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“If this woman is to be my wife,” he said, swallowing hard, “you will not touch her again.”
“You’re my wife now, whether we like it or not. No man will ever touch you that way again.”
“Don’t,” I growled, voice low, “call my wife a whore.”
And I did. I did love it. But not as much as I loved him.
Do not urge me to leave you or turn back from you.’” He trailed his fingers down my arm in slow, torturous strokes. My head fell back on his shoulder, my eyes fluttering closed, as his lips continued to move against my neck. “‘Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay.’”
If she was destined to burn in Hell, I would burn with her.
And my wife—the fucking love of my life—was the daughter of La Dame des Sorcières. The heiress of Chateau le Blanc. The goddamned princess of the witches.
