The Debt Bride

Chapter Nineteen

  Amy stood in the grand foyer of Rhysand Archer's mansion, her eyes darting around as she took in the opulence of her new surroundings. It was a far cry from the modest home she had known all her life. The marriage had been swift, a business transaction disguised as a wedding, and now, standing in the midst of Rhysand's domain, reality hit her like a tidal wave.

"Which is my room?" she asked the servants, her voice steady but laced with uncertainty.

Before any of them could answer, Rhysand's voice cut through the air.

"My room," he said firmly, appearing at the top of the grand staircase.

His eyes were dark, unreadable as he descended towards her.

Amy squared her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated.

"I asked for my room," she repeated, her tone gaining an edge.

  Rhysand reached her and without a word, grabbed her wrist and began to lead her down a corridor. His grip was firm but not painful, and Amy found herself reluctantly following. They entered a large, elegantly decorated bedroom, and he finally released her, stepping back.

"This is my room, and our room!" he said again, this time with a note of finality.

  He walked over to a dresser and pulled out a sleek black gun, turning it over in his hands. Amy's eyes widened but she didn't back down.

"You have to Mrs. Amy Rile.", his words were commanding.

  In an instant, he crossed the room and placed the cold barrel of the gun against her stomach. Her breath hitched, but her instincts took over. She quickly twisted her body, wrenching the gun from his grip. Rhysand's eyes flashed with surprise but also a hint of amusement.

  He grabbed her wrist, removing the magazine with a swift motion. It slipped from his hand, falling towards the floor, and in her attempt to catch it, Rhysand kicked it into the air. In one fluid motion, he pinned her against the wall with his body, his hand pressing firmly against her waist.

The magazine descended and he caught it mid-air, loading it back into the gun with practiced ease.

  With the barrel now pressed against her chest. The barrel traced a slow, deliberate path across her skin, sending shivers down her spine. Rhysand leaned in, his breath warm against her ear.

"You're mine till the contract is over," he murmured.

  Without warning, Amy kneed him in the stomach. The gun fell from his hand as he staggered back. She snatched it up and aimed it at him, her hands steady despite her racing heart. Rhysand backed away slowly, a predatory smile playing on his lips, and sat down on the edge of the bed, watching her with those inscrutable eyes.

  She took a deep breath and pressed the trigger, but the gun clicked empty. Rhysand chuckled, the sound low and infuriatingly calm.

"There are no bullets," he said, his tone almost mocking.

"You're resourceful, I'll give you that. But remember, Amy, you're mine until this contract ends."

Amy glared at him, her frustration boiling over. "Till the contract gets over... don't be dead before it gets over." she spat, throwing the gun to the floor.

  That night, the room was filled with a tense silence. Amy stared at the ceiling, her mind racing. She had entered this marriage for her father's sake, but now she was entangled in a web far more complex than she had anticipated.

  Rhysand watched her from the shadows, his thoughts a whirlwind of strategy and something else he couldn't quite define. He had admired her spirit from the moment he saw her, and tonight had only confirmed what he already knew: Amy Rile was not a woman to be underestimated.

As the hours ticked by, both of them couldn't sleep. Amy got up and went to refresh herself.

She refreshed and stood before a table kept.

  He noticed her and walked towards her. He stretched his hands and his footsteps echoing faintly against the polished marble floor. His presence was commanding yet strangely gentle as he closed the distance between them. Amy felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of anticipation and unease fluttering in her stomach.

  Without a word, Rhysand leaned forward, his strong hands gently enclosing hers on the edge of the table. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through Amy—a sensation both unsettling and strangely comforting. His proximity was intoxicating, drawing her into a dance of emotions she struggled to comprehend.

"May I", he whispered near her ears.

  Before she could turn, his hand brushing lightly against her arm. His touch was unexpectedly gentle as he retrieved a water bottle from the center table, his fingers grazing hers in a fleeting caress.

  The cool touch of the bottle contrasted with the warmth of his hand, sending a shiver down Amy's spine. She couldn't help but feel acutely aware of his proximity—the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of his breath against her neck—as he straightened, the water bottle now in his grasp.

  For a moment, their eyes met in the reflection of the dining table's polished surface. Amy saw a glimmer of something unreadable in Rhysand's gaze—a mix of curiosity, perhaps even a hint of vulnerability that belied his usual composed demeanor.

  Rhysand held the water bottle with a quiet grace, a gesture both mundane and charged with unspoken tension. It was a fleeting moment, yet it lingered in the air between them like an unspoken question, leaving Amy to wonder about the man behind the facade—the complexities that lay hidden beneath his outward calm.

  As Rhysand moved away, leaving Amy to wrestle with her thoughts amidst the play of light and shadow, she couldn't shake the feeling that their encounter had shifted something imperceptible yet profound in the delicate dance of their intertwined destinies.

  The wedding night stretched on, the hours dragging in a haze of tension and unspoken words. Amy lay on the bed, the soft fabric of her wedding dress pooling around her, a stark contrast to the darkness enveloping the room. She stared at the ceiling, her mind racing with the events of the day, the weight of her new reality pressing down on her.

  In the shadows, Rhysand watched her intently, his figure barely visible in the dim light. His eyes traced the delicate curves of her face, the rise and fall of her chest with each breath, the way her fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of the sheet. He remained silent, a sentinel of the night, his thoughts a storm of possessive desire and complex emotions.