Chapter Twelve: The Bedroom War

Later after our wedding, after I had smiled and stood beside Dominic Blackwood as Scarlett Blackwood, now trudging, fired beside Dominic into his mansion.

And still, I could feel her voice in my ear.

“Run while you still can.”

Dominic hadn’t said a word since.

He didn’t offer comfort. No apology. No awkward joke to soften the blow. Just silence. Cold, clean silence—like the kind you hear in an expensive mausoleum.

We walked down the quiet hallway, side by side but not together. The air was too still, too heavy. My gown rustled with each step, and all I wanted to do was run.

His mother’s words clung to my skin like frost. Her disgust. Her disdain. The way she’d reduced me to nothing in front of everyone—and Dominic had just let it happen.

Not a single defense. Not one.

Well, I will fight for myself from now on. I will be my own defense and I will fucking do it right.

All he had said was that I should follow him, I followed, until I saw that just a door stood at the end of the hallway. I paused.

He opened it.

I didn’t move.

“After you,” he said, voice unreadable.

I walked in, each step louder than it should’ve been. The room was dimly lit, bathed in soft amber from the chandelier above. The fire in the marble hearth flickered low, casting our shadows across silk and velvet.

The door clicked shut behind me with a sound that felt too final.

This wasn’t a suite. It was a sentence.

I turned to him. “What is this?”

“Our bedroom now that we’re a couple, the master bedroom.” He explains like he’s talking to a child.

The master bedroom stretched before me like a showroom—dark velvet walls, gold-edged mirrors, a bed big enough to drown in. The silk sheets were turned down. The fireplace was glowing. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket beside two crystal flutes.

Romantic. Not for me.

I stood at the threshold, frozen in place, fists clenched at my sides. Every inch of me screamed that I didn’t belong here.

Dominic started undoing the cuffs of his sleeves, then his collar.

Like this was just another night. Like we were just another couple.

“This isn’t happening,” I said. “I’m not sleeping here with you.”

Dominic stepped in behind me, unbuttoning his suit without looking at me. “You are.”

“I want another room,” I said, my voice sharp enough to slice air.

He glanced at me, unimpressed. “No.”

“No?” I took a step forward. “This is a thirty-bedroom mansion. Don’t tell me there isn’t another bed.”

“There is,” he said simply. “But you’re my wife. This is your bed.”

I spun to face him, fists clenched. “You’re seriously doing this?”

“You’re the one making it difficult.”

“You’re the one who let your mother humiliate me in front of a hundred people,” I snapped. “And now you want me to play house like nothing happened?”

“She didn’t say anything that wasn’t already public knowledge.”

I blinked, stunned. “Are you kidding me?”

“She’s strategic,” he said, like it was a compliment. “You’ll learn.”

“Oh, I’ve learned plenty.” I laughed, bitter. “You’re all the same. Controlled. Calculated. Completely incapable of real feeling.”

He shrugged out of his suit and dropped it on a nearby chair. “You agreed to this. You signed the contract.”

“I signed it because I had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” he said coolly. “You made yours.”

“You don’t even like me,” I snapped.

He turned then, slowly, like a lion waking up. His eyes met mine—dark, unreadable.

Hot.

“Who said I didn’t like you?”

That shut me up for half a breath.

He pulled off his tie and dropped it on the chair, still too composed. “You married me for power. Don’t start pretending you wanted tenderness.”

I took a step back. “I never asked for tenderness. I asked for respect.”

“You got my name. That’s respect.”

“No, that’s branding.”

I turned away, heart pounding, rage crawling up my throat.

And then—

“Stop walking away from me.”

I paused. Slowly turned.

His voice was low. Measured. Dangerous.

“I said,” he repeated, “stop walking away.”

“You don’t get to order me around.”

“I just did.”

“You’re impossible,” I muttered. “This was a mistake.”

He stepped closer. “You’re my wife now, Scarlett. That comes with expectations.”

I laughed, shaky and furious. “Don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not playing,” he said, eyes narrowing. “But you are.”

His fingers brushed my waist, and my skin lit up like fire beneath silk.

I flinched.

He didn’t stop.

“You stand there acting like you’re above it all. Like you’re still some untouched thing,” he murmured. “But you said yes. You walked down that aisle. You’re in my home. My name is on your body now.”

His hand flattened against my hip. My breath caught and he leaned down to whisper in my ears.

“Maybe I want what’s mine.”

I shoved him. “Don’t touch me.”

His hand dropped. Slowly. But his eyes didn’t waver.

He tilted his head, just slightly. “You’re right. The contract says no intimacy.”

“Good,” I snapped. “Then back off.”

“But it didn’t say anything about wanting it.”

My cheeks flushed with heat—rage, embarrassment, shame, desire. I didn’t even know anymore.

“You think this is sexy? Cornering me? Pressuring me like this?”

He stepped closer again.

“I think you’re scared.”

“Of you?” I scoffed. “Please.”

“No,” he said quietly. “Of wanting something from someone who doesn’t love you.”

My throat tightened.

“Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it?” he asked. “You let the Reynolds family walk all over you. Let them tear you apart piece by piece. And now you’re terrified you’ll have no choice but do it again.”

He wasn’t yelling. He didn’t need to.

His words hit harder in a whisper.

“Never, I won’t let you or anyone ever treat me like that anymore.”

He stared at me for a while, desire and something so close to pride shining in his eyes, then he pushed away with a smile. “Good, Always remember that. Fight all the way, never let anyone treat you like shit again.”

Huh? I stare after him like a dummy. What just happened?

Was he being mean to me just to test me? To remind me to stand for myself and never break again?

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a velvet whisper. “But tell me something… why are you still here? Why didn’t you run after my mother tried to rip you apart in front of a hundred people? Why didn’t you scream, cry, storm out?”

“I wanted to,” I admitted.

He reached up—fingertips brushing a loose curl from my cheek.

“But you didn’t,” he said. “You stayed. You stood taller.”

“You think that means I want this?”

“I think it means you want to win.”

His eyes dropped to my mouth.

And suddenly, he was so close I could taste his breath.

Tension snapped through the air like static. I hated how aware I was of him—his scent, his heat, the way his gaze pinned me like prey.

“This marriage is a lie,” I said, my voice cracking. “You said it yourself. No intimacy. No emotion. No—”

“No touch?” he asked, his hand grazing my hip.

I sucked in a breath.

“You agreed to no love,” he whispered, “but you never said anything about curiosity.”

My skin lit up like fire beneath his palm.

I backed away. “Don’t.”

He followed.

I backed into the bed frame.

He caged me in.

My pulse was a drum in my ears. My legs trembled. Not from fear. From rage. From heat, heat that pooled between my thighs and ran down my legs. From the kind of unspeakable ache that comes when someone touches you not because they love you—but because they know they can make you break.

His hand slid to the small of my back. “You’re shaking.”

“Because I hate you.”

“You don’t know me well enough to hate me.”

“Then let me go so I can start.”

He didn’t smile.

He just leaned in until his lips grazed mine—but didn’t kiss.

Just hovered.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

I swallowed. My body wanted to lean in.

My mind wanted to slap him.

“Stop,” I whispered.

He pulled back immediately.

His hand dropped from my waist.

Silence.

The air cooled.

He stepped away and walked to the window, watching the city below like it was more interesting than anything we’d just done.

“You’re not a pushover,” he said.

“No,” I snapped, still breathless.

“So why did you let the Reynolds family ruin you?”

My entire body froze.

My spine. My throat. My lungs.

He turned back to me, eyes unreadable. “Why didn’t you fight them?”

Tears threatened, but I refused to let them fall. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

“I just did.”

“You don’t know what it’s like—being trapped in a house full of wolves pretending to love you.”

“No,” he said, his voice unreadable. “But I know what it’s like to be raised by one.”

I blinked. He didn’t elaborate.

He walked to the couch and pulled off his tie.

“I’ll sleep here,” he said. “For now.”

I didn’t say anything.

I just stood there, shaking.

I hated him.

I hated how he made me feel seen and stripped raw at the same time.

I hated that some part of me—deep, hidden—had wanted him to kiss me.

Because at least then, I’d know what it felt like to be touched without pity.

He stretched out on the couch, shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes closed like this was just another Tuesday.

I slipped into the massive bed alone.

The sheets were cold.

But not colder than him.