Honeythorn (Honeythorn, #1)

by Marina Vivancos

“You knew what day I was to arrive. I cannot believe you are so incompetent that you could not reschedule things for the single week leading up to our marriage as to spend some time with the person who has travelled weeks to get here. Who you will be spending the rest of your life with. Or should I expect our bonding night to also be filled with paperwork?”

Go off Milan!!!!!

Perhaps, Milan conceded in his mind, the fury is easier to feel than fear, loneliness, and sadness. Anger blinds, but it does not cure.

“I trust your rooms are adequate.” For a quiet, innocent moment, Milan was thrown by the sudden change of subject. He opened his mouth to assure his husband, but something in his stance and piercing eyes froze Milan. Very suddenly, as if doused by cold water, it dawned on him. Raphael was throwing him out.

Never in his life had Milan felt so humiliated. So small and worthless.

“You can invade my household, poison the minds of my staff, insert your unwelcome nose in my business—but you will never, never, infect my heart, or my soul. This…bond,” he said with revulsion, making a vague gesture, “is nothing. I am your husband on paper, but not in spirit. I will not be yours. I will make sure of it until my dying breath. Do you understand?”

“You will never speak to me the way that you did last night,” Milan said, his voice hard.

“I understand anger and expressing it. But speaking to me like I am beneath you, looming over me, banging the table—I will not tolerate that. I would like to remind you that you agreed to this marriage. I did not trick you into it. You do not want me. Fine. But it was your decision to have me here, so do not suggest I have invaded, or that I have the power to infect.” Milan kept his voice level but could not help narrowing his eyes on the last word.

It was haunting, to live with the man that was killing you slowly. At times, Milan thought that he must be bonded to two different people—the one ruthless enough to torture Milan, and the one everyone else saw. The ‘good man’.

There was delirium, and sorrow, and begging, and in between all that there was one single moment of clarity. I’m not going to win.

He understood perfectly what was happening. The bond was not broken. He was not free. Instead, Lord Raphael had waited until Milan was at the brink of death only to swoop in, the saviour, to pull him back. Milan could foresee his plan—Lord Raphael would do it again, and again, and again, until either Milan’s body or his mind gave in. “Please,” Milan choked out. “Please, he’s killing me. He’s killing me.”

“Say something. Please.” Milan looked at him through bleary eyes. “I never knew I could be as unhappy as I am with you.” Milan saw Lord Raphael’s face, stunned as if he had been shot right through the chest, before sleep dragged him down again.

“How can goodness prevail when we expect it of people regardless of the cruelty of their situation?”

“Oh,” Raphael gasped a small, small noise, but it hit Milan with force, how much wonder there was in it, as if Raphael had never felt anything like it. As if he had never felt loved like that.

“Sometimes, I think you are not real,” he whispered.

Raphael had been a stranger, and now he was…Raphael. His husband. His bonded. The man he loved.

“I did not know I was alone until I met you,” he said softly. “And you won’t ever be again,” Milan said.

No poem I have ever read could accurately describe the feeling of my heart interwoven with yours.”