I enjoyed the kisses I shared with Malachi. Things will be different with Gabriel. I’m not here to enjoy sharing his bed.
Gabriel sits on the opposite end of the mattress and speaks in a flat voice. “You should know I have no intention of bedding you.”
My mouth parts as his declaration sinks in. “Why?”
“I don’t trust you.”
“But I am your wi—”
“—you’re a Kyanite.” Bitterness burns from those three words.
So he has reminded me from the moment he set eyes on me.
I’m Kyanite. He’s Bloodstone.
He hates me.
“If you don’t bed me, our marriage will not be real.”And I will fail. I pull the bedcovers down enough to reveal the nightdress Kassandra gave me. “You don’t need to trust me to bed me.”
His stare remains pinned to my face. Cool air dances along my exposed arms, my neck, my throat. I keep the bedcover wrenched between my fingers. His eyes never drop lower.
The first flicker of failure digs at my determination. Gabriel doesn’t want to bed me. Now, that’s not something I expected.
“Why are you really here?” he asks, his tone hard.
“I want to belong.”
Shadows linger on his features as his lips thin. “You may have fooled Luc, but you haven’t fooled me.”
I study him, noting the firmness of Gabriel’s jaw, the stiff edges behind the stare he keeps locked on the ceiling. “Then why did you agree to wed me?”
“I told you. Because of the Seer.”
“Surely, that’s not the only reason,” I say, still doubting their absolute faith in the Seer.
“Your mark,” he says, his tone flat.
I roll my arm over enough to observe the cursed serpent. “You agreed to marry me because of a simple mark?”
“No.” Those silver-blue eyes of his stay locked on the ceiling. “There’s nothing simple about it. The Seer guides all Bloodstone. Disobey and chaos will follow.”
“Then,” I begin as more of their traditions click into place in my mind, “the Seer ordained our marriage?”
Without a word, he grabs a dagger from the nearby table and unsheathes it. “Spread your legs.”
My breath hitches, a reaction I’m sure he doesn’t miss. “Why?”
“For the council.”
My mind scrambles as he reaches for my leg and yanks it toward him. I flinch when he pulls my gown to my upper thighs. He pauses with one hand still wrenched around the fabric. I wear nothing under the nightdress. A vein throbs in his temple as he shoves the material between my legs, creating a barrier between my intimate flesh and his gaze.
His mouth forms an even thinner line as he releases my nightdress and lifts his hand. With a quick flick of his wrist, he runs the blade across his palm. Blood drips between my legs and pools in a crimson stain on the bedcover.
“I don’t understand.” The men at Father’s brothel would have never passed on an opportunity to bed a woman. “Why would you cut yourself instead of taking what is rightfully yours?”
Mother may have died when I was young, but I know what’s expected of a wife.
“I will never bed you.” He stands and moves to the washing stand. From the table close by, he grabs a cloth and ties it around his hand.
