“Swear all you want, princess.” His hand travels up the back of my thigh, copping a feel as if to further taunt me. “You’re sleeping where you belong.”
“You fucking caveman!” I hiss. “This is assault!”
“This ismarriage,” he counters, striding out of the study and down the hall. “Get used to it.”
I try to twist out of his grip, but it’s useless. He’s too strong, and the angle gives me no leverage. I’m damn near hanging upside down the way he’s slung me over his shoulder.
So… instead, I let him have it with my words. I shout any and everything that comes to mind.
“Everyone was right about you Irish thugs! No class. No sophistication. Just brute force!”
“And yet you married me anyway. What does that say about you?”
“I had no choice, you fucking asshole!”
“There’s always a choice, Simone.” He kicks open the door to our bedroom. “You could’ve run away. Refused at the altar. But you didn’t.”
“Because—”
“Because you’re loyal to your family. Same as me.” He crosses to the bed and dumps me onto it unceremoniously. I bounce against the mattress, scrambling to sit up, glaring daggers at him despite the hair in my face.
“You are unbelievable.”
“So I’ve been told.” He dusts off his hands like he’s completed a chore.
I’m on my feet in an instant, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You don’t get to manhandle me whenever you feel like it! I’m not some toy you can toss around!”
He catches my wrist mid-jab. “In this house, wives sleep in their husband’s bed. Unlesshehas other places to be.”
“Excuse me?! If you think you’re going to be sleeping other places—with other women?—”
“That’s tradition. How things are in this lifestyle.” He releases my wrist and strolls to the door, twisting the lock into place with a click. Then he turns back, his insufferable smirk widening. “Now, you gonna behave yourself? Or am I gonna have to bathe you and dress you for bed too? Don’t get me wrong, princess. I’ll happily take on those tasks. But you probably won’t like it as much as I will.”
My face burns. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me,” he says, unbuttoning his shirt and revealing the hard planes of his tattooed chest. “We’re already married. You can make it easy, or you can make it difficult. Either way, you’re stuck with me.”
Then he turns and disappears into the bathroom, leaving me standing alone.
Shaking with rage.
And an urge that’s far more dangerous.
My first week at Callahan House can only be described as isolated misery.
I discover the extent of my “schedule” that Oona mentioned. Hair appointments. Nail appointments. Facials and skincare treatments. Sessions with a personal trainer at some gym in Brooklyn I’ve never heard of. Even a shopping trip.
But not the kind I’m used to, where me and Chantal wander Fifth Avenue and splurge to our heart’s content.
This trip is supervised by the Callahan security team, two hulking men who follow me through a boutique like silent shadows, sucking any retail therapy joy from me.
I have no freedom.
When I try to leave for LDS Headquarters in Manhattan, I’m stopped at the door by one of the security guys and told I’m not authorized to go.
“Not cleared, Mrs. Callahan,” he says.
“Cleared? Iworkthere!”