Her Salvation, His Damnation

#12.

The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains. Grace stirred as the cheerful lilt of Rose’s voice pulled her from a restless sleep.

"Wake up, Mrs. Black," Rose chirped, the steam rising from a cup in her hand. "I made you a coffee. You look like you’ve been wrestling with ghosts all night."

Grace stretched, the unfamiliar silk of her sheets rustling against her skin. She climbed out of the massive bed and took the cup, the warmth of the ceramic grounding her. "I feel like I have," she muttered, taking a cautious sip.

Rose leaned back against the vanity, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Are you alright? You’ve been quiet since you woke up."

Grace nodded, though her mind was already drifting back to the moonlit kitchen. "I’m fine. It’s just... I ran into Tate in the middle of the night. I went down for water and he was just there."

Rose’s jaw dropped, followed quickly by a suppressed giggle. "He was in the kitchen? And? Did anything happen?"

"Nothing happened, Rose," Grace said, feeling the heat creep up her neck. "He was injured. I helped him with some bandages, and that was it."

"Nothing? Grace, you have to work on 'something' happening," Rose teased, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. "Wait. Did you wear that nightwear down there? The one I picked out?"

Grace gave a small, reluctant nod.

Rose’s face lit up with a scandalous grin. "Oh, he definitely noticed. We are absolutely going shopping today. You need lingerie that actually matches this house. If you’re going to be a queen, you need to look like one."

"Don’t be silly," Grace countered, setting her coffee down. "This isn't a real marriage. It’s a legal arrangement to keep me from getting a bullet in the head."

"Real or not, you’re twenty four and far too beautiful to be living like a nun," Rose said, her tone shifting into something more serious. "You’re a virgin, Grace, not a martyr. Start exploring. Loosen up a little."

"Keep your voice down," Grace hissed, glancing toward the door.

Rose giggled, unbothered. "Does he even know? Does the Biker King know he married a saint?"

Grace shook her head quickly, her fingers twisting the silk of her robe. "That is not a topic I am ever discussing with him. Ever."

Rose laughed and pulled Grace into a quick, supportive hug. "Just loosen up. You have a new life now, whether you like it or not. You have a life that needs protecting, and you can’t go back to that dusty apartment. Danger is everywhere, Grace. You’re only safe under his roof. You’re his wife now. Let that sink in."

Grace looked away, her heart heavy. "What about Liam?"

Rose’s expression soured instantly. "Liam is a bygone. He never did anything for you, Grace. He showed up when he was hungry, made a few grand promises he never intended to keep, and disappeared until he needed something else. He lived off your kindness."

"He’s a good man, Rose. He’s gentle."

"Anyone can be a good man and still be the wrong one for you," Rose said firmly. She paused, a shade of doubt crossing her face. "I just hope he doesn't plan something stupid. He looks like the type—calm on the surface, but dangerous underneath when he’s slighted."

"He isn't that kind of person," Grace defended, though her voice lacked conviction.

"Hopefully," Rose shrugged. "Anyway, are you ready for the shopping trip? I need to get out of this mansion before I start talking to the furniture."

"I'm not sure I'm even allowed to leave," Grace admitted.

"He has bodyguards for a reason," Rose pointed out. "Just call him. Ask if you can go. For your 'safety,' of course."

—

Tate sat in his office, the air thick with the smell of leather. He ended the call, his thumb hovering over the screen before he dropped the phone onto the desk with a clack.

Grace had called. She wanted to shop. He had told her to use the black credit card he’d provided, but her stubborn pride had flared over the phone. She didn't want his money, yet she was trapped in his world. He’d have to give her the rules tonight.

He stood up, grabbing his jacket to head out, when the door swung open. Sasha stepped in, her eyes narrowed as she scanned his bruised face.

"Why didn't you come over last night?" Sasha asked, her voice laced with a possessiveness. "You called. I waited."

Tate didn't stop moving. "I had a change of mind."

Sasha stepped into his path, forcing him to halt. "What was so important that you changed your mind? I heard about the race. I thought you’d want a distraction."

Tate towered over her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The office felt smaller with her in it. "I didn't wish to come over," he said, his voice flat. "I’m married now, Sasha. Several things have to stop. This is one of them."

Sasha went still, her gaze searching his for a sign of a joke. "You’re pausing things? For her? I’ve seen her, Tate. She isn't your type. She’s a little girl playing dress up."

"Watch it," Tate warned, his tone dropping into something dangerous .

Sasha reached out, her hand sliding up his arm toward his chest. "You don't have to pretend with me. We know how this works."

Tate caught her wrist before her hand could reach his shirt. His grip was firm, unyielding. "I’m putting a stop to whatever this is," he said, his voice cold and final. "It’s high time you understood that. Don't make me say it again."

He released her hand and walked past her, his footwear echoing against the floor. He didn't look back as he left the room, leaving her standing in the center of the office, the silence behind him ringing with the weight of his rejection.