Chapter 29

The next afternoon, I step out of my bathroom, a towel wrapped around my body, the hot shower doing little to warm me.

I can’t seem to dispel the ice lodged inside my chest, and I wonder how much of it is because of the dismal weather outside or if it’s something else. The room spins as the dizziness that has plagued me sporadically in the last few months makes a reappearance.

I’ve probably been working too hard, that’s all. Or maybe those crazy dreams or visions or whatever you want to call them are impacting me.

I’ve wracked my brain trying to make sense of the dream in the Elysium—the hidden compartment, the letter which feels so real and yet there’s no evidence of it ever being there, other than the empty envelope. Could I have come across their names before when I was exploring the library? Maybe saw a mention of a hidden compartment and somehow forgotten about it?

Many questions, but no answers.

I’ve spent hours in the library this morning reading Silas’s journals, but like Maxwell said, there’s nothing from the 1860s and the ones from later don’t mention an Emma.

It’s like my mind is spinning stories, just like the whispers and moans I hear in the house at night, the ones I attribute to the estate being old. I don’t mention these dreams to Maxwell, because he’ll think I’m crazy.

The answer will come to me. It has to.

A fresh wave of dizziness hits me and I close my eyes, willing it to stop.

Could I be pregnant ?

My breath stalls, but then I remember I just had my period two weeks ago, and the hope deflates inside me.

We’ve only been trying for a few months, which is nothing for people my age, but with my condition, my ovaries aren’t like those of someone in their mid-twenties. They are more like the ovaries of someone in their mid-forties or later. I don’t have the luxury of time.

I may have buried myself under the covers and cried when I saw the toilet bowl filling with blood.

The strange spell passes, and suddenly, I feel fine again. I make a note to call my doctor to fit me into their schedule for a checkup.

Taking out a cashmere sweater from the walk-in closet, I hear a terse knock.

“Come in. The door is unlocked,” I holler.

A heated, reassuring presence fills the room and I don’t even need to turn around to know he’s here.

“Belle, we need to talk.” Maxwell sounds grim.

Frowning, I turn to him, finding his brows furrowed, his lips flattened, as he takes a seat on my bed. He’s wearing a blue button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled up with the collar opened, looking much too good in business casual attire.

“What’s going on?”

“You can’t volunteer at the shelter anymore.”

“What! Why?” My mouth drops open from shock.

“I looked into your boss, Bob, and I don’t trust him. He’s involved in some illegal activities and also has ties to a few gangs. It’s not safe for you there.”

Anger boils in my veins as I stalk toward him. “That’s not for you to decide.”

“Too bad. I already turned in your resignation.”

“You what? How dare you!”

I’m going to hell for this. But Maxwell, you’re already living in hell. The fruit of your temptation is dangling in front of you and you can’t have it.

She storms up to me, a Valkyrie wrapped in a towel, looking like a wet dream come to life, and jabs me with her fingers. “You have absolutely no right to do this. I’m an independent woman. Just because I’m married to you doesn’t mean you get to be a diabolical tyrant and control me, you asshole!”

Desperation scrapes inside me. Nothing came up in my cursory investigation of her fall other than her boss being involved in suspicious activities. Maybe he’s behind this. Maybe it’s the curse. Maybe they are one and the same. After all, before the women died in our family, there were always a series of unfortunate incidents—whether they be accidents or crimes.

And I can’t protect her if she goes back to the shelter. She isn’t safe there. She has already been hurt—it’s too close of a call.

But Belle clearly doesn’t care. She jabs my chest some more. “I won’t do it. I’m going back to BSUA to ask them to take back my resignation, just you watch.”

I snort and narrow my eyes. “Unless they want to piss me off, they won’t dare to take you back. I’ve made that abundantly clear. If you try anything, I’ll make a call to the mayor and get the shelter closed. Then what will happen to your precious animals?”

I’m definitely going to rot in hell for this.

I tower over her, but she doesn’t cower. That fiery spirit, that strong backbone.

God, she’s spectacular.

Heat swirls inside me and I lean down. “I’ve also hired you a bodyguard. You’re to take him with you at all times when you leave this house. That’s not up for negotiations. If you decide to disobey me, I’ll pull the funding from McKenzie’s, contract be damned.”

She fists her hands by her sides and glares at me. If looks could kill, I would’ve died a thousand times over. “I don’t know what I ever saw in you, Maxwell. Why I get fooled time and time again, thinking there’s a sensitive soul inside you, thinking the Silas I met that first night is the real you buried deep inside the frigid billionaire the world knows.”

I flinch. That Silas is there. He’s trying to protect you.

But I don’t say anything. Hate me, Belle. It’s better than you dying.

She seethes, “A marriage doesn’t work this way. You don’t get to make unilateral decisions for me and expect me to obey, because I won’t.”

My blood runs cold. “Are you calling my bluff?”

“And what if I am? What are you going to do about it?”

My nostrils flare and I lean down further, watching her shiver, her eyes turning molten as if just realizing how irresistible her taunting made her. My gaze rakes down her body, scantily clad in the thin towel.

Her nipples are saluting me through the cloth and my cock rears to life. My mouth waters, wanting to taste them. She’s clenching her thighs. Fuck, she’s turned on.

“Watch out, wife . I might be a scarred, anxious freak, but I never bluff,” I rasp, drawn to her heat, the lust in her eyes, until there’s less than one inch of space between us.

“You’re not a fre—” she begins but stops herself.

She was going to make me feel better, my beautiful, kind little muse.

My heart throws itself against my rib cage, the blood pumping hot in my veins. My hands tremble with the need to touch her, to kiss the living daylights out of her.

She grits out, “God, I can’t wait until this arrangement is over. I hate you so fucking much.”

I rear back, her words piercing my chest even though I know they aren’t true, judging from the way her pupils are dilated, the pulse fluttering rapidly in her throat.

But they hurt, nonetheless .

I press my lips against her ear, relishing her half gasp, half moan. “Oh yeah? Not before you give me an heir, Belle.”

Before she can respond, I spin her around and pin her to the bed, my foot kicking her feet apart. She thrashes underneath me, and I would’ve stopped if she wasn’t rubbing her sweet ass all over my aching erection like she needs this as much as I do.

Fuck, I should leave this room. I’m too emotional, too mad at her, for her, with her. I’m so goddamn crazy about her I can’t think straight.

But instead, I trail my hand down her luscious, towel-clad body and squeeze the firm globes of her ass. She arches up, clearly wanting me to touch her between her legs where her little wet pussy is waiting for me.

I can smell her arousal and it gives me the highest of highs.

“My little muse,” I rasp, “you may say you hate me, but your body tells me another story.”

I bite her earlobe and she flinches, but she lets out a lusty moan when I soothe the pain with a swirl of my tongue. Belle whimpers, her body still half-heartedly fighting me, but she spreads her legs some more, her hand reaching back, grabbing mine, and trying to move it between her legs.

With one hand, I pin her arm to her back, my other hand yanking up her towel in one smooth motion. Her slick pussy pulses and pre-cum drips from my cock.

“Fuck, look at this wet cunt, all for the man you hate, huh? I wonder how much wetter you’ll be for a man you love?” My mind is in a crimson haze as I imagine another man seeing her like this. Writhing, moaning, whimpering for him.

He’d get to kiss her, love her, do everything I couldn’t do.

And fuck if that doesn’t make me want to burn the world.

I quickly unbuckle my belt, pull down my zipper, and take out my throbbing cock, the tip dark red and dripping for her, needing to be inside her.

Unable to help myself, I rub the tip between her hot folds and hiss from the sharp pleasure .

She mewls when I circle her swollen clit with the tip. I’m not going to kiss her. I’m not going to take off my clothes or her towel and make this any more intimate than it already is.

Because I know that’ll unmoor me and my control is already so close to snapping.

She thrashes on the bed, clearly needing more. But it’s no use. I have her pinned underneath me, her ass up, legs spread, arms behind her. It’s a position that may be degrading to some, but my slutty wife likes it.

She likes it when I take control, and I want to be her master, fucking orgasm after orgasm out of her, so she’ll be addicted to me, to my cock, to the pleasure only I can give her.

Because that’s all I’m allowed to give her.

Nothing more. I need to protect her.

Groaning, I thrust into her to the hilt, her tight pussy clamping me in a vise and I nearly see stars. Unable to stop myself or slow down, I rut against her, the pleasure gathering rapidly in my groin.

The headboard slams against the wall in a loud, staccato rhythm. Moments later, the crystals from the lamp on the nightstand also shake, the clinking sound adding to the lewd symphony of hate sex.

“Maxwell, they’ll hear us, oh my God!” she cries as I speed up, angling my cock deeper, gyrating it on my way out so it caresses her G-spot with each glide. Sparks gather up my spine.

“Fuck them. I don’t care. Let them hear you scream for a man you hate.”

Pistoning harder inside her, I bear my weight on her body, smashing her face against the comforter, but I’m too far gone to care. Belle moans with each stroke, her back arching like she can’t get enough.

Fuck, she’s taking me so well.

“You’re a fucking good wife for me, aren’t you? Now you’re going to listen to your husband and do what I tell you to do.”

“Never!” she whimpers, but she melts against me.

My cock hardens to the point of bursting as I feel more wetness drip out of her. My little muse likes it when I boss her around .

The pleasurable burning between my legs intensifies, my balls swelling, cock pulsing, my body ready to detonate.

“You like this, little muse? Me fucking your pussy because I own it like I own you?”

“Never!” she screams again, and I wrap her hair around my hand and pull, watching her eyes roll back.

The pleasure climbs to a tipping point, traveling from my heavy balls to my cock—the point between heaven or hell. Her body starts spasming underneath me.

“Come, Belle. Take every ounce of cum inside that tight pussy. Scream and show the world what a slut you are for me. This is what you want, right? My cum deep inside you, flooding your womb.”

My mind is filled with visions of my cum dripping out of her and her belly swelling with my baby, and all rational thoughts leave my mind.

Letting go of her hands, I slide my thumb to the crease of her ass and dip it into her sensitive, puckered hole.

“Maxwell!”

She explodes, her screams of pleasure echoing in the room. I feel spurts of liquid dripping down my legs. Fuck me, she squirted.

My thrusts turn erratic and I clutch her neck in a tight clasp as nirvana overtakes me. I roar against her ear, my cock throbbing, unloading ropes of cum inside her tight, wet channel.

We’re a mess of anger and lust, hatred and another emotion I don’t dare name, our heavy breaths sounding loud in the quiet room. She and I are oil and water, explosives and fire, combustible and unable to stay away from each other.

I notice the moment she realizes I haven’t kissed her, opting to fuck her face down in the most impersonal way ever. Again. Her nostrils flare as hurt flashes on her face. She grips her towel tightly, her muscles tensing.

I pull out before I can throw myself at her feet and beg her for forgiveness .

“You’re an Anderson, and you’re my wife,” I growl. “You won’t volunteer at BSUA, and you’ll take your bodyguard with you whenever you leave the house.”

I walk to the door. Don’t look back. Don’t you fucking look back, Maxwell.

I open the door.

“I hate you!” she screams and I flinch, my heart spasming in pain.

“Perfect, then you can hate me even more. I don’t care. ” I slam the door shut and lean against the wall outside her room.

I hate myself for hurting her, this angel of brightness.

I hate myself for being the eldest son, cursed to live a cold, lonely life, haunted by dark dreams and death.

I hate myself for being weak, for not being able to stay away from her, for not being strong enough to let her go to protect her.

I hate myself for wanting to once again throw caution to the wind, to tempt fate once more, because I want her for myself.

And I hate myself because despite everything—all the losses, the deaths, the fact she got hurt under my watch—I still want her to look at me with love in her eyes, like I’m everything she needs in this entire world.