Unraveled (Turner, #3)

She should have known better. She sat up and brought her knees to her chest. He pulled on his trousers and then his shirt.

“That,” he continued haughtily, “was not what I wanted from you at all.”

She had agreed to an entire month of this. Those days seemed to stretch in front of her like an endless burden. She leaned her forehead against her knees and listened to him dress. She’d thought he would spend the night. She’d thought she was getting a lover, not a…not a procurer.

“Next time, then, I’ll make sure to conform to your expectations, Your Worship.”

He sighed, and wood scraped against the floor. The bed felt suddenly cold, no matter the softness of the coverlet that she pulled around her. It no longer seemed a soft, sensual place, this bed, a place to be wooed and won. It seemed a prison of linen and wool. And she’d agreed to it.

She was aware of all her muscles—the deep, strange soreness, pulsing inside of her. Her body seemed to stretch out in satisfied lassitude.

She’d had intercourse with him, and now she couldn’t even remember why it had seemed so beautiful. She’d made a mistake, a dreadful mistake.

She bit her lip, but a tear escaped anyway. She turned away so he wouldn’t see it trace down her cheek. She willed herself not to sniff. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

Fabric rustled again, and his steps neared her. His hand fell on her shoulder. “Miranda…”

She lifted her head haughtily. “I don’t believe I’m paying you for affection, either.” She was proud that her voice didn’t waver once.

His hand fell away. “Very well, then.” He turned and left.

The click of his shoes against the floor made a cruel sound. He shut the door behind him. She could hear him descending the stairs.

He’d been quite clear as to his expectations. She’d made up the rest herself—told herself a fairy tale of affection, based on evidence that now seemed utterly scanty. Attila the Hun probably liked cats. Attila the Hun could probably laugh at a woman’s jokes, up until he’d had his turn at her.

And Turner wanted that from her again—forty-something more times. Forty more times, she’d have to welcome him inside her, pretend that nothing was wrong. She didn’t even want to look at him right now. She wanted to screw her eyes shut and avoid everything.

She’d wanted him, and he’d only wanted to slake his lust. But she couldn’t call him a liar. She had lied to herself. She’d been so eager to give herself to him that she’d invented affection out of what was merely physical passion. She’d been rapturously silly about everything about him. He just wanted her body.

She curled into a little ball on the bed. The sheets still smelled like him. And even if she rang the bell and demanded that her housekeeper change the linen, it wouldn’t alter the dreadful truth.

He’d purchased everything in this house. Including her.

“Remember this,” she said aloud into the night. The tears began to come then—not just for him, nor for her misplaced affection, but for the lonely month ahead of her.

She’d thought this would mean something. And it did: it meant a thousand pounds and cold sheets.





Chapter Twelve




“MIRANDA.”

She opened her eyes. It was not yet morning. Little crystals of salt clung to her eyelashes, the remnants of last night’s emotional outburst. She looked around her blearily, the world fuzzy and black in her first blinking awakening.

“Miranda.” The voice came again. Turner was sitting next to her on the bed. His form was a dark, warm silhouette. He must have seen her turn her head, because he took something from his pocket and set it on the bedside table next to her.

A watch.

It was early morning, and the memory of the last evening swept over her like a breath of cold air.

He’d had her. He’d hurt her. And now he wanted to do it again. Miranda clutched her rumpled chemise to her. If there could be anything less romantic than awakening to this, she didn’t know. When he’d talked in the churchyard about having her forty times, it had seemed utterly thrilling. Right now, doing it even once more would chafe.

He must have sensed that something was wrong, because he leaned over and took her hand. She sat up, groggily. Before she quite understood what was happening, he wrapped her fingers around something, holding it in place until she was awake enough to understand that it was a clay mug, warm, and filled three-quarters with a hot liquid.

She took a sip. It was warm, spiced milk. The gesture confused her. If he didn’t want her affection, why bother with such trivialities?

“Turner?” She managed to keep the quaver from the word.

“Last night ended badly.” His voice was quiet and sharp. “I didn’t say what I should have. You took me quite by surprise.”

She took another sip. It heated her.

“I told you when we entered this arrangement that I didn’t want your affection, but I don’t believe I told you what I wanted you for.”