Page 30 of His Prince
It’s then that I let the tears fall. They spill down my cheeks, my chest heaving as I struggle for breath. This whole week has been surreal, a struggle of epic proportions and now here I am, letting it all out.
I won’t let him see this.
I’ll never let him see me weak.
I fall beneath the water and run my hands through my hair, dragging them down my face, letting the bubbles slip from my lips and drift to the surface. When I finally emerge, I let out a long breath, my eyelashes fluttering open.
And there he is.
Standing before me with his hands in his pockets, his eyes on mine, boring into me.
I don’t say a word, just meet his stare and hold my breath.
“Angel. Husband.”
“Mikhail,” I reply, glad the water has washed the tears away.
“I see you’ve made many changes,” he says lowly, and I purse my lips, not answering. “Is this you throwing a tantrum?” he asks.
“This is me making this hellhole a home.”
His eye twitches as he pulls his hands from his pockets, curling them into fists. It’s almost as if he’s going to strike me, and I feel my nerves jump. If he hits me, I’m gone. I won’t stay. I’ll break that contract faster than he can blink and then let Bane pull apart every bone in his body.
But he doesn’t move toward me, just glowers at me, his nostrils flaring, his chest laboring under each breath.
“You locked the door. To my room.”
“Ourroom. And I did. I’d rather you sleep in your fuck-buddy guest room. Alone.” His eyes narrow. “There’s no need for us to share a bedroom,” I add.
“So you can fuck my men when I’m not looking?”
I let out a small laugh at the hilarity of it all, but bite it off when I see him take another step toward me.
I hate how hot he is at this moment—his tie loosened, his hair a little mussed, his shirt sleeves rolled up his arms, exposing the tattoos on his pale skin. I wish he were a troll, a mean, ugly thing I could ignore, but it’s hard when he looks so good, when he looks like he could throw me on the bed and take me.
You hate him. You hate him.
I have to remind myself of this as he leans toward me, his cold words a harsh whisper against my skin.
“You won’t be fucking anyone but me, sólnyshko.”
“I won’t be fucking you at all,” I spit, but his fingers reach out, trailing up my shoulder, up the back of my neck before tangling in my hair roughly and tugging my head back.
“You’ll do as I say.”
“You don’t know me at all then,” I reply, my neck aching from the odd angle he’s holding me at. But I don’t let him know it hurts. I refuse. Instead, rage bubbles up inside of me and I let my arms fall to the sides of the tub, arching up slightly and letting my body relax.
His fingers tighten for a moment before they release me, his jaw set in anger.
Good. He won’t best me.
He fucking won’t. I refuse.
“I’m glad you understand me,” I say as I meet his cold stare. “If you can fuck anyone you want, I can do the same.”
His eye twitches, and I let myself grin at him, baring my teeth.
And despite it, the false bravado I’m displaying, my legs are trembling beneath the water, my stomach churning. I want to throw up, to heave up the contents of the measly meal I ate.