Sunrise Malice: Chapter 22

We fall into a routine.

Julien’s up early. He makes coffee and leaves some for me before he disappears for the day. I head into the hospital as soon as I’m allowed and bring Kim whatever she asks for, which is mostly Starbucks and these really terrible donuts from down in the cafeteria that she claims are the best-tasting pastries in the whole wide world. I remain very skeptical. I spend the day with her and notice a rhythm to her moods: happy and drugged, grumpy and in pain, happy and drugged, asleep. I go home after visiting hours and Julien is either working in his room, lifting weights on the terrace, or still at the family mansion. I lock myself in my room until the next day.

Then we do it again.

I’m not unhappy, exactly. I’m not happy either. Mostly I exist in this gaze of exhausted worry.

I’m nervous for Kim and afraid she won’t ever fully recover.

I’m afraid for Julien and worry the war won’t end anytime soon.

Basically, my whole life is a haze of anxiety, and I know there’s one thing that might help alleviate some of my anguish.

Except he’s off limits.

Especially when he’s out lifting weights, which is what he’s doing on this beautiful Saturday morning. I drink good espresso and lounge in the living room flipping through channels and trying not to notice my extremely good-looking, extremely ripped husband doing bicep curls on the other side of the glass.

Unfortunately, it’s really hard not to notice.

The sunlight is perfect. Like, seriously, it’s almost as if someone’s filming a movie out there, or like God herself is trying to make me want Julien more than I already do.

It streams through his thick, dark hair, and sparkles off the sweat on his tan skin. Even his tattoos seem more vibrant this morning.

And the faces he makes. Oh, my sweet baby Jesus, the way he grunts and grimaces as he gets tired during his reps.

It’s enough to put me in the hospital right beside Kim.

Honestly, I’d probably be safer there.

Safer from myself, anyway.

Instead of here, sitting on this couch, staring at my gorgeous husband and fantasizing about all the filthy things I absolutely do not want to do with him.

He comes back in and makes a show of getting water from the kitchen. I glance over as he wipes himself off with a little towel, and it’s almost like something from a dirty movie or a music video.

Men aren’t supposed to look that obscenely good.

And yet my husband absolutely does.

“Got big plans for today?” he asks, standing at the end of the couch.

I force myself not to stare at his muscular chest. Eye contact, Brianne, get it together, you’re not a horny teenager… anymore, anyway. “I was going to visit with Kim, that’s all.”

He grunts and nods. “You’re a good friend.”

“Not good enough, apparently. If I were, she probably wouldn’t be in there.”

“Still blaming yourself?” He sits on the arm of the couch. I glance at his muscular thigh—since when did I turn into a freaking thigh girl?—and lick my lips at my mouth watering. God, this man.

“Just stating a fact, that’s all.”

He grunts, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, make sure the guards are following.”

“I always do.”

“You are a good girl, aren’t you?” My eyes snap up to his. He’s got a little smirk on his lips. “What’s the matter? You follow the rules. That makes you a good girl.”

“That’s not really a phrase most people use casually. I know what you’re doing.” I hop up from the couch and feel his eyes staring at my body as I walk away.

“What am I doing then?”

“I’m not playing the game, Julien.” I refuse to look at him as I toss back the last of my coffee and put the mug in the sink.

“No game, wifey. Just stating a fact. I told you that we need to make sure you’re guarded at all times, and you’ve done a very good job sticking to it. That makes you a very good girl.”

He’s grinning now. I glare at him, arms crossed, getting annoyed. This is the most he’s said to me in days and he’s wasting it on stupid teasing flirtation? This man knows how to piss me off, and he’s not afraid to do it.

“Why don’t you go stare at yourself in the mirror and lift some more weights and leave me out of it,” I mutter at him, trying to move past.

He catches me by the waist. I yelp and look up at him in surprise. His smile is gone, replaced by something else. A serious stare, something hard and unyielding. “I’m getting tired of the silent treatment.”

“There’s no silent treatment. Let me go.”

“You haven’t so much as glanced in my direction since I got you off that night.”

I shiver and suck in a breath before I think to hide my reaction. We haven’t talked about this at all—even though it’s been running through my mind on a constant loop since it happened.

“That’s not true. We’re just… on different schedules.”

“Right, I forgot. You sit in here avoiding me, while pretending not to watch me working out, because you’re desperate for another taste of what it’s like to be with me, right, little wife? But you’re too stubborn to do anything about it.”

“That—that’s not—it couldn’t be more—” I stammer at him before putting both hands on his chest and pushing.

I gain about two inches of space, and also a handful of delicious and impressive muscle, which does nothing for my case.

“We can just talk about what happened. Clear the air and move on. Is that what you want?”

“I want you to let me go.”

His grip tightens on my waist and he roughly pulls me closer. “Why are you being like this? I tried to give you space. I tried to wait you out. But apparently, you’re stubborn as fuck, and that isn’t happening. So now I’m making the first move.”

“If you think this is a move—” I jerk myself back. “Then you must be a crazy person.”

“We’re married, Brianne⁠—”

“Fake married,” I amend, interrupting him.

“—yes, but we’re still married, whether you like it or not. We share a space, an apartment, a life, and you can’t just pretend like I don’t exist forever. You have to talk to me sometime.”

“I’m not trying to be like that,” I say, deflating a little bit. He’s being—not exactly reasonable, but understandable at least. From his perspective, we had one night of sin, got together and did some admittedly very, very good sex stuff, and now I’m treating him like he doesn’t exist.

“Then what are you being like?” He stares at me, strangely intense and earnest all at once.

“I’m trying to protect myself.”

His grip lessens. I could get away if I wanted, but I don’t. I like the way he’s touching me and the way he looks at me, and it doesn’t help that all he’s trying to do is understand why I’ve been avoiding him.

And how am I supposed to explain it? Sorry, husband, you ate me out so good I decided we can’t speak or else I’m going to ride your dick into sweet oblivion?

Not exactly the best look for my dignity, even if that’s the truth.

“You don’t have to protect yourself from me.”

I almost laugh. “Actually, I really, really do.”

“You’re my⁠—”

“Stop saying wife, okay? We both know this is a deal. You only married me because you wanted to avoid some girl named Collette.”

“And because I wanted a deeper connection back to the Hayes Group,” he says gently, shaking his head. “That doesn’t really change anything. We’re in this now, and we’re in it together. You can’t keep walking around my apartment, pretending like I don’t exist. I won’t have it.”

“You won’t have it?” I finally do bark out a laugh. “What, are you getting all controlling caveman on me now? Are you going to throw me over your shoulder, carry me into your room and claim me?”

His eyes smolder and I realize that was the exact wrong thing to say.

“You’d fucking like that,” he says, pulling me tight again, his hips pressing to mine. I’m breathing hard at the smell of his slightly damp and sweaty body. It’s musky, but not overpowering—almost sweet and sensual. His lips part, and I stare at his tongue. The tongue that did some very incredible things to my body not that long ago.

“I just need space.”

“And I’m tired of giving it to you.” He bends down and his lips brush against my neck. I’m breathing fast now, heart racing wild and out of control. “No more pretending like I don’t exist.”

“Since when do you get to make these decisions?”

“Since I decided I’m tired of playing your game. You’re mine, Brianne. You’re my wife. Fuck the reasons we started this. I won’t have you pretending like I’m invisible.”

“If I promise to start saying good morning, will you let me go?”

“Not good enough.” He kisses my neck and I let out a whimper. An actual, honest whimper, which basically proves to him how much I want this. “I want you sleeping in my bed.”

My mouth drops open. “Absolutely not. I can’t. I mean⁠—”

“You’ll be safe with me, Brianne,” he whispers, his mouth against my earlobe.

I want to say yes. I want to crawl under the covers with him and let him do all the filthy things I know he wants. We can knock out my list in a single night, in a burst of glorious, sweaty, filthy sex. I want to let him break my back and ruin me to the point where I can’t walk, because I don’t really want to, because I’m too busy getting fucked into a mindless slurry.

But I can’t, for all the same reasons, and then some.

A loud knock at the door interrupts the moment. He’s staring at me, inches away, and this time I manage to twist from his grasp. “Who’s that?” I ask, walking quickly down the hall. My knees feel weak and a light sweat’s rolling down my back.

Julien follows. “Don’t use that as a distraction.”

“Might be important. It’s probably a package, right?” I grab the knob and pull it open. “Yep, a package, just like I thought.”

It’s a medium-sized box lying on the threshold. There’s a lot of tape wrapped around it, and I bend over to pick it up, but Julien grabs my shoulder. “Wait,” he says, eyebrows tugged down. “Hold on a second.”

“What’s wrong?”

He’s staring at the box. “There’s no label.”

“Could be on the other side.”

“And we don’t get packages that size delivered right to the door. The front desk handles larger mail.”

I frown because that’s true, normally we get a slip and we have to go down to collect the big stuff. “Then who the hell⁠—”

Julien grabs me by the wrist and yanks me into the apartment. The package beeps once, twice, three times, and he’s throwing me deeper down the hall and shouting “Get the fuck down!” as he covers me with his body.

The world shatters into a nightmare of heat, light, and broken glass. We’re thrown off our feet, but his arms stay wrapped tightly around me, holding on tight, and it feels like we were just hit by an invisible fist. All the air’s knocked from the lungs.

The hallway erupts.

Flames tear down the hall and the ground shakes as the world explodes around us.

The sound makes my skull rattle and I can feel it deep inside my bones.

I hit the ground hard and my head bounces off the hardwood floor.

I suck in a painful gasp like fire’s rolling down my throat and try to scream as Julien’s body covers mine. There’s wood and glass and shards everywhere, but my skull’s swimming and the noise keeps hammering over and over or maybe that’s my heart pounding, and the last thing I hear before everything goes dark is Julien’s groan of pain as he curls tighter around me.