Hupotasso (Vampire Bachelor Games #2)

13

13

My hair has been washed, trimmed and styled, and I’ve mercifully been supplied toiletries and make-up.

I’d started to think I was existing in my own personal version of The Taming Of The Shrew and that Falcon fully intended to keep me naked, bored and half-starved until eventually I withered away and died. But luckily there are appearances to keep up and places I’m expected to be — alive.

Now, wearing a loose powder-blue velveteen tracksuit supplied by Caroline, and no underwear to afford ease of trying things on, I peruse rack after rack of designer dresses, suits, negligees, underwear and shoes as Caroline watches.

Every now and again she shakes her head at something I select and returns it to the rack.

Growling, I promptly pull it back off.

This game has been going on for several hours now.

As she puts back yet another choice, I round on her.

“Caroline, if you touch another one of my picks I’m going to fucking stake you with a clothes hanger. Am I making myself clear?”

“Crystal,” she smiles, replacing yet another pantsuit.

Snarling, I pull it back off the rack and tuck it under my arm.

“I watched you on the show, you know,” she says calmly, ignoring my expression. “I, along with all my family. We were surprised when Falcon looked to choose someone who clearly wasn’t comfortable with killing.”

“I’m getting more comfortable with it by the minute,” I snap.

“I don’t think so,” she smiles, her little pointed teeth showing between her perfect coral lips. “But that’s what makes you unique. That’s obviously what Falcon wants.”

“Obviously,” I snigger, rolling my eyes and turning my back on her as I head over towards the shoes to retrieve the riding boots she’d returned when I hadn’t noticed. I’m trying to get at least a few pairs of clothes that wouldn’t stand out in a crowd if I got the opportunity to run. Unfortunately most of the clothes sent over were ‘royal’ in that they were discreet, plain-coloured, perfectly cut and worth more than the average car. They were also designed for style, not function. None of those, or the matching heels, would do. At this stage the only thing I could possibly escape in was a set of pyjamas — and even those were satin.

Feeling her once more hovering over me as I look at the shoes, I spin to face her.

“You know, Caroline, if you want to do something worthwhile, how about getting a computer in my room so I can watch my season of The Games? I think I’d better see what the public saw, what the other families of the contestants saw of me, and what happened on set, before I go meeting anyone. After all, what I experienced and what viewers watched are most definitely likely to be two different things.”

“That could be tricky…” she starts.

My hold on my temper snaps.

“Seriously? You said you were here for me. I ask for one thing. Are you that fucking useless?”

She narrows her eyes at me and takes a step closer, and I bunch my fists. I’m no brawler, but I’m going to give a red-hot try at breaking her perfectly little upturned nose if she attempts to bite me. Fortunately, I don’t have to see if I would have followed through, as her name is barked out from the doorway.

“Caroline!”

Spinning instantly we both pale as Falcon strides in, his face a thundercloud.

“What exactly is going on here?”

“Cousin,” she simpers, rising from the obsequiously deep curtsy she’d dropped as soon as she saw him, “nothing. I assure you.”

He turns to look at me, narrowing his eyes at my fists still bunched by my side, and I blush.

“Angelina?”

It’s the first time he’s spoken my name since the ceremony. He hadn’t used it at all when he, when we…

“So, you do know my name,” I snap. “You rapist bastard!”

His face blanches, and Caroline’s sharp intake of breath is the only sound in the room for a full five seconds as he stares at me, his eyes furious.

“Get out!” He hisses.

There’s no mistaking he’s not talking to me, and Caroline doesn’t hang around. To be fair, I don’t blame her. He looks angrier than I’ve ever seen him.

I move to follow her out, to spare myself whatever’s coming, but he steps towards me and grips my forearms painfully, his face centimetres from mine, my nose suddenly filled with his cologne. It brings up memories, painful memories — my sheets had smelled just the same this morning. His scent had been all over my dress, all over me.

Wrenching free of him I walk briskly away, putting a row of clothes racks between myself and him.

He stands still, making no move to pursue me until Caroline has left.

“Rapist?” He snarls as the doors close. “Last I looked, you were enjoying yourself immensely, wife . I don’t recall any struggles.”

I clench my teeth and flick dresses along the rack one after the other; click, click, click.

“Maybe if you’d paid more attention,” I hiss.

“Oh, I paid plenty of attention,” he sneers as he strides to stare at me over the rack, “I heard every moan, every sigh, every scream.”

“Stop it!” I shout, pushing the metal rack over towards him.

The dresses fall in a long, slow arc of chignon, silk and satin, and he steps over them towards me, his jaw clenched and eyes flashing as he grips my left arm. My eyes blazing, I swing with all my strength with my right and slap him across the face. The sound in the empty ballroom is like a crack of lightning, and he drops my arm in shock.

Wide-eyed, I bolt, but instantly regret my action as he snarls and lunges.

Dodging and shrieking, I run from rack to rack, pushing them over between us. But I know I don’t have a chance as he catches me and, cursing, throws me over his shoulder.

I scream, raining blows upon his back.

“Put me down, you vampire bastard!”

I struggle and bite his ass, shoulder and back, just as I’d done when he’d carried me fraught and screaming in The Games the night I’d thought he’d murdered Tamara. But if he feels my silver fillings this time, he makes no show of it.

“Oh, I’ll let you down alright,” he says through gritted teeth as he stalks to the chair I’d used while trying on shoes, sits down, and pulls me across his knees.

I know what’s coming, and I scream loudly in protest as he pulls my velveteen pants down to expose my bare ass and spanks me, loud and hard. Tears of pain and humiliation spill unchecked as I shriek his name and for him to stop as his hand rains down upon my skin. But he gives no quarter, and I give up screaming and bite my lip as his strikes continue one after the other, each one as hard as the last and hurting more each time.

I know I shouldn’t have said what I did. It wasn’t true. He’s many things, but a rapist is not one of them. And I know I shouldn’t have run — he’s a predator. It had only made matters worse. Deep down, I know I was trying to hurt him, trying to make him feel what I was feeling and elicit a response that would draw him out and make him talk to me. Yes, I want to escape, but some part of me wants him back. I want him to trust me, to stop thinking I’m a spy, to think me worthy of him and the title bestowed upon me when we married. And I definitely don’t want him to get me pregnant and kill me.

But I’d gone about it in wholly the wrong way. I’d insulted his honour. And I’d done it in front of another royal. I can almost hear my mother’s voice in my head, telling me, ‘you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.’ Hadn’t I told angry students that hundreds of times as they raged over perceived injustices?

I count twelve strikes before, breathing heavily, his hand finally stills.

The room acts like an echo chamber as I quietly weep, still dangling face down over his knee and making no further move to try and escape, no further struggle for dignity or retaliation. All I can do is cry and be thankful there are no cameras around to witness my humiliation.

“Why do you do this to me?” He groans. “Why? Why do you torture me like this? Isn’t it enough? Haven’t you done enough?”

His words trail off, and I say nothing as he turns me over and gathers me to his chest. I feel weak, washed-out and ruined. The stress of the wedding, my incarceration, the sex, Caroline, Jag, everything, everything overwhelms me to the point where I’m completely unable to speak.

My whole body is trembling from his assault.

Sighing, and with a gentleness completely juxtaposed to the violence he’d just unleashed, he pushes my newly washed hair out of my face and kisses away my tears, frowning as he leans back and studies me.

I continue to cry as he winds one of my curls around his finger, just as he once did, and leans his forehead against mine with another heavy sigh.

“Falcon,” I gulp, my words barely audible. I’m poised to say, ‘I promise you I’m not a spy,’ but I don’t get the chance.

“Don’t,” he mutters.

I look up from his chest to his eyes. They seem pained, and I don’t know what he sees in mine, but he gives a quick, sharp intake of breath before his lips claim mine in a deep, passionate kiss.

I know I should resist. I know it only makes it harder to leave if I succumb again to his desires. But in this, at least, he wants me. Try as I might to deny it, I want him too — more than anything. Whimpering, I wrap my arms around his neck and close my eyes as his grip on me grows more possessive and intense, and his teeth drag across my lower lip.

When he lowers me to the floor amid the piles of gowns, I don’t resist.