My Husband Didn’t Touch Me For 7 Years — Until The Roof Caved In
Part 2
His thumb resting against my jaw felt like a branding iron.
The howling wind in the ruined gallery behind us seemed to fade into a dull, rushing hum.
I stared down into Craig’s pale blue eyes, watching the erratic flutter of his pulse at the base of his throat.
He was looking at my mouth.
Panic, cold and sharp as a butcher’s knife, finally pierced through my shock.
I scrambled backward, my wet skirts twisting violently around my legs.
I slid off his chest, my bare feet slipping on the slick floorboards until my back hit the opposite wall.
I pulled my knees to my chest, shivering violently.
Craig lay there for a second longer, staring at the empty space I had just occupied.
Slowly, heavily, he pushed himself up into a sitting position.
He dragged a hand down his face, smearing plaster dust and water across his cheeks.
“I apologize,” he said, the gravel back in his voice, thick and defensive.
“You are bleeding,” I said, my voice sounding painfully thin.
He touched his temple, his fingers coming away stained a bright, startling crimson.
“It is nothing,” he muttered, hauling himself to his feet and swaying slightly.
He looked massive in the dim light, wild and unkempt, completely divorced from the rigid aristocrat who sat at the opposite end of my breakfast table.
“Head wounds bleed,” I insisted, forcing myself to stand on legs that felt like wet paper.
Craig finally looked at me, really looked at me, seeing my soaked nightgown plastered to my skin.
He stripped off his ruined linen shirt in one violent, fluid motion, leaving him bare-chested in the freezing corridor.
I gasped, taking a reflexive step back as I noticed the large, faded burn scar across his left rib cage.
He balled the wet shirt up and pressed it hard against his bleeding temple.
“Go to your room, Heather,” he commanded, his voice laced with a sudden vicious exhaustion.
“I am perfectly capable—”
“Go,” he snapped, turning and walking down the dark corridor.
His bare feet left faint bloody heel prints on the polished floorboards.
I stood alone in the dark, my jaw clamped shut to keep my teeth from chattering.
I turned and ran toward the east wing, hating the tears of pure irrational frustration that pricked the corners of my eyes.
The next morning broke with a sickly, washed-out light.
I bypassed the breakfast room, physically unable to sit at that mahogany table.
Instead, I walked directly to the upper gallery, where a crew of men were dragging canvas tarps across the yawning hole in the roof.
Craig stood in the center of the devastation, fully dressed in his riding clothes, barking orders with a volatile energy.
He turned sharply, sensing my presence, and stared at me across the wreckage.
He walked toward me, navigating the debris with heavy, deliberate steps.
“Are you injured?” he asked, his gaze dropping to my arms.
“You broke my fall,” I replied flatly.
Without thinking, he reached out and caught my right hand.
A massive, ugly purple bruise ringed my wrist, precisely in the shape of his grip.
His jaw clamped shut, and he dropped my hand as if it had burned him.
“I bruised my wife,” he countered bitterly, his eyes darkening with self-loathing.
He stepped around me and walked out into the corridor.
By ten o’clock that night, Ashwood had settled into a restless, damp quiet.
I sat by the fireplace in my bedchamber, staring blindly at my estate ledger.
A sharp, distinct knock echoed from my bedroom door.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Craig had never been to my room.
Never.
I walked slowly to the door, my hands shaking, and pulled it open a few inches.
Craig stood in the dimly lit corridor holding two crystal glasses and a bottle of amber liquid.
He looked entirely too large for my room, smelling of smoke, old cognac, and tension.
Was I really going to let a single night of adrenaline tear down the fortress I had spent seven years building?
