Chapter 14
14
SAMANTHA
I enter the dining room with my stomach quivering, like I’m about to make an opening argument to a panel of critical judges. I’d be happy to skip breakfast, but rules are rules. I don’t want to invite any new punishment.
Who am I kidding? I’m absolutely dying to invite new punishment. But not until I can sit a little more comfortably in my tall, padded dining room chair.
And not until I can figure out why I froze when Braiden sank his fingers into me.
I was ready.
I wanted him.
I consented.
Until every cell in my body screamed that his touch was mortal danger.
Now, I’m grateful for the black cashmere sweatpants I found in my closet this morning, along with my softest grey sweater. Someone brought my clothes up from Delaware. They must have put them away while I was working in my office. Before Braiden came home. Before…
I shift to find a more comfortable position.
Fairfax is just setting out his endless display of plates—it’s just porridge this morning, he announces. Oatmeal, I would say. Complete with a dozen bowls of fruits and nuts and cream and three types of sugar.
I hate oatmeal. But I pretend my bowl is fascinating as I put my napkin on my lap. Pick up my spoon. Swallow hard.
And face Braiden Kelly.
“Sleep well?” he asks, when I finally meet his eyes.
The twist of his lips matches something curling deep inside me. My brain is flooded with sensation, the memory of his touch. The heat radiating off Braiden’s body as he half-guides, half-carries me to my own room. The rosemary-sage scent of the cream he fetches from somewhere. The sound of his breath catching as he rubs the salve into my bruised bottom.
“Very well,” I say, casting a quick glance at Aiofe. She’s the reason I slam the door on my other memories of last night—Braiden’s quick, competent hands stripping off my sweater. His efficiency, helping me into my grey cotton sleep shirt. His lips, feathering the web of scars on my temple just before he whispers, “Sleep, mo chailín maith .”
Realizing my eyes are closed, I open them with a start. Aiofe might be the reason I can’t talk about last night, but I’m very much able to remember it—every burning detail. Even that terrifying moment when everything stopped being a game and the connection severed between my body and my brain.
It’s all as clear as the window panes looking out at the sculpted back yard. As clear as the song that haunted my sleep, the one that woke me in the cold darkness after midnight. A solo voice pulled me out of my dreams.
But that can’t be right. It must have been a voice in my dreams, a woman singing in a language I can’t name. At first, it sounded like a prayer, and then like a lullaby. It eased me back to sleep.
Now, I shift uncomfortably on my chair, fully aware that Braiden is laughing at me. The winter sun streams through the windows, sparking off his eyes as he rises from his chair and asks, “Tea?”
No, you tormentor. Coffee.
But coffee isn’t an option. So dirty water will have to do. “Please,” I say, but he’s already filling my cup.
“So, Aiofe,” I say, desperate for something to think about other than Braiden’s hands. “Do you go to school?”
She shakes her head, which is practically a flood of conversation after her absolute silence yesterday. I’m surprised Braiden indulges her, allowing her the power play of refusing to speak. My Zia Sara would have put up with that for less than a day. No words, no food. No water. No…anything.
Braiden must have his reasons. He says, “Aiofe’s tutor comes here to the house.”
Aiofe wrinkles her nose.
Braiden says without heat, “John Bell is a good man.”
Aiofe offers a skeptical huff, as eloquent as any words she could ever choose to speak aloud.
“Don’t you start now,” Braiden says, but the warning is as soft as flannel, as if it’s been used for many years.
I can’t leave well enough alone. “Don’t you want to go to school?” I ask. If Aiofe went to school, she could be evaluated by professionals. She could be tested, to see if her mutism has some organic cause. She could learn to interact with children her own age instead of a household of adults, at least one of whom is engaged in ongoing criminal enterprises.
But my question is clearly not well received. Aiofe hunches back in her chair. She folds her arms around her belly and tucks her chin toward her chest. Her red curls tremble around her head.
Braiden says, “Aiofe’s safer here.”
“Safer—” How , I’m about to say. But Braiden cuts me off with a glare.
He doesn’t say this is a rule. He doesn’t insist I drop my questions. But I understand I’ve hit a limit. And the last thing I intended to do when I woke up this morning was bully a silent little girl.
I sip my tea and remember not to grimace. My voice is completely even as I say, “Who do I thank for retrieving my clothes?”
Braiden accepts the change of direction. “No one. My men took care of it. I won’t put the unit on the market until next month, so just let Fairfax know if you need anything else from there.”
“You won’t— It’s my condo.”
He shrugs. “If you want to take care of the sale, you’re welcome to it. But I’ve got real estate experts who do these things every day.”
“I’m not selling.”
Braiden glances at Aiofe. She’s staring at me in fascination, as if she’s just discovered a new favorite channel on television. Braiden says, “If you want to rent it out, that’s fine too.”
“I don’t want to rent it. I don’t want to sell it. It’s my home, and I intend to keep it.”
“Why?”
I don’t expect the simple question. We’re married. Why do I need my home? I stutter for a moment before I say, “So I can stay there when I work at the freeport.”
“It’s not safe.”
“I’ll install better locks. Put up some cameras. You’ve got someone who can do that, right? Install hidden cameras?”
Braiden doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he says, “It’s not convenient.”
“It’s five fucking—” I cut myself off. Aiofe is ten years old, and she’s growing up in a house owned by a mobster. I’m certain she’s heard worse. But I rephrase: “It’s five miles from my office.”
“Which you will only be using occasionally. I’ll get you a suite at the finest hotel in Dover when you work late at the office.”
“There are no fine hotels in Dover.”
“Then I’ll talk to Trap Prince. I’ll rent one of the cottages on the freeport grounds.”
“I don’t want a cottage. I don’t want a hotel room. I want my home—the one I chose, the one I lived in, the one that belongs to me.”
“No.”
“No?” I repeat his single syllable, outraged.
“I told you yesterday morning. I like things orderly. Protected. Safe. Your condo is none of those things. Forget about next month. I’ll sell it this weekend.”
“You can’t just?—”
“The money will go into an account for your use.”
“My name is on that mortgage!”
“Do you honestly think that’s a problem for me?”
He must have a herd of lawyers on retainer. He can buy off whatever legal officials he needs. Forge my signature. Worst case, he can force me to sign the necessary paperwork—I have no delusions that a spanking is the worst tool in his physical arsenal.
“Braiden…” I say, unsure of how I want to finish that statement.
“Samantha,” he answers levelly.
Not bothering to swallow my exasperated shriek, I shove away my bowl of uneaten oatmeal. I’m halfway out of the room when Braiden repeats my name, with much more force.
“What?” I ask, whirling back.
Aiofe is craning her neck, staring at me like I’ve sprouted wings and a unicorn horn. Braiden’s face is calm. Stern. Unsmiling.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“My office.” Where I can lock the door , I think. Where I can have some semblance of control over my life.
He reaches beneath his stack of newspapers and picks up a slim silver laptop. My slim silver laptop, I assume, because he says, “You won’t get much done without this.”
“You took my goddamn computer?” My voice shakes with disbelief, my shock amplified by the slow, steady throb of my ass, reminding me that Braiden takes whatever he wants.
Aiofe’s eyes are the size of the plates on the table, but I don’t give a fuck.
Braiden says, “You don’t need it today.”
“I may be your wife, but I’m an attorney, too. I have work to do.”
“You’re on your honeymoon.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath, but Aiofe must hear, because she clutches the tiny gold cross around her neck. To Braiden, I say with bitter sarcasm, “What honeymoon plans do we have today, my beloved?”
“ You are going to relax. I never should have let you start to work yesterday. You overdid things, when you should have been settling into our new life together. Read one of the books in the hallway—they’re all first editions. Or take a long, hot bath. That can be good for aches and pains.”
I glare at Braiden. I know what he’s doing—showing me who’s in charge. I’m supposed to understand that he controls everything about my life, far more than a single spanking can convey.
Especially a spanking when he learned how I excited I became. When he felt how wet he made me. When I had the option to make him stop at any time, just by uttering a single syllable.
I manage not to shift my feet as I ask, “And you? How are you celebrating our wedding?”
“I’m going upstairs,” he says. “To my office. Where Madden and Patrick will report by noon, confirming the pushback on Russo.”
Pushback. Six women about to be killed, and Braiden looks like a panther lounging in the winter sun.
But I glance at Aiofe. Maybe he chooses the word to spare her.
The silence has stretched out longer than I intended. Aiofe is eyeing me with grave concern.
“I’m going to work on Monday,” I warn Braiden.
“Of course.”
“In Dover. At my office.”
“I understand.”
His agreement deflates all the arguments that clamor inside my skull. Absurdly, ridiculously, I nod toward the table. “I don’t like oatmeal.”
“I’ll tell Fairfax not to serve it again.”
“And I want coffee. Instead of tea.”
I can’t tell if he’s grimacing or fighting not to laugh at me. “Fairfax will have some here by noon.”
“Fine,” I say, because I hardly recognize the amiable man at the head of the table.
“Fine,” he agrees. “Come now, cailín ,” he says to Aiofe. “Mr. Bell will be waiting for you in the nursery. A kiss before you turn into a scholar.”
She crosses to his chair and brushes her lips against his cheek.
“Go on, then,” he says. “The pair of you.”
He doesn’t ask me for a kiss, and he doesn’t offer one of his own. Which is fine, I tell myself as Aiofe drags herself toward the stairs. I scowl as Braiden watches her fondly, and then I bite my lip. I’m jealous of a ten-year-old.
My husband looks at me, eyebrows peaked as if he’s waiting for another round of argument. I’m disgusted with him, but I’m even more upset with myself.
This isn’t how marriage is supposed to be. I’m a strong woman. An independent woman. I’m supposed to be an equal, willing partner.
I should never have let him spank me. I shouldn’t have enjoyed it when he did. And I definitely shouldn’t be standing in the man’s dining room, shifting my weight to ease the heat on my bruised ass, wondering what he has in store for the next time I refuse to give in.
Shaking my head at my own weak will, I resign myself to the next three days without my computer. I’m almost out the door when Braiden says, “Samantha.”
I turn to face him so he won’t think he’s won. “Braiden,” I answer, doing my best to match his tone.
“I know this is difficult for you.”
“With all due respect, you don’t know much about me at all.”
“I know more than you think I do, mo chailín maith. ”
“What does that mean?”
“You won’t like it, if I tell you.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of what I like and don’t like?”
“Trust me,” he says.
He isn’t asking. He’s ordering. Every fiber of my bruised pride—not to mention my aching ass—wants to refuse. But there’s nothing Braiden has ever done to harm me. Even when he spanked me, he gave me the out of a safeword.
So I pay him the courtesy of an honest reply. “I can’t,” I say. “Not yet.”
“You will.”
I want to argue. But more than that, I want him to be right. So I leave the room without another word, intent on finding some way to fill this honeymoon day, alone, while my husband works to run his mobster empire.