Lord Beast

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Rhys, unnoticed, silently studied his wife from the threshold of the door that separated their private quarters, trying to ignore the hurt and turmoil he was putting himself through just standing there.

She had her back to him as she slowly, mesmerizingly, ran an ivory comb through her long, dark hair. The action was unconsciously seductive and just the sight of her uninhibited and unaware of his presence made him yearn for her. For her body, that is. He would never want for anything more from her.

I love you.

He shoved the thought aside viciously, detesting the lie. She'd looked him right in the eye when she said it, when she had proclaimed her feigned devotion to him. If she thought that he would accept a lie, accept her deceit, then she was sorely mistaken. Why else would she come to him with words of promise and affection if not to improve her own station in this farcical marriage? She had never felt compelled to utter them before he had discovered her for the lying, deceitful woman that she was. It was only after he had learned that she had summoned Victoria to the castle that day to discover them in a position of debilitating compromise that her feelings had been voiced.

How conveniently timed.

He couldn't help but notice the thin peignoir wrapped around her body, the sheer white material gleaming transparently in the dim candlelight of the vast room. The robe was draping lazily off one deliciously rounded shoulder as she moved her arms with artless grace in the process of grooming her thick hair. She was lovely and looked inviting and soft, just as she was. Rhys knew better though. He knew he could never trust her again.

If he made a sound, he was unaware of it, or maybe it was because she sensed the sudden force of his anger that made her suddenly turn to face him, blue eyes startled at the dark presence loitering in the threshold. For several moments she did not say anything, her arm suspended in mid-air as it prepared for the next stroke through her hair. Finally, and on a small, uncertain breath, she said, "What are you doing here?"

At that, he wanted to laugh. He wanted to taunt her, to make her uncomfortable and wary, to hurt her as she had him. But he didn't. Coolly, dispassionately, he crossed his arms over his wide chest and considered her indifferently.

"It is our wedding night, is it not?"

He witnessed the fear waver across her face, the way her throat constricted to work and the sudden paleness of her skin. Good. Let her fear him. It was what he wanted, wasn't it?

Her arm lowered unsteadily and she set the brush aside on her extensive vanity, her movements deliberately slow as if she were attempting to stall for time so she could think of what to say next. At length, she faced him again and her eyes were unreadable, dark and wide. "No," was all she mouthed.

The sound was firm and supported with conviction, causing his body to tauten with anger.

Who was she to refuse him? Thrusting his shoulder from the frame he had been leaning on, he stalked towards her, noting that she held her ground proudly, the fingers of her hands folded primly against the silken waves of the peignoir. "No?" he repeated, dangerously.

Her chin wobbled, but she didn't cower or flinch when he stopped inches before her, his powerful body towering above her. He could easily overwhelm her and she knew it. "No," she said again, this time a shaky whisper of a sound.

"You do realise, wife," he snarled viciously, "that you are not at liberty to deny me anything?"

Her eyes were bright and shining as they bored up into his and Rhys watched her face intently, his heart aching at the lovely and familiar contours, the dips of her cheeks and the smooth line of her stubborn jaw, and the freckles... Lord, the freckles. "The law may state that," she informed him, "but I may not agree with it."