Bound To His Bride Read online

  Bound To His Bride

  Madison Faye

  Contents

  Mailing List

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Also by Madison Faye

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright © 2019 Madison Faye

  Cover: Coverlüv

  Photography: Wander Aguiar

  Models: Jonny James, Emily Jones

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  1

  Colm

  The rooftop is silent, the wind whipping quietly around my face as my eyes narrow at my target. She can’t see me, though I can see her, right through the living room window of her fourth-floor walk-up apartment. Blonde hair cascades across her face, hiding those gorgeous baby blues I know she’s got. Her body sways, her hips roll, and my cock fucking aches for her.

  She always makes me hard. Every single time I see her like this, which has been a lot these last six months. She could be fully dressed or fresh out of the shower—bare skin blushing and beaded and glistening with water. It doesn’t matter. One glance at her. One thought of her. One mention of her name, and my cock is harder than steel.

  It’s always been that way.

  She’s not aware of the eyes I’ve had on her these last few months, of course. Hell, I know damn well it’s why a woman like her would dare waltz around her apartment naked. She’s not that type of girl. She’s no exhibitionist, or tease. Well, not a conscious tease, at least. The building I’m perched on top of which faces her windows is abandoned—windows boarded up and everything. But up here? Well, up here, I’ve got an unfettered, unrestricted view of what’s mine.

  Tonight, she’s somewhere in-between clothed and naked—a flimsy tank top, braless, and little black panties. She twirls, and I grin. She’s listening to her favorite song again. I know it’s Peter Gabriel’s In Your Eyes even with the windows closed. Hell, I’d know the sight of her dancing like that to that damn song anywhere. I’d know it blind and deaf, so long as I could lay a hand on that swaying hip.

  Her soft, full tits sway gently under that cotton top, nipples hard and straining at the soft material. I growl, feeling my balls swell and my cock throb hotly against my thigh within my jeans. She turns again, giving me a flash of that perfect, utterly fucking bitable ass. That spankable ass. The kind of ass a man could find God in. Her little black lace thong splits up the back, letting my eyes feast on the sight of the twin tight globes. My jaw tightens, and before I can even stop myself, my hand slides down to cup my swollen bulge. I grunt, feeling how fucking hard I am as my eyes drink her in.

  There’s a pitiful sounding whimper behind me, and I whirl, furious, the moment shattered. I snarl at the piece of shit lying there on the flat-top roof, and before he can utter another fucking moan, I’m crush my fist across his jaw. He slumps unconscious again, and my eyes narrow to slits before I spit on his chest.

  Fucker.

  My eyes drag up from him, darting over the roof at the five other men who’re now also slumped over and unconscious. A trail of destruction leading from the access doorway to the stairs over to my perch across from her windows.

  A trail of destruction. My whole damn life has been a trail of destruction.

  Except for her.

  I pull the gun out of the shoulder holster under my jacket and check the magazine. I snap it back in with a satisfying click before I turn back, my eyes settling on her. She’s still swaying those goddamn tempting hips, none the wiser about what’s gone on across the alley from her apartment. I groan, watching her dance, my cock aching, my balls desperate for release.

  It’s been months. Months since my trail of destruction caught up with me.

  With us.

  Abby knew what I was when she married me. She knew part of the job that came with marrying me was full-time taming the beast inside of me. And she did, for years. But, you work for the mob long enough doing the kind of shit I do for them, and it hits a boiling point. And it did.

  She got tired of the late nights, and the things I couldn’t talk about. She got tired of the demons eating me through, the blood under my nails and on my clothes. She called it a “a break.” “Some breathing room.” But I know what it was. It was survival. It was desperation not to get dragged into the same darkness that was slowly eating me alive from the inside out. And with a girl as pure and as good as Abby?

  That wasn’t a world for her, and she had to swim for land. I don’t blame her, but I never should have let it get to where it got.

  No, it hasn’t taken six months for me to understand this. It hasn’t taken six damn months without her to “get it.” But it’s taken six months for me to hit my own fucking breaking point. For the last six months, the plan has been to leave. I’ve had my fill of this life, and of drinking the poison of the Lucreta mafia family. Abby walking out the door was my wakeup call, and I’ve spent the last six months building something new—my secret empire. I’ve been planning my escape from this world ever since she left.

  Tonight’s events have accelerated my plans.

  I stopped by here tonight for her—to look at her one last time from this vantage point. And that’s when I found the jackals up here, waiting to pounce. They weren’t expecting me, they were here for her. And that could only mean one thing—that despite my careful planning and covering my tracks and my plans, the Lucretas found out. Somehow, they got wind of my plans to get the fuck out of this life, and that’s why their goons were here for her. To get to me.

  Why her? Why the anonymous, random little blonde temptress who’s been haunting my nights as I sit here like a silent shadow watching her night after night?

  Easy. Because she’s not anonymous. Because it’s no accident that it’s her that I’ve watched and lusted after and craved these last six months. Because the girl both innocently and temptingly dancing to Peter Gabriel across the alley, the girl I’ve been obsessing over, isn’t random at all.

  That girl is Abby.

  …That’s my wife.

  They thought they could hurt her to get to me. They were very fucking wrong. They underestimated me and what I’m capable of. But more importantly, they underestimated the beast of fury inside of me. And now, there’s going to be hell to pay.

  The mob sowed the wind with fire. Now, they’re gonna reap the whirlwind.

  But first, her. First, my one and only. My heart and soul. My primal addiction, my craving. My everything. Tonight, I’m correcting what I should have corrected months, or years ago. Tonight, I’m fixing what I broke.

  Months ago, I let the only goodness in my world—my literal guardian angel and saving grace—walk out of my life. But tonight, I’m taking her back. Tonight, I’m making her mine all over again. Tonight, I’m going to remind her of the vows we spoke. I’m going to remind her how mine she is. I’m going to prove to her that she’s bound to me, and I to her.

  I never should have let her leave, and I never will again.

  Not ever.

  2

  Abby

  The song ends, and my body stops moving as I take a deep breath. I push my fingers through my long blonde hair, str
etching and feeling the blood pumping through my body. Four songs in a row have me feeling alive, if not a little winded. But damn it feels good to move, and to dance, even if it’s alone.

  I pluck my wine glass from the side table next to my couch, taking a few sips of chilled chardonnay before setting it back down. I turn to the window, stepping over to it and sighing as I look out at the building across the alley from my Brooklyn apartment—empty and abandoned and boarded up.

  It’s one of the reasons I moved here after… well, everything that happened. I like having the wall of faceless boarded windows across from my view. I know, it seems bleak, and maybe even creepy to some. But to me, it just feels like a wall, I guess. It feels like protection, and that’s a feeling I’ve been needing since I left him.

  …Since I walked away from my husband, and since he vanished.

  I turn away, going to put a new song on.

  I want to roll my eyes—for all of it. For drinking wine alone in my apartment in my damn underwear and having a little private dance party on a Friday night. And when I put on that song—our song, it just makes it worse. Because now it’s a solo, wine-soaked pity party dance party.

  But screw it.

  The song comes on, and I down the last of my glass of wine and set it down before I start to dance. Dancing, like my painting, is an escape. Just like the empty building across the street is a protective wall from the world. No, it’s not from him I felt like I needed protection. The opposite, really. When I was with Colm, it was like nothing could touch me. It was like having this fiercely protective, ever-present force guarding me, always. Even with the work he did, I never felt unsafe.

  And when I left, it wasn’t fear for me, it was fear for him. It was seeing the darkness consuming him, and knowing I couldn’t drag him out of it. I left because it was the only move I thought I had left. I thought it would trigger him into following, and we could both get out of the world that was slowly killing him inside and start fresh.

  But he didn’t. And a few days after I’d walked out, he was gone. Vanished, disappeared. He’d gone dark before, with the work for the mafia he did. But I always knew when he was going dark. This time though, I got a taste of what the rest of the world must have felt when he dropped off the face of the planet.

  Emptiness. Emptiness and hurt. But mostly, regret.

  It’s been six months since I left our old apartment in tears, and six months since the man who was my entire world vanished from the earth. I know he’s not dead—I know he’s not. Because I’d feel it if he was, and I know that. I’m not very religious or anything, but I know Colm and I were as close as two people could be. I know he was my everything. My soulmate. The puzzle piece to complete me.

  He was all of me.

  Yes, I’m mad. As much as I hate to admit, there were reasons I did what I did. The late nights, the darkness in his eyes where I used to only see light. The bloodied knuckles, and drawn look to his face. He wasn’t doing it consciously or on purpose, and I know he was trying to get us a better life. But slowly, he was picking the horrible people he worked for over me, and more often.

  But mostly, I’m mad that he disappeared like that. I’m mad that he let me leave. Walking out those months before was stupid, and I’ve spent six months regretting it, and hating myself for it.

  But mostly it comes back to him, because mostly, I just miss him.

  The song ends, and I sigh. I pluck my empty wine glass from the end table and carry it with me as I head into the kitchen. My phone dings, and I glance down, only to groan and roll my eyes.

  Great.

  Belinda, my friend from the gallery I work at, has been working over-time trying to “get me back in the game.” Spoiler alert, I want nothing to do with any sort of game, but that hasn’t stopped her trying. At the moment, she’s texting me something about “a catch” she’s got all set up for me.

  She means well. Belinda is divorced herself, from what sounds like a truly horrible, mentally and physically abusive ex-husband. So, that’s the lenses she sees me through. But my situation isn’t like that.

  For one, Colm never hurt me. He never scared me. He never raised his voice to me, was never even angry around me, even when I knew there was rage roaring through him from the things he did for work. Around me, he swallowed it all away. Around me, the snarling beast I knew he had inside of him was tame, and quiet. I always gave him credit for that, even though he always said it was me that bought him peace.

  “You’re the one that calms the beast inside, love,” he murmurs.

  “You’re just saying that because I’ve got your cock in my hands.”

  He growls, his eyes flashing as his lips sear to mine, and his hands start to peel my clothes away.

  “Well that’s certainly part of it.”

  I whimper as his mouth slides down my bare neck, his gorgeous, muscled, hardened body rippling against mine as he pulls me onto his lap and sinks that cock deep—

  My stupid phone dings again, ripping me out of the flashback fantasy, and I scowl.

  Goddamn it, now what.

  I glance down at my phone again, as Belinda’s latest text lights up the screen, along with a picture of a handsome if not totally boring looking guy.

  His name is Brett. He works in finance. Girl, he’s super cute and he’s just what you need to get back on the horse. Get dressed up, you’re meeting him tonight. Don’t be mad…

  I swear, grabbing up my phone to tell Belinda to please back off, when another text comes through. Again, from her, but this one’s a screen shot of a chat conversation from a dating app. My jaw drops.

  “Oh you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

  Apparently, Belinda’s made a profile for me, along with a freaking picture of me. And she’s been chatting with this Brett guy as me. The heat rises in my face, anger simmering hot inside as my read the conversation of my friend pretending to be me and setting me up for a date with “Brett” for tonight. The conversation continues across four more screen shots, until finally, I get to the part that turns me from pissed off to furious.

  “Are you fucking crazy?!” I scream, dropping the phone to the kitchen counter before angrily snatching it back up and jabbing my finger to call Belinda.

  “You gave him my address?!”

  “Abby, hon—”

  “No, Belinda!” I spit. “Not fucking cool!”

  “Look at him!” She huffs back. “He’s gorgeous, and rich, and available, and it says on his profile that he’s looking for serious commitment!”

  “It says to me that he’s a goddamn stranger, and you told him where I freaking live! That is so not okay!”

  She huffs, like I’m blowing it out of proportion. “Abs, chill. They vet guys for this site.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Well, I google-stalked him, and he’s legit.”

  “Legit Patrick fucking Bateman who’s going to go all American Psycho on me when he gets here! Which is beside the point anyways, because I keep telling you, I’m not—”

  “You’re not looking to date, so you keep saying,” Belinda sighs. “Which is crap, like I keep telling you. Look, Colm is gone, sweetie. And any man who walks out on you doesn’t deserve you anyways.”

  “I left, Belinda. And could we please keep Colm out of th—”

  “Hey, if he can’t handle you at your worst, he doesn’t deserve you at your best,” she snaps.

  I roll my eyes and grind my teeth. And I decide if she quotes one more piece of faux-philosophical Pinterest poetry at me, I’m going to throw my phone out the window.

  And besides that, there’s another part to my whole situation that sets it apart from Belinda’s story, though she doesn’t know it. Aside from Colm not being an abusive douchebag like her ex, there’s one other teeny little detail I haven’t figured out how to tell her.

  I’m not actually divorced.

  I blew up at Colm, I walked out, and then he disappeared. Six months later, I don’t really know what you’d call us
, but I don’t have to be a lawyer to know it’s not “divorced.”

  And so no, I’m not looking to date. I’m not looking to hook up. I’m not even thinking about other men. Because I can’t. I can’t even when I’ve tried. Even after a few glasses of wine, when I’m alone in bed in my new apartment and my fingers start to explore, I can’t even let my fantasies stray. Because try as I might, all I ever end up thinking about as I tease myself and cry out into the empty darkness, is Colm.

  He’s the only man who ever got to me like that, and as much as I hate him for it now that he’s gone, I know he’s the only man who ever will.

  “Look, go on the date, have fun, and if you still want to be mad at me later, you—”

  “I’m still going to be mad at you later,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose with my fingers. “When is this Brett guy supposed to come, anyways?”

  “Eight.”

  My eyes snap to the clock above the stove, and my jaw drops.

  “Fuck! Belinda, that’s in five fucking minutes!”

  “So throw something cute on and get ready! Girl, you’re gorgeous and you know it. You’ll be fine!”

  I groan, shoving my fingers through my hair and pissed that now it’s going to be my job to tell this Brett character that he’s been had, that it wasn’t me he was talking to, and to please forget my address and have a good night. It also means I have to put pants on, which arguably makes me even more ticked off.

  “Belinda—”

  There’s a knock at my door, and I swear.

  “Goddamnit, he’s here.”

  Belinda squeals. “Ooo, I’m so excited.”

  “I’m not even dressed,” I mutter, whirling, looking for sweatpants or something.

  My friend giggles over the phone. “Well, maybe you don’t need serious commitment. Maybe just answer the door and jump his bones?”