Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You-Chapter 41: Hate Her

Matthew

I only wanted to scare her a little bit. Maybe frustrate her, push her buttons just enough to see that fire in her eyes—the way she always glares at me when I piss her off.

I never expected to see her like that.

Curled on the cold basement floor, shaking so violently it was like she wasn’t even in her own body anymore. Her wide, terrified eyes darting around, seeing things that weren’t there. Her frantic hands clawing at her own skin, as if she was trying to peel something away.

She looked like a little girl. Small. Helpless.

The way she whimpered, the way she begged—it made something twist deep inside me, something I don’t want to name. I wanted to push her, but not like that. Not to the point where she was gasping for air like she was drowning, like she wasn’t even here anymore. And when she latched onto me, trembling, gripping my shirt like I was the only thing keeping her grounded, I—

I don’t even know what the fuck I felt. At that moment, all of my hatred for her disappeared.

I exhale sharply, dragging a hand through my hair. I should feel satisfied. I should feel smug. Instead, I feel like shit. Because I put her there.

I inch closer to her and gingerly place my hand on her hair.

Her hair is soft beneath my fingers, slightly damp from sweat, tangled from how violently she had thrashed earlier.

I lean back, watching her. Her face is peaceful now, her lips slightly parted, her eyelashes fluttering every now and then.

"What were you so afraid of, Sarah?" I mutter quietly.

She doesn’t answer, of course. She’s deep in sleep, her breath steady now, her body no longer trembling.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That I don’t care. But my fingers twitch with the urge to wake her up, to force her to tell me. Because now, I need to know.

Sarah shifts in her sleep, her breath hitching. At first, I think she’s waking up, but then—her fingers twitch, her face scrunches up, and a low whimper escapes her lips.

I freeze.

Another whimper. Her body tenses, her hands clenching the sheets.

Then she shrieks.

The sound rips through the quiet room, raw and terrified, and before I can think, I grab her shoulders.

"Sarah," I say sharply, shaking her lightly. "Wake up."

Her head jerks to the side, her lips moving soundlessly before another sob breaks free.

"No—no, let me go!" she gasps.

My stomach tightens.

"Sarah!" I shake her harder this time. Her eyes fly open, but they’re unfocused, wild with panic.

She shoves at me, struggling, her breathing ragged. "No—no, get away!"

"Sarah, it’s me," I snap, gripping her wrists before she can claw at herself again.

Her chest rises and falls in frantic gasps, her gaze darting around the room.

"It’s just me," I say, softer this time. "I am not going to hurt you."

She blinks rapidly, her breaths slowing just a fraction.

"Matthew," she whispers and reaches out to touch my cheek.

Her fingertips are ice-cold against my skin, and I resist the urge to flinch away. Instead, I stay perfectly still.

"Yes," I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. "It’s me."

Her lips curl into a slow smile, but her eyes are wet. "Your punishment worked. I had never been so scared, so I guess you win."

"I didn’t realize it would scare you so much, Sarah. It’s only a basement, for Christ’s sake. Why did you react like that? Or was that all an act?" I ask.

"An act?" she echoes, her voice quiet but sharp. She lets out a breathless laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "Is that what you think? I was acting?"

But I know deep down that whole thing was real. Even though Sarah lied to me in the past, manipulated and tricked me, what I saw tonight can’t be an act.

"Sarah," I say, quieter this time. "What happened to you?"

She flinches. It’s small, barely noticeable, but it’s there. And that tells me more than words ever could.

She shifts, dragging the sheet up over her arms like she’s suddenly cold. Her gaze flickers away. "I don’t know," she murmurs.

I don’t buy it.

I shift closer, lowering my voice. "Sarah, tell me the truth. Did someone trap you somewhere when you were little?"

She looks at me like she is lost.

"I don’t remember," she says, shaking slightly. "Please, Matthew. Please stop asking me about it. You got what you wanted tonight. You punished me because I didn’t do what you asked. You should be happy now."

Happy?

The word makes my stomach churn. I should feel victorious, right? I pushed her, made her break. That was the point, wasn’t it?

Then why does this feel wrong?

I watch her, wrapped in the sheets like they’re armor, like she’s trying to disappear. There’s no defiance in her voice, no sharp wit or clever retort—just exhaustion. Just fear.

I exhale sharp. "I wasn’t trying to—" I stop myself. What? Hurt her? That’s exactly what I was trying to do. Not like this, maybe, but the intent was the same.

Sarah stays quiet, her fingers curling into the blanket.

"Why are you shaking?" I ask.

She stiffens. "I said I don’t know."

She’s terrified. Not just of what happened tonight, but of whatever’s buried in her past. And maybe she truly doesn’t remember what it is that’s scaring her.

The thought disturbs me.

"Hey," I murmur softly, extending my hand to gently touch her cheek, which is wet with tears now. Instead of pulling away or brushing my hand aside as I anticipated, she places her hand over mine.

"Kiss me," she whispers.

I stare at her, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

"Please," she says, tears rolling down her cheeks. The green in her eyes seems deeper somehow, like forest pools after rain, flecked with gold around the pupils. I’ve never noticed that before. I’ve been too busy trying to hate her to really see her.

My thumb traces the path a tear has taken down her cheek, feeling the slight dampness, the warmth of her skin beneath. She leans into my touch, her eyelashes fluttering closed for just a moment.

I lean forward slowly, giving her time to change her mind, to pull away. But she doesn’t. Instead, she tilts her chin up slightly, her breath hitching in anticipation.

When our lips finally meet, it’s gentle—tentative even. Nothing like the heated arguments and sharp words we usually exchange. Her lips are soft, slightly dry from her earlier panic, and they part slightly against mine. I can taste the salt of her tears and feel the slight tremor that still runs through her body.

My hand slides from her cheek to the nape of her neck, threading through the silken strands of her hair.

The kiss deepens, and I feel her sigh against my mouth—a sound of relief, of momentary peace.

"I love you," she murmurs against my lips.

My fingers tighten on her hair and I pull back an inch. "Don’t," I growl.

"But I do," she says softly. "I know you don’t want to hear it or believe it, but I do love you with all my heart."

"Fuck you, Sarah. You don’t know what love is," I say. I push her against the mattress, pinning her under me. "This is a game to you. You want to win my love like some kind of...some kind of a prize."

"That’s not true," she says and sighs as if she is exhausted.

It has to be true. It’s the only truth I know.

She looks up at me with those wide eyes—earnest or calculating, I still can’t tell—and something inside me snaps. I don’t want to hear her declarations. I don’t want to feel the way my chest tightens when she says those words.

I crash my lips against hers, hard this time, nothing like the gentle kiss we just shared. My teeth graze her bottom lip, and she gasps into my mouth.

My hands roam around her body.

"There can never be love between us," I say, voice rough as sandpaper. "Only sex."

"If that’s what you need to believe," she whispers, reaching up to touch my face again. I catch her wrist, pinning it beside her head.

"Don’t try to manipulate me," I warn.

Sarah doesn’t struggle against my grip. Instead, she watches me with those unnerving eyes, like she can see right through me.

"I’m not," she says quietly.

Her calmness infuriates me. The way she lies there, accepting my anger, my accusations—like she’s already figured me out, like she knows something I don’t. Her surrender feels like another form of control, and it makes my blood boil.

"Stop looking at me like that," I growl, my fingers digging into her wrist.

"Like what?" she asks, her voice maddeningly innocent.

"Like you understand me. Like you know what I’m thinking."

A small, sad smile touches her lips. "But I do understand you, Matthew."

Something snaps inside me. I capture her mouth again, kissing her roughly, wanting to wipe that knowing look from her face. My free hand tangles in her hair, tugging just hard enough to make her gasp.

She moans into my mouth, and the sound fuels something primal in me.

My mouth leaves hers to trail hot kisses down her neck and across her collarbone. I bite down where her neck meets her shoulder, and she gasps.

My hand slips between her thighs, and I feel her pussy. It’s warm and dripping wet.

I push down my boxers, freeing my cock, which is now hard and painfully throbbing.

I push into her with a single, rough thrust, swallowing her cry with my mouth. Her body arches beneath me, taut like a bowstring about to snap. My hands grip her hips hard enough to leave marks, fingertips digging into the soft flesh as I pull out and slam back in.

I don’t speak to her. I don’t look at her.

I bury my face in the crook of her neck and slam into her hard and fast. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer, taking me deeper still.

The sheets beneath us are damp with sweat, twisted and bunched around our bodies. The room fills with the sounds of skin against skin, of her little gasps and my guttural groans.

I slide one hand up to grip her jaw, forcing her to look at me. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, parted as she pants.

I can feel her tightening around me, her body trembling on the edge of release. But I don’t want her to come yet. I don’t want this to end.

I slow my pace deliberately, watching frustration flicker across her face. Her hips buck upward, seeking more, but I hold her down firmly.

"Love has nothing to do with this, you hear me?" I snarl, emphasizing each word with a deep, punishing stroke. "You have no right to say that to me."

"I have every right," she says, voice trembling but defiant. "My feelings are mine to give."

I don’t want to believe her. It’s easier to hate her, to keep her at arm’s length, to fuck her without feeling anything beyond physical pleasure. But her words burrow under my skin like splinters.

I hate her...I fucking hate her.

I press my forehead against hers and tell her just that as I come inside her.