King of Masters by Brynn Ford

CHAPTER 24

Stella

ROUNDING THE CORNER, Tally stumbles, laughing manically as her blonde hair falls from her messy updo after a night of drinking. The whole family has been drinking throughout the reception. I threw back a couple of extra shots after Murphy told me what I had to do at the end of the night.

Of all the disgusting, oppressive rituals, I never could have imagined this would be my reality…his family bearing witness to us consummating our marriage.

I’m horrified.

I’m disgusted.

I’m nauseous.

But I have enough liquid courage coursing through me now to make me stubbornly lift my chin, determined to get through this with what little dignity and grace I have left.

Murphy holds my hand as we turn down the long hallway on the second floor, heading for the bedroom…our bedroom.

Where we’ll consummate our marriage.

The other wedding guests are still partying on the first-floor ballroom, unaware of the horrid, archaic act I’m being required to participate in.

I take in a steeling breath as my eyes fall on the line of them—Murphy’s immediate family all lined up with their backs to the outside wall, facing the center of the hallway. Cormac catches a stumbling, giggling Tally, and they join the line at the end as the family shushes them.

I never thought I’d prefer Tally’s obnoxious laughter to silence, but in this moment, I’d welcome it. The line of O’Sheas standing, staring, watching us silently from where they line the hall…it’s eerie.

I look at Murphy because looking at everyone else is making me feel sick. He smiles softly, showing me some encouragement in his expression, but it does nothing for my nerves—it does nothing to ease the awkward pain of being required to participate in this.

Yet it has to be done.

My best friends’ lives are at stake, and I would do anything to save them. I’m more determined now than I’ve ever been before to destroy this business—to make myself, my friends, the world safe from these monsters. I can only do that with my voice, with the power I’ll gain by fully becoming his wife.

I pull back my shoulders and stand tall as Murphy releases my hand. He bends, tugging up the leg of his pants, unsheathing a dagger from a holster around his calf.

I had no idea that was there.

Does he always carry it?

He adjusts his pant leg and straightens, turning to face me, presenting the dagger on his palm. The handle is formed from stacked skulls while crossbones create the hilt. It’s beautifully formed and it’s frighteningly representative of this family.

How many lives have they ruined? How many girls have died at the hands of their owners? How many skulls would line the hall, fill the home, overflow into the garden?

“This dagger is passed from Head of House to Head of House. It’s been in the O’Shea family since the four families’ partnership formed generations ago.”

I nod, but remain quiet.

“Give me your palm.”

“What?”

“Hold out your hand.”

I swallow hard, my pulse kicking up a quick rhythm. My hand trembles as I show him my palm, slowly extending my arm toward him, still so intensely aware of the eyes lining the hall that watch my every move.

Murphy takes my hand, holding it gently, as he lifts his dagger.

“Murphy…”

“Just a nick,” he warns, then slices the tip of the dagger across my palm in a small line.

I hiss, wincing at the sting that shoots through my hand. Warm blood pools and starts to drip, burning my skin as it spills from the wound. He holds out the handle of the dagger, offering it to me. I look up to meet his eyes.

“Do the same to me.”

I look down at the dagger.

He’s giving me his dagger…he’s handing me a weapon.

I could take it and thrust.

I could stab him to death right now.

And then what would I do?

I couldn’t kill the rest of his family before they stopped me. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. The thought of shoving the steel blade inside him makes my stomach roll. It doesn’t matter what he’s done—our painful connection is written in stone, and I think that if his heart stopped, mine would, too. I hate him so much for what he’s done to my life, but my feelings for who I wanted him to be are still so present, so raw, so hopeful, though hope has no place here.

Taking my time, I slip my hand beneath his, his palm up and presented to me. I bring down the tip of the blade, breathe slowly, and make a quick slice on his palm.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

Fuck me.

I hate that he still says that. I hate that he uses it against me. It was something he always said to me on our video chats when we were playing together. He trained me so my pleasure was linked to his “good girl” praise, and now he takes advantage of it.

It works.

We both know that and that’s why he says it.

My breath catches as he lifts my bloody hand, eyes stealing my attention, holding me in his gaze as he bows his head to press his lips to the cut he made. He kisses my hand sensually, a gentle press of his lips that lingers, so sweet, I imagine it could heal the wound. I watch as he lifts his blood-smeared lips from my hand and gives me a nod, indicating I should do the same.

Oh, my God.

My heart is fluttering.

This ritual is bizarre, something that should immediately horrify and disgust me.

So why doesn’t it?

Why does the way he looks at me with my blood staining his lips twist my insides so intensely?

I bend, kissing his wound. His blood is thick as my lips capture it. I straighten and look at him, bringing my fingers up, preparing to wipe the blood from my lips. Before I can, Murphy’s clean hand wraps around the back of my neck, jerks me toward him, and crushes my lips in a bruising kiss.

The passion that exists behind his chaste, closed-mouth kiss stuns me. Our lips are slippery from the thick crimson that coats them, but he firmly holds me in the kiss for seconds. When he breaks, he drops his forehead to mine and looks deeply into my eyes, so painfully deep that for a moment, I forget where I am.

But then he reminds me.

“We each choose one person from the family to enter the bedroom with us and bear witness.”

“So, they won’t all see?”

“They won’t all see.”

I let out a sigh in partial relief. Two witnesses is easier than the entire family.

“You choose a woman; I choose a man. Kiss the cheek of the one you select to share our blood, and then you’ll follow me into the bedroom.”

“Why the blood? What is this?”

He moves his bloody hand against mine down at our sides, lacing his fingers with mine. “Our blood is the same now. Yours and mine. We share it with the family because we are all one blood. O’Shea blood.”

“Murphy, I—”

“You can do this.”

He releases my hand and I feel weaker.

He steps away from me and saunters down the hall, passing his parents, his cousins, his aunt and uncle. He slows to a stop in front of Declan, steps toward him, and kisses his brother on the cheek.

Murphy turns to look back at me, giving me a nod, and I know he made that choice for me. Declan has been kind to me, a friend. He’s someone who is as disenchanted with the way things are as I am. Murphy chose Declan to be our male witness because he knew that held no threat to me.

I feel grateful.

But why should I feel gratitude toward any part of this?

Regardless of who he chooses, it’s disgusting. And now I have to choose.

His mother has been decent, but I don’t want her to see this. Perhaps, Tally. She’s obnoxious, but she’s non-threatening—hell, she’ll probably black out half-way through considering the way she sways drunkenly in the line. Then again, she might giggle through the whole thing and that would be unbearable.

I should choose someone I don’t care about.

No.

I should choose someone who needs to bear witness to the power I’ll gain when my life is officially tied to Murphy’s—my mind is already twisting and morphing to think like they do.

I have to be careful.

I can’t become like they are…I won’t.

With intention, I stride forward, trying to appear confident though my insides are dripping with apprehension. I move down the line and come to a stop in front of Cordelia. I turn to face her, giving her my eyes, letting her know without words why I’m choosing her.

I want her to witness me taking my place, earning authority as Murphy’s wife, inextricably above her in the hierarchy of this family.

What’s happening to me?

I’m already feeling the shift, the power of this ritual, the authority of mixing my blood with Murphy’s. I want Cordelia to know she’s not above me, because it doesn’t take a fool to know she poses more of a threat to me than any other person standing in this hallway.

I take a step forward, lean in, and kiss her on the cheek. I immediately turn away from her, quickly putting her at my back. I watch as Murphy and Declan enter our bedroom and somehow, I make my feet follow after them, Cordelia trailing behind me.

I’m surprised when I see Fiona already inside, standing beside the open door. She closes it behind us, instantly creating an eerie silence in the large sitting area. Murphy makes his way toward the bed, standing at the foot of it. He waves his fingers to call me over and I move, thankful for some direction.

I stop in front of him, standing two feet apart.

It feels too close and too far all at once.

Murphy stands still as Declan moves behind him, as I feel Cordelia’s presence at my back. I swallow hard as I watch Declan grip Murphy’s jacket at his shoulders, tugging it down his arms. I flinch at the touch of Cordelia’s cold fingertips brushing my spine as she grabs the zipper of my beaded top and pulls it down.

I hold my breath, my nervous glance darting to my shoulder as she pushes down my sleeve, my skin going from covered to bare in an instant. I tug my hands free from the sleeves, blood from my palm staining the pristine fabric. I let her pull the cropped top over my head, and it drops to the floor. She pulls down the zipper on my tulle skirt as Murphy unbuttons his shirt and unbuckles his pants.

I wonder if they can hear my rapid heartbeat.

My skirt falls and Cordelia bends, tugging where it touches my ankles, encouraging me to step out. I carefully balance on my silver stilettos, standing exposed in my white strapless bra and thong.

Murphy takes in an audible breath, dropping his eyes to my chest as Declan pulls his open button-down shirt down his arms. I let my eyes land on the skull tattoo on his chest, tracing over the lines with my gaze, and falling to rest on the purple rose behind it.

There’s something stirring about seeing my artwork on his skin. The purple rose I tattooed over his heart—the one that matches the rose on my hip—rises and falls with his chest and I know his heart is pounding behind it. The rose is a part of him, etched into his skin, and it’s a part of me, too. The thought of it is overwhelming.

I lift my shaking hand and glance down at the wedding ring that now adorns my finger. It’s not traditional—it’s not a giant, sparkling diamond that screams O’Shea wealth. It’s the same as his tattoo—his twisted take on the Claddagh ring he told me about—a skull in the center instead of a heart, held by two skeleton hands, and a crown on top. The crown is where the diamonds are, studded across the base.

The ring is not what I expected to wear on my hand, but I imagine that if I had chosen to marry Murphy—if he’d turned out to be a good man instead of a monster—I’d adore this ring and treasure it for what it’s meant to represent—love, loyalty, and friendship.

I startle from my thoughts as Cordelia’s cold fingers brush my ankles, working to unbuckle the straps of my shoes, first the left, then the right. I step out of them, and she takes them away.

Murphy and I have both been stripped down to our underwear, and my eyes can’t avoid him.

It’s tragic how beautiful he is. I’m hopelessly attracted to him. It was our physical chemistry that brought us together in the first place, but that wasn’t what kept us going through more than a half a year of phone calls and sparse visits. It was what was in his heart, what I felt from his soul.

He’s a lost soul.

Just like me.

Even now, in this dreadful moment, I’m drawn to him.

I need his comfort and strength to get me through this, but I only need to get through this because of the life he’s chosen for me.

Murphy takes a step forward and I know without words that I’m meant to do the same. We’re close enough to touch, but we don’t. The silence and the beats of waiting let an electrical current of uncomfortable, yet somehow still erotic energy build between us. In moments, I’m matching him breath for heavy breath as I watch his tattoo rise and fall with his chest.

I see Cordelia and Declan move from the corner of my eye, backing away from us as Fiona appears. She holds up a large, white sheet as a barrier between us, blocking us from Declan and Cordelia’s view.

“Turn around,” Murphy commands, and I’m so fucking nervous that I obey.

His fingers are warm as they brush my skin, running down my spine before landing on the clasp of my bra.

“Murphy.” I don’t know why I say his name.

He unhooks the clasp, but he holds the strapless bra in place and steps in close, molding to my backside and pressing his lips to the back of my bare shoulder. “It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”

I hate myself for letting him get to me the way he does, for letting the touch of his lips set me on fire.

It blazes deep and I need it.

I need that heat in my core to get me through this fucked-up ritual.

I close my eyes and try to forget that we’re being watched, try to forget I was forced to marry him, try to imagine it’s him and me before I knew he was the O’Shea Head of House.

He lets go of the strap and I tense as he nudges my bra off my breasts, letting it fall away to land on the carpet. “Oh, God.”

He lowers behind me, leaving a trail of kisses down my spine, probably painting me with the blood on his lips from our kiss in the hallway. He grabs hold of my panties and takes them off me slowly, fingers and lips heating my skin. It makes me shudder when he drags them down my thighs. When my underwear lands at my feet, I step out.

I feel his alpha energy rise with him as he stands. He nudges my waist, encouraging me to turn and face him.

“Take them off me.”

I look down at his black boxer briefs, eyeing the growing bulge beneath them. “Just you and me,” I repeat for myself.

I grip the elastic.

“Good girl,” he tells me.

His cock is half-hard as I lower to remove his underwear. Some sickness within me makes my stomach clench, giving me the desire to use my mouth on him until he’s so painfully hard that he has no choice but to take me and make me come. I look up at him, bite my lip, and he shudders as his eyes meet mine.

I force myself to stand and tear my eyes away from him. I glance over the sheet Fiona holds up. I force myself to see Cordelia and Declan sitting in the armchairs, watching us, witnessing this shame.

Except I don’t feel shame…at least, not in the way I expected. The way Murphy looks at me almost makes me feel powerful and proud.

“Get in the bed,” Murphy tells me. “Under the covers.”

I climb onto the plush comforter, lift the neatly folded top, and quickly hide beneath it. He follows, crawling beneath the covers with me, his hip brushing mine and setting off fireworks along my skin.

Then Fiona drops the sheet and walks away to stand in the corner by the door. I’m a little horrified when I find Cordelia staring, fuming, seething. Declan’s eyes are politely shifted away.

We’re beneath the sheets, so less of my body is exposed now than it was before when I stood naked behind the white sheet. Yet I feel barer now than before. I feel as though I’m on display.

I sink my body down beneath the sheets, pulling the covers over my head entirely. I expect Murphy to tug them away and force me to face this, but instead, he joins me, slipping down beside me and rolling onto his side to face me.

“What do we do now?” I whisper.

He reaches over to cup my cheek in his hand, his metal rings kissing my soft flesh. “We consummate.”

“How much time do we have?”

“As much as we need.”

“Are they all out there, just standing in the hallway, waiting for us to finish?”

“No.” He slides in close, his body running along the side of mine. He shifts, pressing his hardness against my hip as his lips fall softly to mine. “We chose our witnesses. The others are gone.”

I blink at him, expectantly waiting for instructions.

But then he asks me, “How do you want to do this? Do you want me to make you come?”

My eyes narrow. “Was it an option for me not to?”

“If you wanted, I could be quick about it and get it over with.”

I snap onto my side to face him. “Well, that wouldn’t be fucking fair, would it? Forcing me to consummate a marriage I didn’t want without giving me an orgasm. Un-fucking-real.”

He grins at me and it’s only then that I realize how loud I spoke. “They can hear you.” He pulls the cover back and peeks over it. “Did you hear that?”

I smack his chest and pull the covers over us again as Declan says, “Every word, mate. And for what it’s worth, I agree with Stella.”

I bring both my hands up to cover my face though no one can see me beneath the covers.

Murphy’s hands are on my wrists, gently pulling them away. “I love it when you raise your voice and yell at me. If you want to come, I’ll make you come.” His smile and good humor seems to have diffused some of the awkward tension and fuck, I’m so grateful for that.

“It’s the principle of the thing. It’s unfair that the expectancy is for you to orgasm, regardless of whether I do. I want equality, sir. If you have to come, I have to come. Period.”

I hear a slow clap from the sitting area—undoubtedly from Declan—and I think I might die. I have a problem with the volume of my voice when I’m passionate about something. Maybe that’s why Murphy thought he might spare me losing control of my volume if he makes me come, because that will happen. The orgasms he gives me are full of passion.

Shit.

His eyes dart around my face, drawing invisible lines that burn and tingle beneath his gaze. “I’ll give you fucking equality, Mrs. O’Shea.”

Oh, my God.

His lips come down on mine before I can speak another word, coaxing me to part them so he can kiss me deeply, sensually. His kiss takes my breath away and I fall into him, my body sneaking forward, seeking the warmth of him and his protective embrace. That erotic electricity that was growing before expands, wrapping around us and coiling us together. My skin prickles with the spark of it, flames sparking behind his fingers as they draw a line down my arm.

His hand lands on my waist, trailing down over my hip, sneaking between my legs. I gasp as he reaches my clit, unintentionally breaking our kiss. He dips to kiss my throat as he slowly circles his finger.

His beard is rough against my skin as his lips and tongue softly tease across the hollow of my throat. Everything he’s doing feels incredible, but I’m struggling to forget that we’re being watched. It doesn’t matter that we’re under the covers, every movement, every sound, every breath is seen and heard.

As quietly as I can, I whisper, “I changed my mind, just fuck me and get it over with.” I hate myself for saying it as soon as the words leave my mouth.

Is it that easy to hand over my sexual power?

What does that say about me?

He stops kissing my throat and lifts his head, shifting against me until our eyes are level. He cocks an eyebrow. “I don’t think I can do that now.”

“What?”

“You were right.” He rolls his hips, his hard cock pressing against my stomach. “The expectation is unfair, and I’m not so sure we can call this a consummation if you don’t have your own reward from it.” He leans in and runs his tongue flat across the seam of my lips. “You wouldn’t want to do this again later, would you?”

I pinch my eyes shut, then open them again. “No.”

“Eyes on mine,” he says, drawing me into his gray-green stare. “Keep them here. Focus on me.”

I inhale deeply through my nose and blow it out through rounded lips. I continue to breathe slowly, eyes locked on his as he nudges me onto my back, his body warm along my side. He props up on one elbow, quickly bringing his other hand to my throat, gently squeezing, interrupting my deep breath.

He knows what it does to me when he steals my breath. He knows it destroys calmness to make me frantic instead. He knows it makes adrenaline rush through my veins at the perceived threat. He knows it turns me on. He knows everything about me.

He knows me and I hate it.

He knows me and I love it.

The light and fuzzy feeling of breathlessness wraps around my brain. My pulse quickens and he gradually releases. That tiniest hint of breath play has my heart pounding, and I’m desperate for more of it.

His hand trails down my chest, rubbing over my breast. He squeezes, then runs his thumb back and forth across my quickly stiffening nipple. My body curls, back arching, pressing up against his touch and begging for more. He pinches the hardening peak, rolling it between his fingers, sending a rush of heat through my core that makes my pussy ache for penetration.

He doesn’t stop for minutes…maybe it’s only seconds. I only know that he makes me feel more desperate for release than any other man ever has. As I look deep into his light eyes, I see all my silly hopes and dreams. I see the relationship I wanted with him. I see the man who cared about me, who made time to talk to me every day, who crawled inside me and finally made my soul feel at peace.

He made me feel like my lost soul had been found by his…our lost souls colliding.

I see it all now in the way he looks at me, holds my stare, touches, and pleases me like no other could.

The world slips away as his fingers trail down my stomach. They slip between my legs and dip down to tease across my slit. I gasp, arching into his touch, encouraging him to touch me deeper, harder…more.

“Tell me you want me,” I whisper.

His eyes flash with longing that I can feel throbbing inside my chest—it’s a throb of instinct that tells me what’s real.

He is a lost soul, just like me.

He doesn’t belong in this world, and I want him to know it, I want him to prove it to me.

“Show me you love me. Let me pretend tonight. Give me that and let me go back to hating you tomorrow.”

His entire body sighs. “I don’t have to pretend to love you. You know that I do.” His fingers circle my clit, pulling wetness from my core as my body tenses pleasantly against his touch.

“Show me.”

Gratitude softens his features. My heart flutters. My stomach twists into a tight knot. My pussy clenches. He pushes two fingers inside me—achingly slow—as he shifts to move above me.

My eyes search his as he looks down at me, watching me as his fingers sink deeper and curl against my upper wall. I let out a soft moan just before his lips come down on mine and he kisses me slowly.

Fuck, I’m in love with him.

I hate him.

His tongue swirls around mine, tasting me, telling me without words that I have his heart. It aches within me to know that’s true. It’s painful to hate the man who gives me his love so freely, but it’s painful to love the man who stole my freedom.

His fingers swirl and sweep in time with his tongue, making me feel wet and swollen. He groans into our kiss as I spread my legs for him. I want him there just as much as he wants to be there. His body moves against mine, writhing, rubbing, seeking, and mine does the same as he draws me toward frantic need. Our kiss breaks as he pulls his fingers out and finds my clit, pressing in, rubbing it back and forth with swift fingers.

“Oh, God,” I moan.

He buries his face in my neck, licking and nipping at my skin, his fingers driving me up a steep cliff. He takes me to a point of pure need, making me so desperate to be filled that my hands reach between us, seeking to find his cock so I can stroke him along with me.

He rises, taking my frantic hands and nudging them away. He lifts one to his lips, kissing my blood-streaked palm before running his tongue flat along the underside of my fingers. Then, he places my hand over my dark curls.

“Touch yourself,” he commands with a gruff tone as he wraps his hand around his cock and lines up to enter me.

I reach down at the very moment he pushes himself inside me, slow and deep, and we both moan together. He bends over me, holding himself up on his hands.

“This is home,” he whispers, his eye contact unwavering. “Hate me everywhere else, but when I’m inside you, you’re mine.”

I nod my understanding…my acceptance.

That’s a deal I’ll eagerly make with him.

My fingers move on my clit as my breaths grow shallow and short, mimicking the way he worked me before with quick side-to-side strokes. He pumps inside me with slow, rhythmic thrusts.

He dips to kiss my lips, my cheek, along the line of my jaw, all the way back to my ear. “I’m not lost when I’m with you. When I’m with you, I know I’m right where I need to be.”

My insides coil around his words and the truth in his voice. My body sinks, contracting around my center as he thrusts faster, harder, deeper. My inner walls squeeze around his cock and my throbbing clit swells as I stroke it.

“That’s my good girl,” he whispers, licking the shell of my ear. “Come for me, sweetheart. Come for me. Let me fucking have it. Squeeze my fucking cock and make me come with you.”

Holy fucking hell.

The instant contrast from light to dark flips the switch, igniting my orgasm like a flash fire. It explodes a brilliant flame through my clit that spreads like wildfire, straining every muscle in my body. My lips part—I can’t hold back the scream of intense pleasure, but Murphy swallows my sound with a desperate kiss as he fucks me through it, harder and faster. His movement draws out my orgasm impossibly longer. He groans into my mouth as I feel him spill deep within me.

My hands snap to his cheeks, holding his face to mine, deepening our kiss as we tumble down the crest together.

I’m not ready to let go yet.

I’m not ready to start hating him again.

We kiss until our bodies release the tension completely, until our breathing slows and our writhing stills.

He pulls back to look at me and he’s still there—the Murphy I love is still there. He smiles at me and my lips curve to return it.

“Congratulations.” Cordelia’s crude voice rips through the bliss and breaks the spell. “Your union is complete. Welcome to the family, Stella O’Shea.”

And then I remember where I am.

I remember how I came to be here.

I remember that he’s made me a monster, just like him.

Stella O’Shea.

I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at him.