25. Bianca
25
BIANCA
T he last week or so has been surprisingly nice. And it’s confusing me.
Rork’s been almost gentle with me, engaging me in conversation, taking me out to see the town. It’s a far cry from the cold, ruthless man I’ve been introduced to.
And then there are the books. Every night, I find a new one waiting for me on my bed. Classic novels, beautifully bound editions of my favorite authors, and some new ones too. It’s clear that Rork is thinking about me and paying attention to my interests and trying to cater to them.
It warms my heart in a way I’m not quite ready to admit. It makes me wonder if there’s more to him than the cruel, calculating exterior he presents to the world.
But then I remember who he is. What he’s done. That he’s using me as a weapon against my father and demeaning me to do so. And I’m torn.
Part of me wants to give in to the attraction I feel and explore this softer side of Rork. But another part of me recoils at the thought, disgusted by my own weakness.
He’s a fucking asshole , I remind myself, a monster who ruins lives without a second thought. I can’t let myself forget that, no matter how charming he may seem.
And yet… I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more to him, something buried deep beneath the layers of anger and bitterness and pain. Something I might like.
It’s a dangerous thought. A stupid one. But as I lie in my bed after coming back from town, surrounded by the books he’s chosen for me, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to truly know Rork, to see beyond the mask he wears and touch the man beneath.
My face heats up as I remember the feeling of his hands on my skin, his lips against mine.
God, it felt so good.
It’s a fantasy. A dangerous dream. But I have to remember who he is. He can’t be trusted.
Right?
The next morning, after breakfast, Rork leads me across the sprawling grounds of his estate. I can’t help but feel a flicker of excitement stirring in my chest. The fresh air, the warmth of the sun on my skin—it’s always a welcome feeling.
But when we round the corner and the stables come into view, I feel my breath catch in my throat. Because there, nestled among the rolling hills and lush green fields, is a sight that I never expected to see.
Horses. Dozens of them, of every color and breed imaginable. From sleek, powerful thoroughbreds to gentle, shaggy ponies, they mill about in their paddocks and stalls, whinnying and snorting in the cool morning air.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, not seeing Rork’s head turn in my direction and his eyebrow raise at my comment.
My eyes drink in every detail. The gleaming coats, the rippling muscles, the intelligent eyes that seem to look right into my soul. It’s a sight that takes my breath away, a reminder of the beauty and majesty that still exists in the world, even in the midst of my own personal hell.
As the scents of hay and horse fill my nostrils, I feel a sudden, desperate longing rising up within me. If I could only find a way to sneak out of here unseen, I could take one of those magnificent creatures, ride away, and disappear into the wilderness and never look back, leaving Rork behind me.
It wouldn’t be that hard. We Marino girls have been riding horses since we could walk. Growing up in a family like mine, it was practically a requirement, and I’ve always had a special bond with horses, a deep love for these gentle giants.
I could get a divorce. I don’t even care that Rork would try to get me back. He can’t force me. This is the twenty-first century, and even though my parents have antiquated, bullshit views about women and being married, I know they wouldn’t send me back. They would help me.
It’s a foolish dream that I know I can’t afford to indulge in. There’s no way I’d be able to pull off such an escape under Rork’s watchful eye.
But still, I can’t help but let my mind wander, imagining the feel of the wind in my hair and the thunder of hooves beneath me as I gallop toward freedom.
“What are we doing out here?” I ask, hoping Rork will let me ride one.
“You’ll see,” Rork says as he leads me into the stables.
For a moment, I allow myself to get lost in the peaceful atmosphere, the gentle snorts and whinnies of the animals soothing my frayed nerves.
But my brief moment of tranquility is shattered when Rork shoves a pitchfork into my hands, a smug smirk playing on his lips. He points to a pile of soiled hay in the corner, his eyes glinting with a cruel sort of amusement.
“Today’s work will be stacking hay bales,” he announces, his voice dripping with false cheerfulness. “I hope you’re ready to get your hands dirty, Princess Bianca.”
I stare at the hay, then back at him, my jaw dropping in disbelief. My heart seems to break in two. “You’re joking,” I state, my voice rising in indignation, trying to mask the hurt. “You can’t be serious.”
Rork throws his head back and laughs, the sound harsh and grating in the quiet of the stables. “Absolutely,” he says, his grin widening. “This will be great fun for you, don’t you think?”
My cheeks flush with anger and embarrassment, but I refuse to let him see how much his words bother me. Instead, I grip the pitchfork tightly, my knuckles turning white with the force of my frustration. It takes everything in me to not ram the pitchfork through his body. Was this his whole plan? To try and lower my defenses, act sweet, and then turn on me?
“And how the fuck am I supposed to do that?” I snap, gesturing toward the towering pile of hay bales, trying to ignore the lump in my throat, the betrayal I feel. “I’ve never stacked hay before in my life.”
Rork just shrugs, his eyes glinting with a malicious sort of glee. “I don’t care,” he says, his voice cold and dismissive. “Figure it out, Princess.”
And with that, he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches me struggle.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the rage and humiliation that threaten to overwhelm me. Then, with a grunt of effort, I plunge the pitchfork into the nearest bale of hay, hoisting it up with all my strength.
It’s heavier than I expected, and I can feel my muscles straining with the effort. The outfit I’m wearing, a simple pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, is woefully inadequate for the task at hand. Within minutes, I’m sweating profusely, my hair and hay sticking to my forehead and my clothes clinging to my skin.
But I don’t stop, even though my arms are screaming at me. Because I know that’s exactly what Rork wants, to see me break under the strain of this labor.
But I’ll show him. I keep going, stacking bale after bale, my arms burning and my back aching with the effort. All the while, I can hear the click of Rork’s camera, capturing every moment of my humiliation to send to my father.
Finally, after what feels like hours, I can’t take it anymore. I whirl around to face him, my eyes blazing with fury.
“Why the fuck do you keep taking these stupid pictures of me?” I demand, my voice raw with exhaustion, anger, and hurt. “Do you really think it’ll piss off my father that much?”
Rork just smirks, his eyes roaming over my sweat-soaked form with a sort of detached amusement. “Does it bother you?” he asks, his voice a mocking drawl.
I feel my hands clench into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms hard enough to leave marks.
“Of course it bothers me,” I snap, my voice trembling with barely-contained rage. God, I fucking hate him . And I hate myself for letting my defenses fall.
“I’m sweating my ass off here, doing all the work while you stand around and watch and take fucking pictures of me to send to my father. I’m supposed to be your wife, but it seems like you’d rather use me as a servant.”
Throwing the pitchfork to the side, my hands aching and stinging, I narrow my eyes into slits. “Why did you even bother marrying me if all you wanted was someone to do your menial labor? Why did you even bother being nice to me and showing me your books and discussing literature with me?” I ask, my voice dripping with venom and hate. “Was it just another way to humiliate me? To make me feel like shit?”
Rork’s smile falters for a moment, and I see something in his eyes that might almost be guilt. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the cold, cruel mask that I’ve come to know so well.
“You’re right,” he says, his voice a mocking purr. “I didn’t marry you for your manual labor skills. They’re God fucking awful. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy watching you suffer a little bit. Consider it payback for all the trouble your father has caused me over the years.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss. “Newsflash, asshole. I didn’t do anything to you. I didn’t even know you existed until you accosted us outside the bridal shop. Your issue with my father shouldn’t extend to me .”
I grab the pitchfork again and return my attentions to my task. I imagine that with every pierce of the hay, it’s Rork’s body I’m stabbing. It makes me feel a bit better.
Suddenly, Rork is right beside me with a pitchfork in his hands. I startle and look at him with wide eyes, forgetting my anger.
“You suck at this,” Rork says. “If I don’t help you, it’ll take days before you’re done.”
I can’t even argue with him about that. He’s right.
Rork effortlessly hoists the hay bales onto the top of the pile, and I can’t help but feel a grudging sense of admiration. It’s clear he’s done this numerous times before, and I have to admit that he’s strong, his muscles rippling beneath his shirt as he works.
To my surprise, he doesn’t seem to mind getting his hands dirty. In fact, he tackles the task with gusto. Within minutes, he’s reached the bottom of the pile, the stables looking neater and more organized than they have in probably years. And when he turns to face me, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, I see a glint of something in his eyes that might almost be respect.
“There’s nothing wrong with menial labor,” he says, his voice gruff but not unkind. “It’s what makes people strong. It builds character—something a spoiled little princess like you would know nothing about.”
His words hit me like a slap in the face, and I feel my cheeks burning with shame and indignation. Does he really think I’m some fragile heiress who hasn’t done a day of hard work in her life?
Okay, so maybe I haven’t done a lot of hard work, but I don’t mind physical work. I’ve never been afraid to get my hands dirty, to put in the effort and the sweat to get things done.
But what I do mind is the way Rork seems to delight in tormenting me, in pushing me to my limits just to see how far he can bend me before I break. And more than that, I hate the fact that I can’t seem to figure out what he wants from me.
One moment, he’s treating me with some kindness, almost as if he’s trying to be a decent human being. The books on my bed and his showing me of his first-edition tomes prove that. But the next, he’s back to his old tricks, taunting me and humiliating me just for the sake of his own twisted amusement.
It’s enough to make my head spin, to leave me feeling like I’m constantly off-balance and unsure of where I stand. And as I watch him now, his face a mask of smug satisfaction, I can’t help but feel a surge of resentment toward him.
I can see now why he and my father would butt heads, why they would be at each other’s throat from the moment they first met. They’re too alike, both of them stubborn and choleric, both of them determined to come out on top, no matter the cost.
However, where my father has a sense of honor, a code of ethics that he lives by, Rork seems to have no such scruples. He’s unpredictable and volatile, his moods shifting like the wind and his loyalties always in question, and that scares me. How can I ever hope to find a way out of this living hell if I can’t even predict what my captor will do from one moment to the next?
I refuse to let him see my fear, to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much he’s gotten under my skin.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice steady despite the tremor of anger that runs through it. “I may be a spoiled little princess , but at least I have a sense of decency. At least I don’t take pleasure in tormenting those who are weaker than me. You’re nothing but a goddamn bully.”
Rork’s smile falters for a moment, and I see a flicker of something in his eyes that might almost be shame. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a bored, haughty mask.
“Decency is overrated,” he says, his voice a mocking drawl. “Your parents didn’t give me any decency, and in this world, the only thing that matters is power. And right now, I have all the power over you.”
God, he really needs to get over what happened between him and my parents all those years ago. This is what therapy is for.
But I won’t rise to his bait. It’ll only give him more ammunition to use against me, and right now, he has too much.
Instead, I take a step back, my chin lifted in a show of defiance. “For now,” I say, my voice a quiet challenge. “But don’t forget, Rork. Power is a fleeting thing, and one day, when you least expect it, I’ll be the one holding all the cards. And when that day comes, you’ll be the one on your knees, begging for mercy.”
Just as Rork opens his mouth to respond, his eyes flashing with a dangerous mix of anger and amusement, we’re interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing through the stables. I turn to see one of Rork’s men approaching, his face grim and his shoulders tense with urgency.
“Boss, we’ve got a problem,” he says, his voice low and urgent. “The collection at the docks went south.”
Rork’s jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing into slits of cold, calculating fury.
“Fuck,” he growls, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Tell me everything that happened.”
The man nods. Glancing at me, he lowers his voice, and he and Rork walk away to discuss whatever matter is pressing. Annoyingly, I am impressed by the way Rork handles his men. Despite the severity of the situation, he doesn’t lash out or place blame. Instead, he listens to him, and even though I can’t hear a word they’re saying, it’s clear he treats them with a sort of rough camaraderie. I imagine his treating his men with respect inspires loyalty.
I think back to Alice Reynolds who refused to say one damn word against Rork or give me a hint of escape when I talked to her. She is loyal to an annoying fault.
The only reason Lucy said anything to me is because she was still brand-new to this job. Give it a few years, and she’ll probably want to suck Rork’s dick.
But as I mull over this unexpected facet of my captor-husband’s personality, I realize with sudden, heart-stopping clarity that no one is watching me. Rork is deep in conversation with his man, his attention focused entirely on the crisis.
This is my chance. I may not be able to take a horse without drawing attention to myself and risking everything, but I might just be able to make a run for it out the side door.
My heart races at the thought, my palm slick with sweat as I weigh the risks and reward of such a bold move. I know that if I’m caught, the consequences will be severe. Rork isn’t a man to be trifled with, and I have no doubt that he’ll make me pay dearly for any attempt at escape. I would be trapped in my room for the rest of my life.
But the alternative—staying here with a man who delights in tormenting me and my family—is too horrible to contemplate. And so I make my decision.
I’m getting out of here.
Slowly, carefully, I edge toward the side door, my movements as silent and stealthy as I can make them. I hold my breath, my ears straining for any sound of alarm or pursuit.
But there is none. Rork and his man are still deep in conversation, their voices low and urgent as they discuss the fallout of the botched collection or whatever the fuck it was.
With a final, desperate glance over my shoulder, I slip out the door and into the bright, blinding sunlight.
For a moment, I’m frozen, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure they must be able to hear it back in the stables. But as the seconds tick by and no one comes bursting out to drag me back, I feel a sudden, dizzying rush of hope.
I’m free. Or at least, as free as I can be, given the circumstances. And now, with the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, I know that I have to make the most of this chance.
So I run like I’ve never run before, my legs pumping and my lungs burning as I sprint across the fields and into the tree line beyond. I don’t know where I’m going. All I know is that I need to put as much distance between myself and Rork as possible.
For the first time since the stupid tournament that got me into this mess, I’m taking control of my own fate.
My heart soars with a wild, reckless sort of joy as I disappear into the wilderness.
I can’t help but feel a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe…
I might actually make it out of this alive.