16. Brynn
I must have passed out in the car, I don’t remember how I even left the chapel; if I walked out, or if Conrad continued to carry me.
I’m back in bed. His bed, but it’s not the one I woke up in last time.
Everything feels different. The space feels bigger, the room feels stuffy, as though the walls hold too many secrets.
As I force my body to move, my eyes adjust to the light, and I realise it’s morning. That’s another god knows how many hours of my life gone, again.
The bed I’m in is a four-poster. It’s old, beautifully carved with an intricately carved tapestry pinned in place far above my head.
The room is far more opulent, far more tasteful than the penthouse was. Not that the penthouse had been lacking but this place screams history, heritage, bloodlines that go back right to when the Brethren began.
“You’re awake.”
My eyes dart across the room to where he is, where he’s sitting like some monster waiting patiently before they pounce.
The ring on his hand catches the light, practically taunting me as he reaches forward and takes a long, slow sip of his drink.
Around my own finger, I can feel that pressure, that reminder that all of this is real. This nightmare is real, and this man before me is both my salvation and my destruction all wrapped up into one devastating parcel.
My left hand is bandaged, strapped nice and tightly to ensure that my marriage mark doesn’t get infected, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust at the memory of it all. At the memory of the way that Priest leered at me, at how he enjoyed watching every second of my assault.
“Come here,” Conrad says, curling a finger at me to emphasise that command.
I don’t want to. I don’t want to get any closer than I already am, but staying in his bed doesn’t feel like a particularly safe option either. With what little courage I have, I shove the thick duvet off and I slide my legs out.
There’s a massive fireplace; the kind they call an inglenook, with a wrought iron grate in the middle and a pile of logs by the side, all ready to burn. In front of that is a massive, antique, Turkish rug with two couches positioned across from one another. Conrad is sitting like a king, watching my approach as if I were some sort of courtesan that he’s just added to his harem.
At the chapel he’d stripped me naked, but I’m dressed now, wearing what I assume to be his shirt. Just his shirt. I have no bra, no underwear. For all intents and purposes, I’m still very easily accessible.
I don’t want to think about what liberties he took while he was dressing me. Why does it even matter? He’s violated me enough already for nothing else to matter, and yet it does. Every touch, every damned glance he gives me feels like further insults.
He reaches out his hand, tapping the space beside him, and reluctantly I sit down.
“You must be hungry.” He says.
I can’t even remember the last thing I ate but in truth, it’s been the least of my worries.
He reaches forward, picks up a sliced fig from the literal platter of food laid out in front of him and offers it up to me.
It’s stupid to refuse him. Stupid to not eat. I need to keep up my strength, after all how can I fight him if I’m half-starved? Those are the excuses I make, those are the justifications as I part my lips and let him slide the fruit into my mouth.
And god is it perfect. The sweetness hits my tongue, the delicate flavour makes me almost moan and I shut my eyes, forcing myself to get a damned hold of my senses. I won’t be that easily broken. I won’t be that easily bought.
When I open my eyes again, he’s studying me, his lips tilted as though he can read my mind, as though he understands every whirling thought in my head.
His hand sweeps my hair back, cupping my face in an intimate gesture.
“You’re mine now, Brynn. Let me take care of you. Let me love you.”
Love? He talks of love after everything he’s done? He doesn’t even know me. How can he profess to love me when he’s stolen me away, destroyed any chance I have of happiness?
I rear back, my anger spiking but he’s quick to lash out, quick to grab me before I can stand up.
“You’re my wife.” He states. “You’re bound to obey me.”
“And if, if I don’t?” I should keep my mouth shut. I should be smarter.
He clenches his jaw, obviously pissed off, and then he just shrugs. “It doesn’t matter what you do. You can’t escape me. You can’t leave me. If you fight me, you’ll only make this worse for yourself.”
“Why?” I gasp. “Why mmme? Why marry me, why dooo any of this?” I’m on my feet, clenching my fists, though I don’t remember moving. None of this makes any sense. None of this is logical. None of this should be my life. “You’re meant to ma-ma-marry Giselle.”
He snarls at the mention of her name and then he’s up, towering over me, and all that courage I had seems to fizzle to nothing. “Is that what you want?” He asks. “Is that what you’d prefer? Me having her as my wife?”
Quite honestly, I don’t give a fuck who he marries as long as it isn’t me but it’s too late for that, and besides, I don’t dare voice that opinion out loud.
He reaches out, pulling my body to him and with our size difference, I feel even more powerless. “I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you’d be the one I married, you’d be the one who gave me heirs.”
“I don’t wannnt children.” It’s a lie, a half-truth. I’ve never truly thought about it, because my freedom was much more pressing. You don’t think about starting a family when every moment of your life is about survival.
He tuts, placing a hand on my belly. “It doesn’t matter what you want, Brynn. You’re my wife. You’ll do as you’re told.”
There’s no reasoning with him, I can tell from the look on his face that he has this all planned out.
“So what now?” I ask, trying to change the subject, trying to calm myself. “What do we do now? Are you going to announce me as your wife? Can I go out, can I…” I trail off because I don’t even know what I’m asking, what I need to know.
This all feels so off, as if Conrad is keeping more secrets.
“You will remain here.” He says. “You are safe here. Too much is going on right now for you to leave.”
“Where am I?” I reply.
The weight of his hands dig further into my hips, and he almost preens as he says the next words. “My home. My ancestral home.”
“But I thought the pennnthouse…”
“That’s for when I’m in the city. This house is where we will raise our family, where we will grow old, where we will spend our lives together.”
He’s a mad man. A fucking nut job. Does he really think that we’ll have that? That I’ll, what, just comply and become some mindless, obedient slave of a wife for him?
My eyes dart about, and instinctively I look for an escape route. The curtains are drawn, so I have no idea what level we’re on. The door is shut, so I can’t tell how big this house even is. Is it as big as my grandfathers? It certainly feels older.
“You’re safe here.” He says again, as if I should be afraid of something other than him.
And that makes me pause.
“Why, why wouldn’t I be safe?” I ask before it hits me what’s really going on. Why we got married in an empty chapel and not the Cathedral. Why we had no witnesses. “Nooo one knows, do they? That’s why it was justtt you and me there. No one knows that you ster-ster-stole me away, that you married me.”
He narrows his gaze, and his hand reaches up to grab my jaw. “It doesn’t matter. By the time everyone finds out, I’ll have all my pieces in place and there’ll be nothing anyone can do.”
Nothing anyone can do? Over my dead body. It’s alright for him, he’s a Lord, his brother is about to become Chapter Lord. If this blows up, he’ll probably end up with little more than a slap on the wrist. But me? My fate will be far worse. I’ll be carted off to Oblivion. Locked away. I’ll be condemned not because of what I’ve done myself, but because of how my now-husband has ruined me.
A tear slips down my cheek. I can’t keep the tremble from my body at the thought of what will happen because let’s face it; even if this does work out, even if Conrad gets what he wants, I’ll still be here by his side, bound to my rapist.
It’s not a future anyone would want.
It’s not the future I so desperately dreamed of.
“Ssssh,” He says, soothing me. “It’ll be fine. Trust me. Trust your husband.”
As if I could. As if I would.