Silk and Sacrifice

A pounding headache splintered through Emily’s skull, dragging her from the depths of sleep. Her mouth was parched, the taste of tequila lingering like a cruel afterthought. She groaned, turning over, Emily froze. The bed wasn’t hers. The room wasn’t hers. The air reeked of s*x and expensive cologne. Silk sheets tangled around her naked body, and as she shifted, a deep, masculine groan sounded beside her. Her pulse slammed into overdrive. Emily snapped her head toward the source, her breath catching in her throat. Asher Sinclair lay sprawled out on the bed beside her, looking like sin incarnate. His sculpted chest rose and fell slowly, his toned body bathed in the soft glow of morning light filtering through the penthouse windows. His dark hair was a tousled mess, jawline dusted with stubble, lips slightly parted as he slept. She barely had time to process the sheer s*x appeal radiating off him before a more pressing reality crashed down on her. Holy. s**t. She was in bed with Asher Sinclair. Her stomach plummeted. Memories from the night before hit her like a wrecking ball. The bar. The challenge. The kiss. The reckless dare. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She needed to get the hell out of here. Emily scrambled to sit up, the sheets slipping dangerously low on her chest. She clutched them against her body, scanning the room for her clothes. Her phone. Anything. Where the hell was her dress? Her eyes landed on the red silk fabric crumpled on the floor, right next to Asher’s discarded suit jacket and shirt. She barely had time to process that before a sharp pulse of pain throbbed in her temples. Groaning, she slipped out of bed, clutching the sheet around her as she found her way and stumbled toward the bathroom. She needed water. Needed to splash her face. Needed to make sense of the chaos in her head. Flicking on the light, she winced at her own reflection. Her hair was a wild mess, mascara smudged beneath her eyes. She turned the faucet on, cupping cool water in her hands and pressing it against her overheated skin. Then she saw it. An impossibly large diamond ring wrapped around her ring finger. Her breath hitched. Her hands trembled as she held up her hand, staring at the simple yet damning piece of jewelry. How that hell did that get there? No. No, no, no. Her pulse skyrocketed. Her heart felt like it was going to burst out of her chest. She gripped the edge of the sink, bile rising in her throat. This had to be a joke. A prank. Some kind of twisted mistake. Slowly, she turned back to the bedroom, chest heaving. Asher was awake now, watching her with a smirk that made her blood run cold. Asher stretched, arms flexing as he propped himself against the headboard. He looked entirely too relaxed for someone who’d just woken up next to a woman who clearly had no clue how she got there. "Running already?" Her breath hitched. "What the hell is this?" She held up her hand, voice sharp, almost hysterical. Asher stretched, his muscles flexing as he leaned against the headboard. "You don’t remember much, do you?" Emily’s stomach twisted. "I..." She winced as a sharp throb went through her head. "Not everything." That goddamn smirk of his deepened. "Figures." She scowled. "What the hell does that mean?" "It means," Asher said lazily, "I knew you were drunk, but I didn’t think you’d forget the best part of the night." A fresh wave of heat crashed into her. She remembered the s*x. Not just the s*x, the filthy, toe-curling, completely reckless s*x. His hands gripping her hips, the way he’d muttered sinful things against her skin, the way he had taken her apart, piece by piece. She sucked in a breath, trying to fight the memory. "Okay," she forced out, glaring at him. "So we had s*x. Great. Whatever. But that doesn’t explain why I woke up in your bed instead of my own, with a wedding ring on my finger." Asher watched her for a long moment. Then, with excruciating slowness, he reached toward the nightstand, pulled open the side drawer, and retrieved something. A document. A marriage certificate. He held it up between his fingers, his smirk growing sharper. Asher drawled, his voice a lazy purr, "you didn’t just sleep with me last night." His silver eyes glinted. "You married me." "Welcome to married life, Mrs. Sinclair." Emily’s blood turned to ice. Emily stared at the huge diamond band on her finger, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. "Umm," she whispered, throat tight. "No. That’s not..." Asher arched a brow. "Not what?" Her breath came in shallow gasps. This was a joke. A sick, twisted joke. She snatched the document from his hand, turning it over, as if inspecting it closely would somehow prove it wasn’t real. But the light weight of the certificate told her otherwise. Panic slammed into her chest. "This isn’t funny," she hissed. "We didn’t get married. There’s no way." Asher merely chuckled, completely unbothered as he reached for his phone. "Want me to show you the photos?" Emily felt lightheaded. "Photos?" His smirk was pure arrogance. "And the video, if you’d like. You were quite… enthusiastic about saying 'I do.'" Oh. My. God. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to wake up from this nightmare. Think, Emily. Think. The last thing she clearly remembered was teasing him at the bar, testing how far she could push the infamous Asher Sinclair. Then… shots. More shots. Then the dare. Her stomach twisted. She had been high, but not unconscious. She wouldn’t have. No, there was no way she would have actually married him. Right? "Where?" she demanded, voice sharp. Asher tilted his head. "Where…?" "Where the hell did this happen?" she snapped. "Where did we get married?" He sighed like she was being dramatic. "Vegas, obviously." Vegas. f*****g Vegas. Her fingers dug into her scalp. "Oh my God. Oh my God." She sat at edge of the bed, trying to gather her thoughts. This was not happening. "Relax," Asher said, his voice infuriatingly calm. "It’s just a marriage certificate." She snapped her head up, eyes blazing. "Just a what now? Are you insane?" A slow, mocking smirk spread across his face. "That’s debatable." Emily shot up from the bed, completely ignoring the fact that she was naked beneath the sheets. She needed to get out of here. She started to move, but, the pounding in her head surged, and her knees buckled. Asher was faster than he had any right to be. In a single, fluid motion, he caught her around the waist, pulling her flush against his chest. Heat flared between them. Her body reacted before her mind did, because, unfortunately, her body remembered. Every. Damn. Detail. The way his mouth had felt against her throat. The way he had- Nope. Nope. Nope. She shoved against his chest, her skin flaming. "Let me go." His grip loosened, but his silver eyes gleamed with amusement. "You’re hungover," he murmured, his fingers ghosting along her waist before he finally let her go. "Take it easy." She glared daggers at him. "Take it easy?" she repeated. "I just woke up married to a man I barely know! And you want me to take it easy?" Asher turned away mid-rant, strolling toward the sleek coffee maker in the corner of the suite. The casualness of it, like they were just any normal couple waking up after a late night, sent her frustration skyrocketing. "Coffee?" he asked, unfazed by her outburst. Emily’s hands clenched into fists. "Are you serious?" "You’ll feel better. It helps with hangovers," he replied smoothly, retrieving a cup and pouring the dark liquid like he had all the time in the world. "Coffee won’t fix the fact that I’m suddenly someone’s wife!" she snapped, her voice rising. He merely smirked, stirring in a dash of cream before sliding the cup toward her across the marble counter. "No, but it’ll help you think straight before you start throwing things." Emily stared at him, half tempted to actually throw something, just to prove a point. But the rich aroma curled into her senses, teasing her pounding head, and reluctantly, she snatched up the cup. "Unbelievable," she muttered before taking a sip. Asher watched her, arms crossed, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. "Feeling better?" Emily exhaled sharply. "No. Because the problem isn’t my hangover, it’s you." His smirk widened. "Well, darling, I’m afraid that problem isn't going away anytime soon." Her grip on the cup tightened. She was going to need a lot more coffee to deal with this man. Top of Form Her eyes narrowed as realization smashed into her. Wait. Asher Sinclair. Billionaire. Ruthless. Calculated. Why was he so damn calm about all of this? Emily’s gaze snapped to his face. "You’re not surprised." Asher didn’t flinch. "Should I be?" Her stomach twisted. "You… planned this." He let out a low, amused laugh. "I think you give me too much credit, sweetheart." But he didn’t deny it. Something about that set her entire body on edge. What the hell had she gotten herself into?