A smirk pulls at the upper corner of his mouth. “If you say so.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“You offered yourself to me when we first met.”
Warmth scours my skin at the memory. It takes everything in me to not run my fingers across my cheeks and wipe away everything that happened that day.
“I grew up in a brothel.”
His brow rises. “What?”
I look away, locking my gaze to the far end of the tent. “My father owned a brothel.”
“And did you…” The moment his words fade away, more heat stabs my skin, more embarrassment.
“You think I am a loose woman?”
“Does it matter what I think?” he asks in a flat, emotionless voice. Yet, I wonder if he’s hiding his true thoughts. After all, he was unable to finish his question.
“I simply lived there. I didn’t work there.”
Maybe telling him the truth about the brothel is worse. Now, he probably thinks even less of me.
No. Please. No.
He cannot think ill of me.
Boldly, I grab his hand and bring it to the base of my throat again. “What you feel is the pulse of a Kyanite woman who is lying in bed next to her Bloodstone husband, and she’s scared because she doesn’t know what kind of man you are. Will you give her pleasure, or will you simply take from her?” It’s not a lie. It’s the truth. I do wonder what kind of man he is.
Instead of pulling away, he pushes his fingers against my throat enough to feel the throbbing against his fingertips. “Is that what you fear? That I would think only of myself?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my words low, hoarse.
“IfI bedded you, I would pleasure you until sunrise.” He frees me and shifts to his back. “But I will not.”
Tightness squeezes around my chest as I rise to sitting, pull my knees forward, and wrap my arms around them. “You don’t desire me?”
The sky above!
I’m like those Kyanite women rejected by their husband’s.
He’ll throw me from this tent.
“This has nothing to do with desire.”
I tighten my grip. “Is it because I’m Kyanite?”
The moment he rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, I frown at him.
“Will you tell me?” I ask, needing to understand his refusal to consummate our marriage.
He rotates to his side, facing away from me. “Go to sleep.”
I shift closer to him, leaving only a breath between us and bring my blanket to my shoulders. “Is it because I have black hair? You favor blondes. If I was blonde, you wouldn’t resist me.” There’s something too vulnerable in my words. Too revealing in my need to connect with him.
If I was Katya, he would have already bedded me.
“I prefer black hair,” he says, his voice so low it takes a moment to understand him. “Like yours.”
