11. Etta
11
ETTA
W hen the judge starts to speak, I don’t hear a word through the ringing in my ears. I don’t know what’s happening. No, that’s a lie. I know exactly what’s happening, I just don’t know how things have escalated so quickly that I’m standing in front of a judge in the middle of a wedding ceremony.
“Do you, Oz James Malik, take Etta Jayne Jordan to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the judge asks.
“I do,” Oz answers immediately, like he didn’t even need to think about it.
“Do you, Etta Jayne Jordan, take Oz James Malik to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Suddenly, the ringing stops, and everything goes silent. So silent that I swear I can hear my heart pounding in my chest.
“Miss Jordan?” the judge calls my name.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Yes, you do?” the judge asks, his brow furrowed.
“What?”
“I asked if you, Etta Jayne Jordan, take Oz James Malik to be your lawfully wedded husband.”
“Oh,” I say stupidly. But then Oz reaches out and cups my cheek, his lips parting as he mouths the words, “ I do.”
“I do,” I echo back, lost to his touch and the way his eyes are ordering me to comply. When he mouths, “Good girl,” I almost swoon.
For a moment, the ringing in my ears returns until the words “By the power vested in me, by the state of Montana, I now pronounce you husband and wife” permeate the crazy that’s going on in my head.
Snapping my head to look at the judge, my mouth falls open when I realize what he just said, but before I can speak, Oz’s arms are around me and his lips are on mine, and that’s all I can think about, all I can feel, and all I need.
The next ten minutes pass by in a haze while Oz guides me out of the courthouse and onto the street.
“Mrs. Malik,” he growls, dipping his head to press another searing kiss against my lips.
“What did we just do?” I rasp, my voice weak.
“We got married. You’re my wife, and I’m your husband. Thank you, baby. Thank you.”
“Congratulations,” someone says from behind us.
“Thanks for coming,” Oz says, smiling widely as he spins us around to face the two guys who were in the courthouse with us. “Etta, these are two of my friends and teammates, Knight Taylor and Anders Johansen,” Oz says, pointing to each man in turn.
“Hi,” I say, still feeling and sounding shell-shocked.
“It’s nice to meet you, Etta, and congratulations,” Anders says, smiling widely.
“Nice to meet you too,” I manage to say back.
“I’m very happy for you both,” the other guy, Knight, says, his gaze dipping to my stomach for a second before lifting to my face again.
“Your wedding next?” Oz asks Knight.
“Hopefully,” Knight says, his voice monotone in a slightly robotic way.
“Party on the row?” Anders asks.
“No, not today. Today I want my wife all to myself, but maybe we’ll host for the row and the Barnetts on Saturday,” Oz says while I stare at him in shock.
“Sounds good to me, I’ll spread the word, but I won’t mention what we’re celebrating. I figured you guys would rather share the good news yourselves,” Anders says.
“Thanks, bro. We have an appointment to buy a ring, so we should go,” Oz announces, then turns me and starts to guide me over to his truck.
“See you later,” Anders calls as Oz lifts me into the passenger seat.
The moment he climbs into the driver’s seat, I turn to face him. “Did we just get married?”
“Yes.” He chuckles.
“Am I drunk?” I ask, suddenly not sure.
“No, Little One. You’re a little tipsy, but you’re not drunk.”
“Oh god. I said I do ,” I rasp.
“You sure as fuck did.”
Looking down at my hand, I’m shocked to see a simple gold band on my finger. “I’m wearing a wedding ring.”
“Yes, ma’am, you watched me slide it onto your finger.”
“I did?” I question, vaguely remembering him doing it.
“Etta, stop freaking out. We’re married. You said yes. You held out your hand for me to put that ring on you.”
“Oh god, I did, didn’t I?” I squeak, knowing that I might have been a little dazed and shell-shocked but that I was there. I said I do. I agreed to marry this man.
Oh fuck.
When the truck slows to a stop, Oz opens my door and helps me out. This time, instead of curling his arm around me, he holds my hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the slim gold band on my finger.
“This is crazy,” I say, tugging his hand as my feet stop, refusing to move.
Sighing, like I’m trying his patience, Oz turns and faces me. “There’s nothing crazy about me wanting you and you wanting me. There’s nothing crazy about us committing to love, honor and respect each other in front of a judge and God. There’s nothing crazy about you being Mrs. Malik.”
“It’s only been a couple of days,” I whisper.
“So?”
“So?” I gasp, wishing I could be loud and yell and shout and be confident and outspoken, but knowing that I can’t, that it’s not me, that I’ve been quiet and meek my entire life. “Normal couples are together for years before they even consider getting married.”
“If you’ve been with someone for years and you can’t commit enough to marry them, then they’re not the person for you. I knew you were mine the moment you stepped off that bus. After I got your text, I never intended to bring you home with me. I went to the bus station, wanting to get a glimpse of the girl I hated, but then there you were, and I knew, right in that moment. I knew you were mine.”
“Oz,” I gasp, tears filling my eyes.
“Life’s too short to waste a single, precious moment of it. So if we’re moving too fast, then who cares? This is our life, no one else’s, and you made me the happiest man alive when you said I do.”
He’s so earnest, so honest and real, and I melt. I dissolve into a puddle at his feet, and his dominant, controlling aura absorbs me so I become a part of him right here on the sidewalk. I might not have been one hundred percent present at our wedding, but as crazy as marrying a man who until four days ago was the star of every single one of my childhood traumas is, if I had a chance to rewind time, I have a feeling I’d say I do all over again. Since he steered me into his truck and took me to his house, I’ve been constantly moving forward like there was a crowd behind me pushing me onward. But as fast and scary and overwhelming as being the center of his attention has been, I don’t hate his controlling affection.
In the last four days, I’ve felt more seen, more cared for, and more wanted than I ever have before, and being his is intoxicating in a way that I know will easily become addictive. Marrying him is insane, but so was allowing him into my body. So was letting him dictate what I eat and allowing him to take over my life even if each bit of control I gave up only made me more content.
Instead of waiting for him to kiss me, I push up onto my tiptoes and claim his lips with mine. Parting his lips with my tongue, I slide it into his mouth and find his, tasting him while I’m the one that’s in control.
Strong fingers tangle into my hair, and he takes over, tilting my head to the side so he can deepen the kiss until all I can see and taste and feel is him. I know we must be a spectacle, making out on the sidewalk like we’re alone, but I can’t seem to care.
“Come on, wife, let’s go pick you a ring, then I’m taking you to bed,” he growls, lifting me off the ground and swinging me into his arms.
Before I have a chance to protest, he’s marching across the sidewalk and carrying me into an old-fashioned jewelry store with wood-paneled display cases full of sparkling jewels.
“Hi, I called and spoke to Simone, we’re here to pick out an engagement ring,” Oz tells the woman behind the counter.
“Ahh, Mr. Malik, please come through. Mr. Alexander has picked out a selection for you to choose from,” the woman says politely.
“Oz, put me down,” I hiss as the woman gestures down a corridor.
“Nope, I’m carrying you until we’re home and across the threshold.”
“You’re insane,” I tell him, but I’m laughing as he carries me into a small room and then finally lowers me to my feet.
“Mr. and Mrs. Malik, I’m Trevor Alexander,” a man says as he steps into the room. “I believe we’re looking for an engagement ring today?”
“Yes, please, and maybe a matching wedding ring,” Oz says.
“Why do I need an engagement ring when we’re already married?” I ask quietly.
“Because I want you to wear one,” Oz says simply.
“But—” I start.
“Be a good girl and pick out a ring,” Oz says, his tone laced with warning.
Trevor clears his throat, and heat fills my cheeks because I’d forgotten he was even in the room. “Simone mentioned that you didn’t have a particular style of cut in mind, so I took the liberty of selecting some of our more popular choices for Mrs. Malik to choose from. I also selected some of our nontraditional rings with colored diamonds and some of our other precious stones.”
For the first time, my eyes stray to the trays of rings sitting on the table.
“Take a look, see if you like anything, if you don’t, we can have something made for you,” Oz says, his voice brimming with dominance.
“I—” I start.
Instead of listening to me argue, he sits down and pulls me onto his lap. “What about something like that?” he suggests, pointing to a huge, gaudy diamond.
“That’s too big.”
“I didn’t think there was such a thing as a diamond being too big,” he says, his amusement vibrating through him and into me.
“May I see your hand, Mrs. Malik?” the jeweler asks.
Glancing at Oz, I turn back to Trevor and tentatively lift my hand toward him.
“Your hands are small, may I suggest something like this?” Pulling something from one of the trays, he holds it up to the light, and the diamond sparkles. “This is an emerald-cut diamond solitaire surrounded by pink diamonds set into a rose gold band.”
“Oh.” At the sight of the tiny circle gripped between his fingers, a gasp of pleasure falls from my lips, and I stare at the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen in my life.
Leaning past me, Oz takes the ring from Trevor and slips it onto my finger. It’s a perfect fit. I have no idea how he guessed the size of my finger, but it’s absolutely perfect, and as I stare down at my hand, tears fill my eyes.
I’m not the type of girl who has been dreaming about my wedding or the rings I’ll wear all my life. Honestly, I never had any real interest in ever binding myself to a man that way. But as I look down at my finger and the beautiful ring Oz just slid onto it, a sudden wave of calm settles over me. I don’t know if it’s the ring, the man I’m sitting on, or the knowledge that I did something reckless and permanent today. Whatever it is, it feels…right.
“Fuck, Little One. Is that the one?” Oz asks.
“How much is it?” I ask, blinking as I stare down at the perfectly clear diamond.
“That’s not important.”
“Of course it’s important,” I say quietly.
“We’ll take it. Do you have a rose gold band to match?” Oz asks, ignoring my spluttering.
“No, you can’t, it’s…”
Grabbing my face, he silences me with a kiss. I’m not aware of Trevor leaving the room, but he’s loud when he returns carrying a simple rose gold version of the wedding band I’m wearing.
“Thanks,” Oz says, sliding both the wedding and engagement rings off my finger, then slipping the rose gold band on and pushing my engagement ring on top of it. Lifting my hand to his lips, he presses a soft kiss over the top of both of the rings. “Perfect,” he whispers.
“Go and see if you like anything out front. I’ll be out in a minute,” Oz says, lifting me off his lap and steering me into the hallway where the woman who greeted us when we came in is waiting.
“Oh my goodness, that is just beautiful,” she gushes, lifting my hand and smiling down at the rings Oz just put on me.
“Do you know how much this is? I can’t let him spend a fortune,” I tell her.
“I’m sure you’re worth it,” she says, diverting my attention to a case of pink diamond earrings and necklaces.
When Oz steps into the shop, I’m expecting him to tell me it’s too expensive, but instead he tries to buy me an extravagant pair of drop earrings that I refuse to allow the woman to get out of the case to show us.
“If you won’t let me spoil you, then let’s go, wife,” Oz purrs, handing me a small black gift bag.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“It’s just the boxes, the gold band I got for you, and the paperwork for the insurance company.”
Pulling out the paperwork, my feet stop moving, and I’m pretty sure my lungs seize up when I stare down at the insurer’s valuation listed.
“Oz, this says this ring is worth forty grand,” I whisper.
“I’ll call later and add it to our insurance policy,” he says nonchalantly, tugging at my hand to get to me to start moving.
“Oh my god, you need to return it. You can’t spend forty thousand dollars on me. We’ve been together for less than a week.”
“I can, and I did. I don’t believe in divorce, and if you ever ask, know I’ll never give you one, so you’re going to wear that ring for the rest of your life. I’d have spent double that if you’d have picked something more expensive.”
“That’s…” I trail off, unsure what to even say.
“Come on, Little One, I need to get you home. It’s been too long since I was inside of you.”
Before I can even start to argue, he lifts me off my feet and swings me into his arms again.
“You can’t just pick me up every time I try to disagree with you,” I protest weakly.
“Why not?” he asks, completely serious.
“Because it’s not normal.”
“Neither is me getting you pregnant or us getting married within days of us reconnecting. Fuck normal, this is our normal. Plus, you like it when I take charge,” he says airily as he opens his truck and lowers me into the seat.
“In the bedroom, during sex?—”
“All the time. You like it all the time. You like when I tell you to eat, you like it when I tell you to touch yourself. You like that I bulldozed my way into your life and took over. So stop pretending you don’t, because I love it just as much as you do. If you’d let me, I’d make every decision for us, and I’d be happy to have you entirely under my control for the rest of our lives.”
“That’s not?—”
“Normal.” He smirks. “Who fucking cares? No one has any idea what other people’s version of normal is. But if I tell you to strip out of your hose and panties and show me how wet you are, I’d lay money on you being soaked. The more control I take from you, the more aroused you get. That’s why I didn’t ask you to marry me, it’s why I won’t ask to breed you, I’ll take what I want because it’s exactly what you need.”
My mind goes quiet as I try to process his words. Is he right? I do enjoy his controlling nature in bed and how he demands I follow his rules when he’s not there. But that’s just because I crave care and attention, isn’t it? It doesn’t mean I want him to take over my life. “ But isn’t that exactly what he’s been doing since the day he said your name at the bus station? ” my inner voice chirps.
I’m lost in thought as we drive away from town and back up the mountain. When he first brought me to his home, all I wanted was to leave, now I’m going willingly as his wife.
Before I came to Rockhead Point, just the mention of Oscar’s name made me shudder in fear. So why aren’t I scared of him now? Was my memory of him worse than real life?
No.
I was scared of him when he dragged me to his truck and strapped me into the seat. So when did I stop fearing him?
“You’re thinking pretty deep thoughts over there,” he says, shattering my inner diatribe.
“Why aren’t I scared of you anymore?” I blurt.
“You were scared of me?” he asks, like I’ve shocked him.
“Terrified.”
“But you’re not anymore?”
“I don’t know,” I confess. “I think I’m still scared of the memory of you, but I know you won’t hurt me physically.”
“Right now, I don’t want to talk about all the things you remember from when we were kids. Soon, I want you to tell me everything I ever did so I can make it up to you one thing at a time. But I never want you to fear me, Little One. It fucking kills me that I was such an asshole to you, but I can’t erase the past. I’m not the same person I was at fifteen, just the way you’re not the same person you were at twelve. Back then I was a fucked- up, angry kid, and you were the only person in my world who I had power over. It’s not a fucking excuse for what I did, but it’s the only explanation I have.”
“I don’t know if I can give you the control you want, there’s too much history between us,” I admit, bracing for his reaction.
“You already gave me all the control I need, Etta. You married me, you’re pregnant with my kid. I’ve taken it already, and I won’t give it back, but I’ll never abuse it like I did when we were kids. I’ll nurture the gift you’ve given me. I’ll protect it and worship it, and it’ll grow and flourish beneath my care because I’ll do anything for you, wife. I’ll do fucking anything.”
I’m as reassured as I am frightened of his words. I know he means them, his gaze is open and honest, but I don’t know if I can just forget my fear when he’s been the monster lurking beneath the bed my entire life.
Whenever I watch a movie or a show with a villain, I compare them to him. I don’t have many friends, but when we compare war stories, mine all feature him. Perhaps I’m lucky that I’ve never experienced trauma as an adult, but he’s the reason that I withdrew from life and stopped trying to make friends or form relationships.
Octy is literally the only person I’ve allowed myself to bond with since my middle school friends bullied me so bad I had to drop out. Yet here I am, in his truck, driving to his house, after he strong-armed me into marrying him.
What is wrong with me? Did he coerce me, or did he take me to the courthouse and I just went along with marrying him because I’m too pathetic to fight back? Honestly, I don’t really know. I’ve had some cocktails, but I don’t feel drunk anymore, perhaps a little hazy, but not enough to cite drunkenness as an excuse for doing something reckless.
I’ve always considered the metaphor of things feeling like a runaway train barreling down a track as being slightly absurd. If things are getting out of control, you step back, you withdraw. But I haven’t done that with Oz, in fact, I’ve done the complete opposite. My life has been spiraling since I stepped off the bus in this town, but when I had a chance to leave and protect myself, I didn’t take it. I stayed. Does that make me an idiot, or was I choosing to stay because of him?
I don’t know why I’m here, but I’m not trying to leave. I read a book once where the victim of a kidnapping fell in love with her captor. At the time, I thought it was scarily romantic, but I can see these odd similarities between the story and my life.
Oz took me to his house against my will. He didn’t kidnap me, but it definitely wasn’t my choice to go. Then once he had me in his territory, he growled, kissed, and possessed me, and now he’s married and possibly impregnated me.
Am I lost to some odd Stockholm scenario where I’ve fallen for my monster?
“Little One, we’re home,” Oz says softly, pulling me from my bizarre meandering thoughts.
Blinking, I startle when I find him standing outside the truck, my door open while he leans inside, his expression worried.
“Are you okay?” he asks, reaching over me to unfasten my seat belt.
“Err.” I nod. “Sorry, I got stuck in my head.”
Sliding his arm beneath me, he lifts me from the truck, carrying me bridal-style into the house.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Malik,” he says with a playful wink.
“Was all that real? Did we just get married?” I ask, wondering if I drank more than I remember and imagined everything that happened in the last hour.
“It was completely real. You’re my wife, and I’m your husband.”
“Oh god,” I say, covering my mouth with a shaking hand. “We can’t be married. What did we do? We can’t. We can’t,” I say on a rush.
“We can, and we have,” he says, his tone going cold as he bypasses the lounge and heads straight up the stairs. Lowering me to my feet beside the bed, he starts to undress me, tugging my dress up and over my head.
“Oz, wait,” I weakly protest, taking my dress from his hands and using it to cover myself. “We can’t have sex. If we do, we can’t get an annulment.”
“We’re not getting a fucking annulment,” he snarls angrily, ripping the fabric from my fingers and flinging it across the room.
“But we can’t stay married, it’s crazy,” I cry, a wave of panic overwhelming me.
“That’s exactly what we’re going to do. You’re going to be my wife until I take my last breath. I’ll never let you go, I’ll never give you a divorce, you’re mine, Etta. Fucking mine.” As he rants, he yanks my panties and bra off, ripping them in his haste to get me naked.
“I was drunk,” I say, desperately trying to convince myself.
“No, you weren’t, you were tipsy at best, more than sober enough to make a choice, and you did. You chose me. You chose to say I do. You chose to give yourself to me.”
Spinning me around, he presses his hand to the middle of my back, pushing me down until my chest is pressed against the mattress. Heat fills my cheeks as he kicks my feet apart, and I feel coolness coat the soaked folds of my sex.
I should be scared. I should be angry and cold and fighting. But I’m not. Instead, I’m burning up inside, filled with a tidal wave of lust and want and need. Oz is the demon of my nightmares, my childhood tormentor, and the man who wants to control and own me.
Part of me wants to pretend that he’s the villain, and maybe he is, but he’s also my husband, and as he slides his cock through my arousal, then positions the head at my entrance and pushes his way into my body, I stop lying to myself and admit the truth.
I want to belong to him just as much as he wants to own me.
Oz and I have had a lot of sex since he barged into my bedroom in the middle of the night, but never like this. His dick is pounding into me, but it’s more than just a physical action. I can feel the rawness of his emotions, I can feel the anger and all-consuming need to dominate me because of what I said.
He’s not trying to hurt me, but each time he slams into my body, it feels like a punishment, and I take it all because I need to feel the connection between us. I need him to claim me, even if it is brutally intense.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he demands.
“I’m yours.”
“Tell me you want this.”
“I want this,” I admit on a cry as an orgasm detonates through me, bursting from nowhere and making me feel like I’m underwater and everything around me is muffled and quiet.
“Tell me you’re my wife,” he orders.
His voice makes the water disintegrate, and instead of the quiet, my ears are filled with the animalistic sounds of our flesh slapping together and the wetness of my pussy welcoming his cock inside of me.
“I’m your wife.”
“What’s your name?”
“Henrietta Malik,” I cry, feeling my pussy getting wetter and wetter in response to his thrusts.
“Who am I?” he snarls.
“My husband.”
“Damn right, I am. Today, tomorrow, forever.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I bite my lip to stifle the sounds of my whimpers and cries as a second, slightly less powerful orgasm has me arching my back and pushing myself onto his cock.
“That’s it, Etta. Look at you taking my cock so fucking perfectly,” he praises, his tone softening now that he’s content that I understand my role in his life.
“Oh god,” I whine, feeling arousal drip down my thighs. He doesn’t slow his pace, or reduce the intensity that he’s slamming into me, but his hold on me relaxes, and his fingers on my hip and the back of my neck become gentle, like he’s caressing me instead of holding me down.
“Fuck, you’re so wet for me. Your greedy little cunt was made for me—made to take my dick and be filled with my cum. You were made to be bred by me, weren’t you, Little One? You were made to be full of my baby. Ask me for it, Etta, ask me,” he purrs.
“Fuck me, Oz, fill me with your cum.”
“Tell me what you want me to do, baby.”
“Breed me, fuck me until I’m pregnant with your baby,” I blurt on a rush, embarrassment and white-hot need combining together as a third orgasm incinerates me from the inside out, obliterating the past and replacing everything with the here and now. Where it’s me and him, victim and tormentor, predator and prey, husband and wife.