Chapter 14
14
SAMANTHA
W hen I get home from the construction site, I get past the paparazzi in record time. Maybe that means they’re getting tired of my story. Life might return to normal sometime soon.
Yeah. Right.
I hear Aiofe in the kitchen, talking to Fairfax. Her voice is light and happy, like the chittering of sparrows. I want to hear about her first day at school, about her friends and classes.
But I have another obligation.
Standing in my closet, I stare at the racks of clothes. I long to be the woman who wears pink cashmere sweaters, who dresses in flowers and plays with knee-high boots. But I need to look professional. I need protection as I go into battle. I need armor.
Regretfully, I shed the clothes I wore to Braiden’s worksite. I pull on a pair of white cotton panties. I add my most supportive bra. I step into black Givenchy trousers and a draping white top. By the time I shrug on the pants’ matching blazer and add my Dolce and Gabbana three-inch heels, I feel like a fucking warrior.
I stride down the hall to my new office, where Declan set up my computers over the weekend. He had a lot to say about the work Cole Wolf did, but I gather our information is more secure than ever, even if Declan’s feelings ended up mangled. I’m able to reach out to Sonja with a single tap of a button.
“You’re late,” she says as she answers the video call.
By three fucking minutes.
“Sorry. I was caught up in a meeting I couldn’t leave.” For just a moment, I feel Braiden’s weight, pushing me into the unfinished wall in the new Hare’s basement. I hear his breathing, harsh and desperate. I smell the dust and sweat in his hair.
“Let’s get started,” Sonja says, and I’m more grateful than ever that I left my pretty pink flowers behind. “As you know, I won’t be able to make any arguments for you tomorrow. I’ll be present solely as an advisor. After I introduce myself, I can’t make any statements to the panel. You can ask to speak with me in private, but I strongly recommend against doing that.”
“I understand.”
For the next four hours, Sonja Heller grills me. She takes me through the testimony we’ve prepared, asking questions in order. Then, she jumps around, pounding the most condemning facts. She pressures me for details, ridiculing me when I say I can’t remember aspects of the tragedy that cost three innocent people their lives. She lures me with supposed understanding, then springs traps when I use phrases like “I think” and “I guess”.
She’s a brutal, efficient lawyer, perfect for my case.
And when we’re done, I’m certain I don’t have a prayer of succeeding.
“All right,” Sonja finally says, sounding as exhausted as I feel. “Let’s call it a day. I’ll meet you outside the hearing room at noon tomorrow. By three o’clock, this will all be over.”
One way or another . She doesn’t say it, but we’re both thinking it.
By the time I get to the dining room, Aiofe is polishing off an ice cream sundae. She’s drowned it in gallon of multi-color sprinkles, and she’s using her spoon to emphasize a statement: “Sister made us sit quiet for ten whole minutes! Not a word out of anyone!”
I slip into my chair and put my napkin on my lap. My plate is filled with food—roast chicken, potatoes, and carrots, a grilled quarter lemon, and a perfectly shaped Parker House roll. I’m fairly certain I’ll puke if I try a bite of anything.
Braiden sits back in his chair at the head of the table. His own plate has been cleared. It looks like he skipped dessert, but he’s eyeing me like I’m his next course.
“Don’t start,” I say. It’s one of his favorite phrases, one of the ways he rules over all of us. I’m fully aware of how many rules I’ve broken tonight, coming late to dinner, wearing black and white, skipping a skirt, wearing underwear.
“Some people have the mistaken impression they can bank favors,” he observes, his tone so mild I know I’m in trouble up to my neck. Deeper even. Far over my head.
But I say, “Some people have never lived with a tyrant.”
Aiofe glances between us, a frown twisting her lips. “Sister Mary Elizabeth says it’s not polite to tell secrets in front of other people.”
Maybe Braiden was right. Maybe we never should have sent Aiofe to school.
But Braiden keeps his tone light as he says, “One more minute to finish that sundae, little one. And then it’s time to get ready for bed.”
“It’s not even eight o’clock! Jeannie’s bedtime is nine o’clock. And Nicky gets to stay up as late as she wants.”
“Jeannie and Nicky don’t live in this house.” But he cuts off further rebellion by adding, “If you’re in bed by quarter past, you can read till nine. You can tell Fairfax I said so.”
Aiofe wolfs down the syrupy dregs of her dessert. Dropping her spoon on the table, she springs up from her chair and bounces over to Braiden. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him on the cheek. “Thank you, Uncle Braiden,” she says. “Thank you for letting me go to St. Agnes.”
He hugs her with one arm. “I’m glad you had a good day. Tomorrow will be even better.”
She crosses behind him and gives me a quick hug. “Goodnight, Samantha. I love you.”
The words seem to fall out of her mouth by accident, but she doesn’t bother picking them up. “I love you too,” I say, and she’s gone with a smile and a twirl of her plaid uniform skirt.
“Why isn’t Aiofe required to change clothes when she gets home from school?” I ask.
Braiden looks at me levelly. “Don’t change the topic of conversation.”
“I wasn’t aware we were conversing.”
“Eat your dinner.”
“It’s cold.”
“I’ll call Fairfax and ask him to heat it up.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Enough.” He says the one word quietly. As if he’s answering a question.
He’s still wearing his jeans, still wearing his plaid shirt, and I know when he gets close enough, he’ll smell like dust and sweat and sin. I want to sit and stare at him. I want to remember how he moved inside me, losing control in the unfinished basement of his bar. I want to remember how it felt to do one thing right, to distract him when he needed distraction, to help him when he needed help.
But he says, “Still trying to control everything?”
“I’m not?—”
“I’ve warned you too many times. Subs don’t decide when and how they get punished. And make no mistake. You will be punished. Do we have to review the rules?”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “Work ran late tonight. I came down to dinner because I wanted to hear about Aiofe’s first day at school. I didn’t change my clothes because I knew it was almost time for her to go upstairs. Not everything is about you. Not everything is a grand challenge to your precious alpha dominance.”
He waits a moment, as if he’s actually curious to hear what else I have to say. But I know I’ve already pushed him too far.
“I should make you sleep in the guest room tonight,” he finally says.
“Braiden—”
“But I won’t. Because tonight you need this more than you need to learn a lesson.” He pushes back from the table and takes three steps to the doorway. Looking over his shoulder, he says, “ Piscín ?”
And God help me, I follow him upstairs to our bedroom.
My collar is heavy around my neck. The platinum is cold, until it’s hot. I feel the emerald every time I swallow.
This is the first time Braiden has tied me up in this room. The first time he’s used the toys in this dresser. It’s the first time he’s brought me to the edge here, held me for an eternity here, left me wild and raw and desperate here—but he does it again and again and again.
This house doesn’t have Thornfield’s soundproof walls. It doesn’t have long corridors, perfect for muffling noise. Our new home doesn’t have a separate cottage for Fairfax—only a suite in the basement, two floors away and not far enough.
I do my best to swallow my moans. To muffle my groans. To scream inside the trembling darkness of my throat, smothering all my sounds. But when Braiden finally opens the clamps on my aching nipples, when he sets aside the pinwheel, when he slaps the riding crop against my clit one last time, I can’t help myself.
I call out his name. I pant about God. I sigh and I cry and I stutter as he brings me to a quick second peak and then a long, drawn-out third. That last one pulses through my entire body, from the roots of my hair to the curl of my toes, an endless wash of release.
He brings me a glass of cold, clear water. He feeds me the darkest chocolate I’ve ever tasted. He holds me close and wipes tears from my cheeks, which doesn’t make sense because I don’t remember crying.
“I can’t do it,” I finally whisper in the shadows that have swarmed since sunset.
“You can do anything.”
“The hearing. Tomorrow. It’ll be a disaster.”
He spreads his fingers across my hip. “It won’t be. You’ll be brilliant, piscín . And then it will all be behind you.” He pulls me into the curve of his body, molding my spine to his chest. “You can do this, mo chailín maith .”
I want to believe him. I want to know he’s right. So I close my eyes. I relax in his arms. And I let him hold me until he falls asleep.