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20: Sweets for the sweet
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Sold to the coldhearted beast 21: She can’t
*Everly* When I hear the bell above the door tinkling, I know it is him. I do not know how I know. It should sound the same no matter who opens the door, and yet I just know. The dressmaker has just finished helping me dress … for which I am grateful. I suspect he wouldn’t care if I am clothed or not. If he wants to see me, He could just barge into the back room and see me. dressmaker arches a brow. “You think it’s him.” “How do you know?” I can’t help but ask. She smiles. “A little shiver went through you. So tell me, is he a good lover?” I feel the heat of embarrassment swarm over my face, over my entire body. “How can you be so innocent?” The dressmaker asks with a small laugh. “I should probably go.” I do not know why I walk with such purpose, why I do not linger. Being back in his company means that I might indeed discover if he is a good lover … I believe I will know tonight. How much of a reprieve is he giving me? It is him. He is studying the bolts of cloth again. He
Sold to the coldhearted beast 22: The truth of it
*Tristan* I am mucking things up. Royally. I can’t remember the last time that I had handled a situation so poorly. Perhaps when my brothers first returned. I remember the hearty hug that Raphael had given Stephan, and how I had ached because the thought of being wrapped that tightly by such strong arms had forced me to distance myself, to shove whiskey into their hands, to give no indication that I desperately wanted to share in such a joyous reunion. I had been angry with them then. I still am, but it was the fear of what they might realize, what they might understand of my past that held me back. I am having a difficult enough time as it is allowing Eve to cling to my arm as we stroll through the rookeries. But I can’t risk anyone thinking that she isn’t with me. I have a reputation down here. I do not come often anymore, but legends grow with absence, and enough people would remember me that I know we won't be accosted. I had come to understand at breakfast that she isn’t f
Sold to the coldhearted beast 23: Brute or savior ?
*Everly* Hope. I had never considered him to be a man who would hope, who would voice that word. My mom had been a mistress, and an alpha had fallen in love with her. Would this man come to love me? I very much doubt it. I would not be happy in the rookeries, of that I am certain. I would not be content. I would be cold, hungry, and dirty. And very much alone. I angle my chin haughtily. “I’m not certain why you felt compelled to bring me here. I gave you my answer last night.” “I must have misunderstood. I thought you were having doubts.” He says softly. Tightening my fingers on his arm, I shake my head. “Good.” He mumbles.He leads me back to the carriage. After he has handed me up, he says something to the servant, then climbs in and takes his place opposite me. He tugs on his waistcoat as though it has become askew. “Why are we not leaving?” I ask. “My servant is spreading around a few coins.” He tells me. I suspect it is a good many more than a few. Eventually, the carr
Sold to the coldhearted beast 24: Keeping his rules
*Tristan* I had wanted to dine on the terrace with candles flickering because it provides more shadows than light, and I have already given away far too much. I do not want her studying me, trying to decipher me. I also do not want the formal attire that is required in the dining room … although it being my home I can wear, or not wear, whatever I want. I am in a loose white linen shirt. My frock coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth is on the floor of my bedchamber. She is still in the hideous black, but she has removed all the pins from her hair and secured it with a black ribbon. The golden tresses reach the small of her back. It is a vision that will haunt me tonight when I return to the club. I can’t remember the last time I have spent so few hours in a day at my establishment. Odd that I have not given it any thought until this moment. She has been my focus for much of the day. I study her over the rim of my wine glass, imagining her in the clothing that the dressmaker is no doubt
Sold to the coldhearted beast 25: Is he good or bad ?
*Everly* I wait several heartbeats, taking in shallow breaths, working to regain my composure. I unfurl my hands. my nails have dug into my palms. I have come close to drawing blood. When I am sure I am no longer needing the wall for support, I walk on trembling legs to the table, lift the wine bottle, and begin pouring what remains into my glass. I am quite glad he is gone. Or so I tell myself. The alternative is to wish he had stayed, and had he stayed, I have little doubt that things between us would not have ended with the kiss. If not for his silly rule, I would have melted against him, entwined my arms around him, might even … to my immense shame … have begged him to carry me to his bedchamber. He is so skilled at stirring heat and passion, such torrid heat and passion. Considering his stiffness, his distance, his aloofness, I had not expected him to send my senses ablaze. Perhaps in the bedchamber is where he unleashes everything. If so, he might reduce me to a heap of cind
Sold to the coldhearted beast 26: Checking in on her
*Tristan* She has left a lamp burning by the bed. And now I am wondering if she suffers from nightmares, if monsters visit her in sleep as they do me. But then I suspect the existence of monsters is a recent discovery for her. Soon she will add me to the list, if she hasn't already. She appears so innocent in sleep. On her back, but not completely, twisted a little to the side, her hip raised slightly, one bent leg resting over the other. One of her hands lays near her head on the pillow, fingers curled. So trusting, certain I won’t come to her tonight, that I won’t claim what I am owed. I do not know why I am here and not at my club. I had planned to work until dawn, until I was too exhausted to think of her, to want her. Instead the clock had barely struck midnight when I left. Like some misguided fool, I had hoped to find her sitting in the morning room, staring at her father’s portrait, sipping wine or rum or Scotch. I had hoped she had not yet retired, but then she is still n
Sold to the coldhearted beast 27: Bare feet
*Everly* To me the words sound like a challenge. But then from the moment I had awakened to find him standing in my bedchamber, I suspected that something was going on that I didn't quite understand. Orley had always stayed out all night at his clubs. I had assumed Tristan, as the owner, would be occupied until dawn. But then perhaps as the owner he has underlings to do the work. I suspect he is a man who does whatever he wants when he wants. Just as now, in a predatory manner, he moves to sit at the foot of the bed, his back against the post, which can’t be very comfortable. He lifts his legs onto the bed, and I can’t stop my eyes from widening. His feet are naked. Large and naked, with rough soles that look as though he might have run through the streets with no shoes at all. The intimacy of it almost has me crawling out of the bed and going to stand by the window. I don’t know why I am so surprised. He wears only his familiar linen shirt and breeches. I am fairly certain that h
Sold to the coldhearted beast 28: Fate is no friend
*Tristan* I want her flat on her back, with her legs spread. I want to be buried deeply inside her, thrusting, thrusting, until the pleasure carries away the pain of memory. I had told her almost everything, the dark secrets that I have never shared with anyone, that I have been carrying with me since I was ten. I have accumulated more over the years, each one weightier than the one that came before. But if I told her, she would choose the rookeries over me. She would know the blackness that is my soul, the horrors that haunts me, the desperation that had once filled me with dread. Now that desperation is turned toward her. I have never wanted a woman as I want her. If only some of her innocence could wash over me, but it is more likely that my darkness will rub off on her. I hate the thought of touching her, of destroying the light in her eyes, but I hate more the thought of never possessing her. I wait, my patience barely tethered until her fingers are no longer clutching the bl
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