensive painting after another, and honestly?