CHAPTER NINE
aphne tossed and turned in bed for hours after Maeve had left her, unable to close her eyes without seeing the tortured faces of Livvie, Adam, and Niall. The few times she drifted toward sleep, the memory of the woman’s screams filled her mind, snapping her awake in an instant.
Fairchild … No … You will not take her from me!
There could be no denying she’d seen Bertram’s features when looking upon Daphne, the blue of her eyes and the red of her hair clearly marking her as a Fairchild. Whatever had been done to her must go beyond simple ruination. It had to have been something so heinous and depraved, the simple sight of Daphne had disturbed the victim to the point of no return.
The guilt that assailed her mingled with the curiosity in her gut—the need to know more, to uncover what remained of the truth. If there was anything she could do to make it right, besides surrendering her pride and her maidenhead to Adam, she must do it. It rested upon her to make things right, even if she had no notion how.
Sighing, she sat up in bed, rubbing her bleary eyes. Despite being more exhausted than she’d ever been, she could not find rest, could not sleep with her conscience weighing so heavily upon her. The four walls of her chamber boxed her in, forcing her into a confined space with her turbulent thoughts and emotions.
Desperate for escape, she stood, pulling on her dressing gown once more. The sun would rise soon, and she had given up all hope of getting any rest. A book from the library might serve to distract her until … well, until Adam came for her, she supposed. After the way he and Niall had looked at her, as if she were the foulest thing they’d ever laid eyes upon, she should not expect that to happen soon.
She stepped out into the corridor and turned in the direction of the library, her steps faltering as the detected notes of music on the air. Frowning, she looked to the music room door, which stood ajar, the soft glow of yellow candlelight spilling out into the hallway.
Whoever occupied the room played the pianoforte beautifully, with a mastery born from years of practice and dedication. The haunting melody drew her forward, its lilting notes resounding through her entire body from scalp to toes. As if pulling her along with an invisible tether, it urged her to the doorway, lifted her hand to the heavy panel, and prompted her to push it open.
Seated on the cushioned bench with his hands moving lightly over the ivory keys, she found Adam. It was the last person she had expected to discover making the beautiful music—his large hands and meaty fingers seeming made for destruction instead of art. Yet, he hunched over the instrument, his digits moving over it as if he caressed a lover or greeted a long-lost friend.
His hair spilled down his back, the firelight illuminated the golden strands within the brown. The rigid tension in his back had melted away, and even from behind, she could tell the music soothed him—that putting his fingers to keys brought him focus in the same way manipulating harp strings made her feel.
She was not familiar with the piece he played, but it struck her as beautiful in a macabre sort of way. In the way that a blossom growing from a crack in the hard desert floor might be. In the way that his hand striking her arse created both pleasure and pain in one blissful, excruciating act.
Her feet propelled her forward again, until she stood just behind him, close enough to detect the rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath, to smell the aroma of cedar and cigar smoke emanating from him. It tangled with the sting of brandy, and she spied the nearly empty decanter placed atop the instrument, a half-full tumbler beside it.
How long had he been in here, seeking solace with the pianoforte and drowning himself in spirits?
A pause occurred in the music, his fingers pounding a discordant note before going still. He turned his head just far enough to peer at her over his shoulder.
“Why are you here?” he rasped, his voice low and grating, the words slightly slurred from the effects of brandy.
A nodule of anxiety lodged in her throat, but she choked it down, closing her eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath before plunging in.
“I … I came to say …”
The firelight illuminated the molten gold pooling in the prisms of his eyes, the rage simmering with a red-orange light within the depths. Coming here—intruding upon his solitude when he was in such a state—had been a terrible mistake.
Throwing one leg over the piano bench, he turned to face her. The half-empty tumbler sat in his large hands, the amber liquid glistening.
“What, little dove?” he snapped, biting off his nickname for her as if it were an epithet. “What have you come to say?”
She cast her gaze downward, unable to abide the revulsion emanating from his eyes … the evidence of the depth of his hatred for her and her entire family.
“I am so very sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick from the tears she fought not to shed.
His upper lip curled back from his teeth, a snarl rumbling ominously from deep within his gut. The sound, filled with turmoil and wrath, sent her skittering back toward the door. Her pulse raced, the instinct for self-preservation prompting her to reach out for the doorknob, to seek escape.
He moved with a swiftness that stole her breath, taking what was left of his brandy in one swallow and tossing the tumbler across the carpet with a thud. Then, he was lunging across the room and reaching past her to slam the door shut before she could slip through. Bracing one hand against the panel, he loomed over her, the burning scent of brandy stinging her nostrils when he parted his lips to speak.
“Sorry,” he murmured, scowling as if he found the taste of the word repugnant. “For what, exactly? For the ruin your brother made of her life? For being so naive and sheltered that you could never have fathomed your precious Bertie could be so despicable?”
She shuddered when his body came against her, pinning her to the door. Wedged between two hard, unrelenting things, there could be no escape. The planes and ridges of his torso held her captive, his chest compressing her breasts and one large thigh shoved between hers.
“Yes,” she whispered, raising her head to look at him. “For all of it. If I had known—”
He scoffed. “What would you have done?”
“I … I do not know,” she stammered.
He chuckled, the sound lacking humor and making dread curl low in her belly. “That is the problem, is it not? You know nothing … not even the truth of your current situation. You dare come in here to offer me your pitiful apology, as if it would change anything between us … as if you mean anything more than a means to an end. I do not want your apologies … I do not need them.”
Her chin trembled, but she forced herself to maintain his gaze, to hide her fear in the face of his anger. He would enjoy it too much, knowing he had terrified her to her core.
“I know apologies are not enough,” she replied, using her most soothing tone.
She needed him to release her, to let her out of this room. Coming here had been a mistake, but it could not be too late for her to escape.
“I understand you feel the need for vengeance,” she added.
“Do you understand, truly?” he taunted, lifting a hand to grasp her face, his fingers biting into her jaw. “How it feels to hold in my hands the object of his affection … to fantasize about wrapping my fingers around your throat and squeezing until you go limp … holding you down and fucking you until you scream and plead for mercy … tearing you to pieces until there’s nothing left?”
A sob welled up in her chest, his words striking her as carrying more weight than a mere threat.
“Please,” she pleaded, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to compose herself.
Her body jerked away from the door, and she gasped, kicking and flailing as he lifted her off her feet. His fingers bit into her arms as he hauled her to the center of the room, then threw her down on the rug in the center of the floor.
Panic flared in her gut as he knelt over her, reaching out for the belt of her robe. Despite knowing she had given him free use of her body—that she could not deny him without reneging on their agreement—she could not fight the instinct telling her to run, to preserve the parts of herself Adam would surely destroy. She backpedaled, her robe falling open as he snatched the belt loose. The heavy garment fell off one shoulder as she scrambled away from him, her legs tangling in her gown.
With a frustrated growl, he grasped her ankle and gave her a rough jerk, pulling her back to him and straddling her.
“Do you think she begged, too, little dove?” he ground out through his clenched jaw, tearing her dressing gown from her shoulders, then tugging at the straps of the silk scrap she wore, snapping them completely. “Do you think he listened … that he cared when she cried and pleaded for mercy?”
She bit back a cry when he tore the gown down the front, exposing her breasts. A rough sound emanated from him in reaction to the revealed flesh, his tongue creeping out to wet his lips. Her nipples shrank and hardened beneath his gaze, a twinge between her legs filling her with shame. Despite her fear—or, perhaps, because of it—her body reacted to him, the sensation of arousal unmistakable.
He grasped both her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand, using the other to pull the bodice of her nightgown farther down. Then, he palmed one breast, squeezing it until she squirmed beneath him, her nipple rasping against his palm.
“So goddamn perfect,” he spat, almost as if the perfection he accused her of disgusted him to no end. “So smooth and unblemished … so breakable. Have you any idea how badly I want to destroy you—how much pleasure it would bring me?”
She gasped again when he pinched her nipple, her eyelids fluttering closed as he plied it with his thumb and forefinger. Her eyes flew open again when he gave it a vicious twist, sending liquid heat and agony spiraling through her belly. It melted and spread to her core when he released her, her sharp cry of pain melting onto a sigh of relief … of bliss.
“So responsive,” he murmured, treating the other breast the same way—teasing her nipple into a stiff peak before torturing it with a twist. “You like this, don’t you, little dove? Being defiled … controlled … used.”
Turning her head and avoiding his gaze, she clamped her lips shut. Answering his question would damn her. More than that, it would force her to confront things about herself she was not yet ready to face.
Lowering his head, he pressed his mouth to her ear, the linen of his shirt teasing the tips of her breasts, his hips fitting into the cradle between hers.
He laughed again, the sound bristling her spine and stoking her ire. “I can see you do, my little wanton … whore.”
A rough cry of rage tore from her throat, and she bucked beneath him, kicking and yanking her arms free of his hold. Lashing out at him, she screamed, raking his face and neck with her nails, squirming to try to work her way from beneath him. Damn him for doing this to her, for poking and prodding at the deeply hidden parts of herself and making her acknowledge them. For making her hate him and want him all at once.
Laughing as if she amused him, he grasped one wrist and then the other, immobilizing her as quickly as he had before, pressing her back against the carpet. Red welts rose up along his cheek where she’d mauled him, the buttons torn off his shirt, the opening exposing a wide swath of his chest.
“Yes, little dove,” he said with a slow, predatory grin. “Fight me … you know how I love it when you fight.”
Her face went hot when he surged his hips against her, letting her feel the evidence of his words. He had gone hard as stone, the heat of his lust searing her through the layers of his breeches and her nightgown. She went still, hovering on the line between wanting to fight him and being afraid to provoke him further.
Reaching between them, he swiftly jerked open his fall. Her cunt clenched hungrily at the sight of his cock—large, red, and angry—peering at her from the opening in his breeches. Jerking up the skirt of her nightgown, he fell upon her again, keeping a tight hold on her wrists as he fit his cock into the cleft between her legs.
“Deny it all you want,” he rasped in her ear, rocking against her and sparking a flame of pleasure in the place where their bodies met. “But we both know no matter how hard you try to fight me, your body craves what I can give it. Isn’t that right, my little whore?”
A shudder tore through her, her only response a low whimper as the thick tip of his cock rubbed against her inner folds, pressing down against her swollen clit. Pleasure stole her words, and primitive need overtook all her other urges. The word ‘whore’ struck her like the lash of a tongue against her clit, sending another ripple of heat and desire throughout her being. She wanted to deny it, to protest his treatment and argue that she would never be his whore, but could not think beyond the steady pressure and friction of his cock against her clit.
She arched her back, tipping her chin up as he began to consume her, devouring her vulnerable throat with his lips and tongue and teeth. He lapped at her pulse point, then sank his teeth into the taut tendons, each suckling pull sending a lightning strike of pleasure straight to her core. One hand tightened around her wrists while the other pawed at her breasts, squeezing, kneading, pinching. Her hips rose up off the floor, undulating against his and adding a sweet counterpoint to his rhythmic thrusts.
Her juices coated his flared head and soaked his shaft. A moan fell from her lips, then another, the way between them made slippery by her wetness.
He sank his teeth into her breast, sending another jolt of pleasure stabbing into her core … and then she spiraled. The climax rushed over her so swiftly, she could hardly catch her breath, the powerful spasms wracking her body with violent shudders. Her cunt clenched around air, seeking more as the flutters of the orgasm began to dissipate, leaving her bereft and longing instead of satisfied.
As if sensing the path of her thoughts, he angled his hips so the tip of his cock kissed her honeyed opening, poising himself to enter her. Her eyes flew open, her lips parting as she tried to wrap her mind around what would come next. It seemed impossible for the large, flared head to fit inside her—for the thick, long root jutting out from his body to follow. She squirmed beneath him, her shoulders burning from the position of her arms, her body balanced on the edge of anticipation and fear.
Adam loomed over her, his eyes glassy and unfocused, his breath coming in harsh pants as if he barely held himself in check. Gritting his teeth, he released a primal growl, pumping his hips with a force that left her stunned.
Her lips parted on a silent cry, a searing pain stabbing between her legs as if a flaming hot poker had been shoved into her sheath. Her back bowed, the tension in her arms and shoulders now unbearable as she fought against his hold, the invasion of his body as he forced his way into her. Her lungs burned from the breath she held, but she could not release it to draw another, could not move. She could do nothing but lie there and feel, the throbbing agony of her channel stretching to accommodate him mingling with the phantom bliss of her recent climax.
“Christ,” he groaned, pulling away slightly before plunging again. “So fucking tight.”
She bit her lip until she drew blood, tears welling in her eyes as he surged and withdrew, driving himself deeper into her. He had only given her half of his length in the first thrust, and with each surge of his hips, he opened her more, tearing into her, forging a path into her most secret of places. It seemed unending, the slow progress he made as he inched his way through her, the agonizing burn she would be hard-pressed to ever forget.
But then, she exhaled, her body easing back to the carpet as his pelvis met hers, his body coming against her as she sheathed him to the hilt.
He released her wrists, falling onto his elbows atop her as he rested inside of her. She trembled against him, her thighs forced wider by his weight bearing down upon her, her channel throbbing around the thick, intrusive organ taking up space inside her body.
His fingers tangled in her hair, and he shifted his hips, rolling against her. She cried out, the sound reverberating through the chamber and resonating like the notes he’d coaxed from the pianoforte. The stroke of his cock against her inner walls created more of the tortuous burn; yet, his pelvis grinding against her clit created a burst of pleasure. The dueling sensations warred against one another as he moved again, then again, taking up a slow, agonizing rhythm. Her body unwound even more, her back sinking into the rug, her legs falling as wide as they would go. Her body opened to him, her channel stretching for him, more of her wetness easing the way.
“Fucking hell, little dove,” he growled in her ear, increasing his pace as he wound a thick strand of her hair around his fist. “You feel … Christ, you feel so bloody good.”
She moaned, the sound strangled by a sharp gasp when he gave her hair a vicious tug, tipping her chin up and exposing her throat once more. Then, his body began hammering hers, his hips pounding her against the unrelenting floor.
Her core clenched around him, the ripples of pain intertwining with pleasure until they became one. The deep, throbbing ache radiated outward from her womb, sending tingles of ecstasy over the surface of her skin from scalp to toes. He suckled at her neck like a starving man, biting her chin, claiming her lips with a fervor that took her breath away. She struggled to breathe through her nose, opening her mouth to his thrusting tongue. Her hips undulated on their own accord, meeting his rhythm, the pounding cadence of his pelvis engaging her in a primitive duet.
Tearing his lips from hers, he stared down at her, the blazing fire in his eyes searing her to the soul. The tension in her middle wound tighter and tighter, her thighs trembling on either side of him as he urged her closer and closer to the inevitable end—one she somehow knew would be far more powerful than any she’d ever experienced.
“Please,” she panted, groaning and writhing beneath him mindlessly, rational thought fleeing as her body begged silently for what only Adam could give. “Please …”
She did not know what she begged for; yet, he seemed to. Still fisting her hair in one hand, he slid the other between them, his thumb finding her clit.
“Oh,” she whimpered as he began stroking it in rapid circles, the thrust of his hips adding weight behind his strokes. “Oh, God …”
Release slammed into her with the force of a battering ram, her sheath pulsating around Adam and drawing him in deeper. Her back arched, and her toes curled, her arms coming around him, clinging, pulling at his shirt, her nails digging in to find purchase. He groaned when she dragged them down his back, his hips jerking against hers once, twice, then a third time before he pulled his cock free. He took hold of his shaft, pumping himself with a tight fist until he spent, the hot spurts of his seed staining the silk covering her belly. With a shudder, he lowered his head, releasing his breath on a guttural sound, his hair shadowing his face.
She lay beneath him, suddenly cold despite the fire blazing in the hearth. Shivering uncontrollably, she began feeling about for her dressing gown, her shaking fingers refusing to close around the damask fabric. Her head swam dizzily, her limbs refusing to respond to the prompting of her mind. She needed to stand, to walk, to escape. To run away from the shame that overwhelmed her now that it had ended … now that he had defiled her and made her enjoy it.
He sat back on his haunches and pushed his hair out of his face, his chest heaving as his breath began to slow, his heavy-lidded gaze fixated upon her. She became acutely aware of the picture she must make as he looked her over—hair hopelessly mussed by his rough handling, face flushed, lips red from the pressure of his, gown ripped and fallen around her waist, the grey satin stained with an offensive mixture of his mettle and her virgin’s blood.
More of the same smeared her inner thighs, the red streaks a startling reminder of what he’d just taken from her.
His breeches still hung open, his flaccid cock visible through the gap. She’d torn the buttons on his shirt, and it hung off one shoulder, ripped at the seam. His hair spilled around his face and down his back in a tangled curtain.
He closed his fall with steady fingers, not bothering to right his shirt or tuck it in.
Reaching for her dressing gown, he moved it from beneath her limp hand and draped it in the crook of his arm. Then, he slid a hand beneath her shoulders, manipulating her as if she were a rag doll. She let him, lacking the strength to move on her own. She lay still in his hold and allowed him to drape the dressing gown over her shoulders and take her into his arms like a child. The world tilted and whirled around her as he strode from the room, the warm interior of the music room giving way to the coldness of the corridor.
She shuddered, and a part of her wanted to believe his hold tightened on her in response. Yet, that could not be true … surely, she imagined it.
He pushed open a door and entered a chamber—her chamber, she realized, recognizing the decor. The light streaming through the parted drapes stung her eyes, a reminder that dawn had come and gone while Adam had torn her apart in the music room.
“Close the drapes,” he said in command to someone he could not see.
She wondered how he knew the light bothered her eyes, but then realized it must be because she’d turned her face into his chest, burrowing there to escape it.
“Master, is she—”
“She’s fine,” he snapped, cutting off the voice she recognized as Maeve’s. “But, perhaps a hot bath would be welcomed.”
“Yes, Master,” the maid said quickly, her footsteps taking her out of the room.
She felt him lowering her onto the bed, the soft mattress a sharp juxtaposition to his hard body. He stood over her, staring down at her with that inscrutable expression he always wore just before saying something he knew would hurt her. The sunlight revealed his exhaustion—the dark circles beneath his eyes, the haggard lines etching his face.
“Do not ever seek to offer me your useless platitudes again,” he murmured, though the silence of the room magnified his voice like a cannon’s blast. “In the end, they mean nothing to me … you mean nothing to me.”
Her eyes stung as she turned away from him and curled into herself, uncertain why his words should flay her open so viciously, like the lash of a whip. Of course she meant nothing to him—and why should she? Yet, his cruel words were like a dagger to her chest, the resounding pain echoing and mingling with the throbbing between her legs. As if he had turned her inside out, exposing all her nerve endings to the elements.
His eyes burned into her back, searing her through layers of satin and damask, as if he could see the stains of his seed and her blood through them. She curled herself tighter, hugging her knees to her chest and squeezing her eyes shut. Tears warmed her face, but she held her breath to contain the sobs. He had hurt her, and he knew it … but she would not give him the satisfaction of breaking. Not now when he could see and hear her.
Before long, a flurry of motion told her servants had arrived with the tub and hot water. She lay and stared numbly at the wall, uncertain how she knew he’d left the room. His presence simply melted away, and when Maeve came to coax her from the bed, she turned to find him gone.