His voice was a quiet, deadly thing. His grip on her wrist tightened on impulse, momentarily forgetting why they were there in the first place. “Keep still.”
Maeve inhaled sharply, her eyes twitching to withhold the rush of pain flowing through her arm. “You’re hurting me.”
Fuck.
Fedya’s throat bobbed as he looked down at her injured wrist to find her thumb digging into it. He resisted the urge toslam his fist into the porcelain sink beside him and focused on checking for any extra shards of glass that may have settled in her skin. Finding none, he grabbed a bandage from the small first-aid box in the bathroom, ripped it open with his teeth, and gently wrapped her wrist with it. She tried to pull back again, but he didn’t let her.
“Stop,” he said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. “Will you fucking let me finish?”
He didn’t let her answer as he finished up tending to her wrist. “I disgust you that much, is that it? I leave for a few hours, and you do this. You could’ve bled the fuck out, but that didn’t matter to you, did it?”
His eyes met hers again, stormy blue clashing against narrowed, green ones.
“You hate me, Maeve,” he ground out, releasing her hand. “You hate me so much that you tried to kill yourself.”
Chapter 8 - Maeve
No one was a better klutz than Maeve. After the call from her father last night, she’d somehow slept on the floor instead of in bed. When sunlight hit the windows, she rolled over, accidentally stubbed her toe against the bedframe, and swore under her breath just in time for Fedya to knock on her door and tell her to come out to eat.
Of course, she’d ignored him. She wasn’t ready to see him, not after their altercation last night, not after the decision she’d taken to use him for her father’s purpose. She wasn’t sure how long she’d last ignoring him, but she remained locked in there anyway, skipping breakfast and lunch until she stood up in a fit of hunger-related dizziness and accidentally knocked a flower vase over, injuring herself in the process as she tried to pick up the shards.
Her palm was sliced in two places, superficial but bleeding steadily. But the sight of blood oozing out of her palm was nothing compared to the way Fedya had gunned the door down just to get to her. It was nothing compared to the way he had registered the sight of her bleeding, the darkness that clouded his features as he grabbed her and dragged her to the bathroom despite her protests.
It was nothing compared to the way he was looking at her now, fury and a certain type of irritation that she wasn’t sure if directed at her or not. It was nothing compared to the rather absurd conclusion he’d come to after seeing her on the floor. For a split second, Maeve couldn’t help but wonder how the man saw himself, how much he probably hated himself, to come to the conclusion that someone else would rather kill themselves than deal with him again.
His touch was a stark contrast to the emotion stewing in his eyes. His fingers were surprisingly gentle on her skin. His touch was oddly addictive, like it belonged on her body, and she clenched her teeth hard, balling her uninjured hand into a fist to resist the maddening urge to lean into it, to entertain the stupid swarm of butterflies tumbling so hard in her stomach she wanted to vomit.
“Are you stupid enough to think dying fixes this?” he snapped then, his calm dissolving into nothing. “What the hell were you thinking?”
And just then, Maeve didn’t see the point of clarifying what had actually happened to him. She had locked herself in there in the first place anyway, and she would rot in there if she had to just to avoid seeing him today. If she weren’t in there, she probably wouldn’t have been a victim of her injury, so yes. Maybe, indirectly, all of this was his fault. Maybe she hated him that much.
So she leaned into his blatant misunderstanding of the situation. Her lip curled bitterly as she withdrew from him.
“Yes,” she said, not bothering to hide the venom in her voice. “I hate you that much, Fedya Nikolai. I hate this fucking marriage. I hate this nightmare of my life with you. And I hate myself even more for being so unfortunate to have been stuck with someone as cruel as you.”
Fedya laughed. A derisive, bitter sound that made Maeve’s stomach churn despite the brave front she was putting on.
“Cruel?” he asked, rising slowly, his shadow stretching across the room. He looked like the devil. A handsome devil. “You think this—” He gestured to the bloodied towel and the first aid kit beside the sink. “—is me being cruel?”
Maeve bit her tongue and said nothing. That seemed to provoke him even further.
He stepped closer, grabbing her jaw and forcing her to look at him. “I’ve been nothing but nice since I brought you here, Maeve,” he fumed. “I’ve protected you—”
Maeve scoffed harshly. “Protected me?
“Just keeping you here with me, under this roof, is more protection than your bastard of a father could ever provide you for the rest of your life. So yes, I’ve done nothing but keep you safe in the last twenty-four hours.” His voice went lower. “I’ve bought you clothes. I’ve bought you everything you’ll need, even though I know there’s a high chance you’ll burn them rather than wear them. I could’ve killed you right in front of your father the moment he gave you to me. I could have tossed you out of my car on our way here and run you over. I could’ve buried a bullet in your pretty skull the moment you opened your mouth to cuss me out. I could’ve strangled you while driving and watched the light leave your eyes without a single care in the world. But I didn’t. I didn’t do any of that.”
Maeve was shaking, and to her surprise, it was more anger than fear. Good God, she hated this man. Hated that even with all the disgusting threats he just spat out, his grip on her chin was sending tiny, little bolts of lightning straight to her heart.
“You call this safe?” she snapped, pushing against him. “You’re holding me prisoner. That’s exactly what you’re doing. I’d rather you just killed me and got it over with than forcing me to play your fucking wife.”
His lips pulled into a dark smile, revealing his perfect teeth. “No,” he said, tugging her chin higher. His thumb grazed her throat, and a chill ran down her spine. “But I will now. I’ll dowhatever you want me to do, and since you want me to be cruel, I will be exactly that for you, my love.”
Maeve’s breath hitched as he pulled her up. His grip was on her good wrist as he pulled her out of the bathroom and into the living room, where bags and bags were scattered—designer brands, makeup, skincare, shoes, every single thing. “These were for you,” he said, still holding her tight. “You needed clothes. Toiletries. I was going to do whatever you wanted here, whatever you liked, but now, you’re going to follow some rules since being kind didn’t work.”
Maeve scoffed, eyeing him with malice. “What do I look like to you? A fucking twelve-year-old?”
“One,” he began, turning to face her, his face a mask of cold indifference. “You don’t leave this house without permission. It’s not like you could anyway.”
