Chapter 13
Jolie—present day
Woodrow not hearing me should have been a sign. A sign to get the fuck out of that room and as far away as possible.
They say people never learn, and God, that was true.
If I was a little smarter, I’d have been in the lobby, awaiting the police before he’d finished his morning scrub, instead of being dragged through it now—hours later—in that damn fancy dress.
I stayed at the bathroom door, gentle knuckles tapping the wood as I called his name like an idiot, all the while, knowing, why it was, he wouldn’t answer.
No one answered to the wrong name.
He didn’t rush out, taking his time to do whatever it was he was doing. I retreated to the edge of the bed, sitting with my legs folded beneath crumpled bedsheets, a position that hid my fear. And that was where he found me.
For a short time, he ignored me, doing something on a phone that was probably smarter than either of us.
We spent hours up in the room doing our own thing; me, daydreaming and talking to myself, and him, watching with a strange amusement on his face, as the device in his hand started to bore him.
Then we spent more hours getting me ready for the day ahead. Hell told me it had taken him that long to make me pretty. . . well, presentable. Those were his exact words.
And they cut deep.
Especially after the hours I spent with Woodrow.
But this wasn’t Woodrow.
Hell handed me tools and makeup to hide the stress on my face.
I spent most of the day sitting on the floor at the foot of the floor-length mirror, plastering on mineral foundations and blushers, only for him to look at me in complete disgust.
He wasn’t gentle when he dropped to his knees and scrubbed at my scars, removing the caked-on makeup from the crevices on my face. My skin tingled from the multiple washes, and my old wounds threatened to bleed from his touch.
On the fourth attempt of applying my makeup mask, my skin grew sensitive, every drag of the brush hurt my cheeks, and the makeup became harder to apply with tears running down them.
He told me that I’d dolled myself up like a cheap hooker, and despite looking nothing like her, I reminded him of his mother.
And then he reminded me how much he hated her.
My cheeks burned for a whole new reason. The giant handprint marring my skin smudged my blusher, and I found myself reaching for another makeup wipe, a dollop of facial scrub in the center.
On the fifth attempt, I became presentable. He didn’t scrub me.
He stared at me with a smile that made him dangerously handsome before he pulled me by the arm from the floor.
Part of me wanted to believe he chose to grip my bicep because my hand was still causing me pain, but another part of me thought it was because he didn’t think I’d take his hand. . . and I wouldn’t have.
In the middle of the room, he let me go, and he moved to the window to retrieve my dress from where it hung. He stripped me of his tee and dressed me—literally dressed me, like I was a child, unable to do it myself—in the dress he’d selected for our forced marriage and the shoes to match.
He bent at the knee to adjust my skirts to hide the cut he’d sliced through the bodice, pinning it in place with some kind of pin or clip. And while down on one knee, he had another offering.
I cringed wondering what kind of proposal it would be.
He retrieved a small mask from an internal jacket pocket—lace, like my dress, but embedded with tiny black stones, shining like the ring, housing a black diamond, sitting on my finger.
He climbed to his full height, towering above me, his dark shadow pinning me down, making me feel shorter than I was.
The lace kissed my cheeks as he placed the mask on my face, covering the left side completely.
“Still bleeding?” he asked out of the blue as he lowered back to his knees.
And I just nodded, staring down at him.
He hiked up my dress and instructed me to hold it.
He didn’t comment on the boxers I’d stolen while he was in the shower, refusing to wear the dirty knickers I’d been stripped of yesterday, and he didn’t when dressing me, either. But I lied anyway as he slid them down my legs. . . “Woodrow gave them to me.”
His eyes flicked to mine—a knowing stare.
But I held my ground, swallowing my fear and the building saliva straddling my tongue.
The tissues I’d stuffed into the pouch fell to the floor as the underwear reached my ankles, and I stepped out.
Light bloodstains stared up at me until his giant hand covered them. Crunching the tissues into a ball, he disposed of them in the trash with the throw of his hand.
From his pocket, he pulled out a lace thong. This one new. White. The color of pure innocence. . . such a lie. The man at my feet was as white as could be, and he was the opposite of innocent.
I stepped into the leg holes, but before the underwear reached my thighs, he tapped the checkered trousers covering his knee with the palm of his hand.
“Foot,” he instructed.
Embarrassment was something I rarely felt, so I had no trouble lifting my foot and exposing my most intimate parts to him.
It was a good thing embarrassment wasn’t something I felt, because the next part would have made many girls die of shame.
He pulled one more item from that magic jacket of his—the jacket that appeared to hold the ability to store things like hamster’s cheeks.
A tampon.
I kept my eyes ahead as he dipped between my legs for a better view. The slight pressure from me tensing whenever something was pushed into my body, made me uncomfortable, and as the little yellow applicator pushed it inside me, I found myself clutching his shoulders for a little support.
And he allowed it.
He dropped back, licking his dirty fingers; a smirk on his face. I kept my eyes high, ignoring the actions that swirled something in my stomach. . . something that wasn’t arousal.
I was hopeful not to vomit all over him, but I couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t happen.
The look on his face told me he knew exactly what I was thinking, despite my expression remaining blank.
“Even now, such a prude.” He laughed.
I didn’t wait for him to pull up my underwear, I did it myself, as hard as it was while holding all the ruffles of my dress.
“You make me sick!” I said it without actually being sick.
He didn’t say much as he got to his feet, putting on a mask of his own—different to mine, just covering his eyes—he just gave a warning, “Be good today.”
And then he pulled me from the room.
I still had no idea where we were going as he pushed open the lobby doors and ushered me out. I was disappointed to leave behind the hotel’s fresh scent, as my nostrils were instantly assaulted by the sweaty aroma of a thousand tourists.
The strong sun above placed its warmth on my right cheek and exposed shoulders.
“Where are we going?” I looked up at Hell, seeing the red flush on his cheeks, probably caused by sunburn yesterday, as we bobbed through a sea of people, hand in hand.
But he didn’t answer. . . for a minute. Or ten.
My legs started to ache, and so did my heart, over the loss of muscles that once allowed me to run for miles.
We came to a stop, where a lot of excitement appeared to be going on across the street, but it didn’t draw anyone’s attention but mine.
This was Vegas, after all.
Something was always happening.
“There. We are going there. Today is gonna be a good day.”
“What’s happening in there?” I asked, taking a mental note of the men and women, all in similar outfits to ours.
“A wedding reception. Masquerade style.”
“For us?” I knew that couldn’t be true.
“Sure. . . just don’t tell the bride and groom.”
He winked from beneath his pretty mask—the decorations so similar to mine. And then as the lights flashed, indicating it was safe to go, we crossed the street.
I didn’t tell him I didn’t want to invade someone’s wedding. I was under order to behave. So, I kept my mouth shut and let him guide me inside, to a private event that we weren’t meant to be part of.
I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a drink, after being encouraged by my husband. He even ordered himself a whisky, once he realized the tab was on the bride and groom.
The bride and groom, who were complete strangers to us, were enjoying their day, intoxicated by the served wine they shared and high on their love for each other.
They danced and shared delicacies somewhere near the head table. I’d been told to avoid that area.
This room filled with love was nothing like our wedding. Mine and Hell’s.
I watched with a hateful stare as the liquid in my husband’s mouth burned its way down his throat.
Again, he didn’t cover. And I, again, didn’t care. It wasn’t the throat issue I hated, it was him.
He laughed, licking the taste from the fullness of his lips, and I fucking hated that he looked good while doing it.
But whatever was burning him—maybe the flames of hell, calling him to return—lingered.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” He placed his tumbler down and dropped from his stool at the bar, where we’d spent the evening.
He’d been a moody bastard all day, but that wasn’t new.
His mouth claimed to be disappointed that I refused to take his hand to dance more than once, but that was just an excuse.
“I can drag you with me, or I can trust you to stay here. Don’t think I won’t find you if you leave.” He pushed back my hair to whisper in my ear.
“Where could I possibly go?” I looked at him dumbfounded. Apparently, to the police station, didn’t enter my head, thanks to my fifth, sixth, or seventh glass of whatever this cocktail was.
“Good girl,” was all he said as he slipped out, and I felt a weird kind of rush to my core. I tightened, straightened, and returned my attention to the bar.
“Can I have another?” I asked the busy bartender, who was serving another woman at the other end of the bar.
The bartender returned a nod as I slurped the last of the orange liquid through a straw that had been glued to my lips for hours.