26. Conrad
S he’s on the floor.
Still just lying there.
My nose wrinkles at the acrid stench of piss.
She pissed herself?
Did she do that just to spite me, or was it to make her as unattractive as she could be in the hopes I wouldn’t fuck her?
I shake my head. Stupid little bitch will learn very quickly that I won’t be put off by inconsequential things. No, even if she shits herself, even if she smears it all over her body I’ll fuck her, I’ll use her, and then I’ll rub her face in the dirty sheets like a dog.
Around her neck, I can see the livid bruising where the chain strangled her.
I yank her up. Her whimper becomes a scream of pain, but I bear it no attention. She did this. She caused this. She deserves to hurt.
I toss her onto the bed and she groans, rolling over, curling up into a foetal position.
Only, there’s a sharp, haunting sound coming from her mouth.
I pause, watching her, waiting for her to spit out more hate, more vitriol but nothing comes. She just lays there, broken and pathetic.
Maybe she really is hurt.
A flash of something hits me. Did I break her too much? Did I go too far?
I crouch down, brushing the hair from her face and I can feel how icy cold her skin is, and yet her forehead is covered in sweat like she’s burning up.
“Doll?” I murmur.
She doesn’t look at me. She just stares, with her eyes hazy and unfocused.
“Doll?” I growl again.
No response. Not even a blink.
I stand up, storming out of the room and holler for the doctor. I know the bastard is there somewhere.
He comes in, looking in far less of a hurry than I’d like. My hands ball in my pockets as I gesture over to her with my head and he pauses, staring like he expected to see something else.
He walks over, narrowing his eyes, before he opens up that bag and pulls out a stethoscope.
I don’t speak as he examines her. Though it takes everything I have not to tell him where he can and cannot put his hands.
Brynn whimpers, clearly hating his touch as much as I do.
When he’s done, he looks over at me.
“Well?” I snap.
“It’s just bruising. Bad bruising. You might have fractured a rib or two, but I suspect they’re only hairline fractures. It would be best to get her to a hospital though, to be on the safe side.”
‘Absolutely not.”
I’m not having her taken from here, from her home. Besides, the more exposure she has to the world, the more risk I have of someone realising where she is, and what I’ve done.
“She could be concussed.” He adds.
“Then I’ll get a sick bucket.” I snap. She can spend the entire night retching for all I care, but she will not be leaving here, leaving me.
He mutters under his breath, just low enough that I don’t catch it. He’s lucky I need him right now, or he’d be dead in a ditch for that insolence.
“I can give her something for the pain.” He suggests.
I shake my head. No, she won’t get that. She isn’t allowed that. She needs to feel every moment of this, to understand that this is of her making. She caused this, and she has to face the consequences.
My eyes land back on her; she’s curled up, her hands grabbing her sides like she’s trying to protect something. Only, we both know that’s not the case.
But an idea settles.
“You can give her a shot.” I say.
“A shot?” He repeats like a damn parrot.
“I’ve fucked her enough times. She should be pregnant by now, and she’s not.” I’m not opposed to using other means, to tipping the scales to ensure I get what I want. Hell, if I have to construct some sort of machine to keep her continuously filled with my semen, then I’ll do that. I’ll get the bitch pregnant one way or another.
“You mean a fertility shot.” He says, like he’s just solved a puzzle.
“Yes.”
He glances back, staring one second far too fucking long at my wife. “She’s battered, bruised, and emaciated.” He states like I’m not more than aware of that fact. “She’s in no fit state to conceive, let alone carry a child.”
My anger flares. Who the fuck does he think he is to talk to me like that?
“Give her the shot.” I snarl, grabbing his collar, shoving him enough to make my point. Like I give a fuck what his opinion is on the matter.
He has the audacity to sigh, but he pulls over his bag, rummaging through like he’s Mary Fucking Poppins. What else does he have in there?
He pulls out a vial and a syringe.
If Brynn is aware of what’s going on, I’m not sure. She certainly doesn’t show any hint that she’s even conscious. She’s still just lying there, like a broken toy waiting to be fixed.
He leans over, jabbing the thing into her skin, right where her arse meets her thigh. There’s a handprint there, a mark I know I left.
She hisses and her hands clench, but she doesn’t try to fight.
And then he’s pulling it out, putting it away, and moving to stand in front of me.
“Mr Blake,” He says quietly. “You cannot do that again; you cannot beat her like that again. If she does get pregnant, then there is a high chance you will cause a miscarriage.”
I wave my hand, dismissing his words, dismissing him. Like hell I’ll be told what I will and won’t do in my own home.
As the door closes, I go and sit on the bed. Maybe it’s my imagination but she looks better, calmer.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” I murmur, stroking her hair. “I want you to let me love you. I want you to let me treat you right.”
She sniffs and I tuck my hand under her chin to make her look at me.
“I love you, Brynn. I love you. And if you’d only stop fighting me, then you’d realise that I will do anything for you. I will give everything for you. I will make you happy.”
“I want my freedom.” She says in a clear, unbroken whisper.
God, it takes everything I have not to slam my fist into her face, to shatter those pretty eyes staring up at me.
My hand curls into her hair, I yank hard enough to ensure she realises I’m not fucking around.
“You are my wife.” I state. “My fucking wife.”
Why is that so hard to understand?
Why is that so hard to realise?