How to Lose a Bride in One Night (Forgotten Princesses #3)(4)

“Lie back on the bed,” he instructed evenly.

She hesitated at his command, at the flatness of his voice, relaxing only when he smiled. “Don’t fret. We are married now, are we not?”

She nodded and scooted back on the bed. Her heart pounded like a wild bird, fighting to burst free of her chest, of this room.

Her nervousness grew into something else as he crawled above her on the bed, his thighs settling on either side of her hips. His eyes pinned her in place, and fear stirred in her heart. She batted it back. He was her husband. Handsome. Charming. A duke. She had waited her whole life for him. There was no reason to fear him. None at all.

His eyes grew darker as they gazed down at her. Deep and dark. She blinked and looked away, looking back only when he said her name.

“Annalise. Look at me.” He loomed over her, his hands coming to rest on either side of her head, trapping the long strands of her hair beneath his palms.

She wet her lips. “Yes.”

He brought his face closer, his mouth a hair’s breadth from hers. The brandy on his breath wafted over lips. “Are you ready?”

She inhaled a sharp breath. No.

“Y-Yes,” she managed to get out, knowing it was her duty to comply. It was right. The correct thing to do. Even if some vague instinct shouted at her to get up, to squeeze out from under him and flee. She nodded. He chose her. Above all others. Even the dazzling Lady Joanna. He cared for her.

His smile deepened, a familiar dimple appearing in his cheek, softening him into that boyishly handsome man she had met so many months ago.

He traced his finger down her cheek. “I’m sorry. This may hurt a bit.”

She nodded jerkily. “I—I know.” She had heard as much from others. Her mother explained it once in somewhat vague terms, but she had understood. And then there had been the other shop girls who worked for Madame Brouchard. They were far more experienced than she. They had always shared stories of their exploits.

His head cocked to the side, his dark eyes glinting. “Do you?”

“I’ve been told as much, yes . . . but afterward it won’t hurt again.”

He angled his head, studying her with a sharpness that made her think of the hawks that had hunted the mice in the field behind the manor home of Mrs. Danvers, her mother’s employer. “No. I suppose it won’t. You shall never feel pain again beyond this initial discomfort. That is some comfort, at least. Cling to that, my dear.”

His hand moved so quickly then that she could not calculate his intent.

There was a flash of white, a blur of the pillow coming toward her, but she could not comprehend its purpose.

Until it was too late.

Until the soft, luxuriant fabric slapped down on her face, plunging her into a world of relentless dark and pain.

Her neck snapped back as he pushed down. Hard. Bearing her head and shoulders deep into the bed. She felt the bruising pressure of his two hands on her face, one at her cheek and another at her chin.

She opened her mouth but couldn’t cry out. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t breathe.

The smooth cotton filled her mouth, covering her tongue, muffling her sounds. Wild, panicked half-words and fractured thoughts.

No . . . Please . . . Don’t . . . Why. . .

Her hands searched, flailed all around her, grabbing at the pillow, clenching its softness in aching-tight fingers, desperate to rip the offending object from her face.

No good. He held tight and pushed, pushed, pushed.

Her legs kicked. Even her lame leg lashed out, her heel beating uselessly on the bed, fighting against the crushing weight of him. Her husband. Killing her . . .

Fear closed around her. Oh, God. I’m dying.

A desperate burning withered her lungs. She struggled against him, against her death. Her hands found his arms, his neck, his face. She clawed, scratched, scored his flesh until she felt his blood wet her nails. His curse dimly registered. She was rewarded with a sharp explosion of knuckles to her ribs. She gasped on a mouthful of linen. No air. No air anywhere.

A smooth blanket of calm settled over her, edging out the sharp sting of panic. Even the pain in her shriveling lungs abated.

Fighting wouldn’t stop him. It wouldn’t save her. She was too weak.

Faces flashed through her mind, her mother, the children in her village, Mrs. Danvers, the shop girls she lived with. Their eyes watched her, floating above her where Bloodsworth pinned her to the bed. Their eyes surveyed her as they had in life. Scornful. Judging. She could hear their voices.

Useless cripple. Weak.

She stilled. Utterly. Her hands fell limply at her sides, heavy as lead. Her chapped fingers opened, unfurling like the softest of petals. Fighting only proved to him she still lived. Only made him keep killing her.

Perhaps if she held herself still he would think he had succeeded. That he had successfully murdered her.

And perhaps he had. She could feel nothing anymore. A dark fog rolled in, dimming her awareness, eating at her thoughts, devouring the last of her.

All there was left. All there would ever be.





Chapter Three





Consciousness pulled at her. Eyes still closed, Annalise floated, flying, arms suspended at her sides.

A heavy, pulling throb in her head and a sharp sting in her ribs pawed at her—urging her to dive back into the comfort of oblivion. But something else nagged at her, urging her to wake up. A memory. Something she shouldn’t forget. It sank its teeth through the fog of her thoughts, hunting her.