All Chapters of Unholy Matrimony: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

EveThe glass I shattered last night has been swept away.I woke up to a pristine floor, a pristine room, and a pristine silence. It’s as if my outburst never happened. As if my rage is just another mess for the staff to clean up while Dominik pretends he doesn’t have a wife who is slowly losing her mind from his enforced celibacy.But tonight, he can’t hide.Tonight is the annual charity gala for the City Preservation Trust. It’s one of the few mandatory events on the Grimaldi calendar. A night where the sharks put on tuxedos and pretend to care about historical architecture while laundering money through donations.He has to take me. It would be a weakness to appear alone. It would invite questions.And if I’m going to be on his arm, I’m going to make sure he regrets every single second of it.I stand before the mirror in the dressing room. Claudia has outdone herself, though she looked terrified when I rejected the modest navy gown Dominik selected and pointed to this one instead.

EveThe sun cuts across the duvet in a sharp, bright line, but the heat in the bed comes entirely from us.Dominik is draped over me, a heavy, possessive weight that should be suffocating. His arm is thrown across my waist, his face buried in the crook of my neck, his breathing slow and deep against my skin. We’re tangled in a mess of sheets and limbs, the air in the room thick with the scent of sex and sweat.It has been weeks of this. A relentless, fevered campaign.Since the day I stormed his office and shattered the glass wall of his control, life has settled into a new, terrifying rhythm. We are no longer enemies in the trenches, we’re co-conspirators in a war against biology. He wants an heir. I want him. I want the oblivion he gives me. I want the way the world narrows down to just his hands and his mouth and the friction of our bodies.But there is a problem.My brain is rotting.I stare up at the ceiling, tracing the intricate plaster molding with my eyes. My body is exhaust

EveThe bass from the club upstairs vibrates through the concrete floor, a dull, rhythmic thud that mimics a heartbeat. But down here, the air doesn't smell like expensive perfume and spilled champagne.It smells of bleach, ozone, and copper.I’m sitting on a black leather sofa in the soundproofed basement of The Obsidian. My red dress is a splash of arterial color in a room of greys and blacks. My hands are folded in my lap. I’m sitting perfectly still, forcing my spine to remain rigid against the cushion.Dominik is standing five feet away.He’s removed his tuxedo jacket and rolled the sleeves of his white dress shirt up to his elbows, exposing the thick cords of muscle in his forearms. He looks calm. He looks like he’s about to sign a contract.But he’s currently breaking a man’s fingers.The man is Carlo Gallo. The Director of Procurement. The rat I found in the spreadsheets earlier. He’s strapped to a heavy steel chair, his face a swollen ruin of tears and snot.Dominik insisted

Eve Rain lashes the windshield like bullets, smearing the city lights into long, jagged streaks of neon. I grip the steering wheel of the Audi R8 until my knuckles are bone-white. The engine growls beneath me, a beast responding to my fury.Dominik thinks I’m at home. He thinks I’m soaking in a tub of rose petals, shaving my legs, preparing myself to be mounted and bred like a good little wife.He has no idea that I’m three car lengths behind his security convoy, tailing him like a ghost.I glance at the GPS tracker on the dashboard console. The blinking red dot representing Dominik’s armored SUV is moving steadily toward the Shipping Yards. He’s taking the direct route. The predictable route.Of course he is. Because he’s arrogant. Because he thinks swapping out one guard fixes the problem."Idiot," I hiss, slamming my foot down on the accelerator to close the gap as we merge onto the industrial highway.The Shipping Yards loom ahead. A skeletal landscape of cranes and stacked conta

DominikThe silence in the armored SUV is louder than the gunfire at the Shipping Yards was two nights ago.Eve is sitting next to me. Her thigh is pressed against mine. Her hand is in my hand. I can feel the warmth of her skin, the steady pulse in her wrist, the shallow rise and fall of her chest.She’s here. She’s safe. She’s mine.So why does she feel like she’s a thousand miles away?I stare straight ahead at the partition, watching the city blur past in streaks of rain-slicked neon, but my focus is entirely on the woman beside me. My senses are tuned to her frequency, a habit I developed to survive her attempts to run from me, and now, a habit I can’t break.Something changed in the gallery.Before she went to the bathroom, she was tense. She was annoyed with the Senator. But she was with me. We were a unit. A wall of fancy clothes and stunning silhouettes, standing against the vultures.Then she vanished for four minutes.I counted every second. I watched the door like a hawk wa