Chapter 13
The Trickster
T he ferry cuts through black water, carrying us away from the island where I’ve taken what’s mine. Her weight against my side is an anchor, something solid in the surreal aftermath of our marriage.
Eve’s hair whips across her face in the night wind, obscuring her eyes, but not the leather gag still fixed between her teeth. Blood—hers and mine—has dried on our palms, crusted and flaking like a promise turning to dust. But the bond remains. Unbreakable now.
I want to reach over, crack her hand open, and taste it. Just to see if I bleed differently than her. Just to confirm we aren’t the same and never will be.
When the ferry docks, I guide Eve up the gangplank with a firm hand against her lower back. She stumbles once, her legs still unsteady. Whether from the ceremony or what came after, I don’t know. Don’t particularly care either.
My car is waiting where I left it. I open the front passenger door, but she stands rigid, refusing to get in. I lean close, my mouth against her ear. “Look around you, wife. Do you want all these people waiting for the ferry to see me rip your dress off and fuck you on the hood of my car?”
She frantically shakes her head.
“Then get in the fucking car. Now.”
Her eyes flash with hatred, but she obediently slides onto the seat. She hisses something that sounds like, “Fuck you, Jack,” just as I shut the door after her. But with the gag in her mouth, I can’t be sure.
Rounding the hood, I get into the driver’s seat and start the car. “Is that you begging for my cock again?” I ask, smirking when she vehemently shakes her head.
The drive to Riverdale passes in silence, and it doesn’t take long until my mansion looms dark against the night sky as we pull into the driveway. Eve’s eyes widen slightly, taking in the gothic architecture that watches her arrival like a sentient thing.
Ivy coils like veins across its face, and the turret windows glow faintly, as if something inside already knows she’s here. A bride for a house that eats its wives.
“Home sweet home,” I say, killing the engine.
I unlock her door, then circle around to help her out. When she doesn’t move, I unbuckle her seatbelt and simply lift her from the seat. She makes a muffled sound of protest behind the gag, but I’ve already set her on her feet and am steering her toward the front door.
Inside, I flick on minimal lights—just enough to navigate the space without revealing too much at once. The air is warmer here, heavy with the faint scent of cedar and smoke. Her head turns, trying to take it in without giving away her curiosity.
The heavy oak door closes behind us with a sound like finality.
While she looks around, I shrug out of the leather jacket. Then I reach behind her head and unbuckle the gag. It comes away with a wet sound, leaving red marks at the corners of her mouth. She works her jaw, wincing.
“If you need to use the bathroom, I suggest you do it now.” I point toward the hallway. “It’s that way.”
“Fuck you,” she manages, her voice hoarse.
Smirking, I grab my junk. “Not right now,” I rasp. “You look like shit.” That’s a lie.
Even with her makeup smeared into a chaotic mess, her hair twisted into wild tangles, and her dress irreparably destroyed , she exudes a breathtaking beauty that defies her disheveled state.
Ironically, she’s more breathtaking now than when I saw her moments before urging her to run. The fabricated perfection has vanished, replaced by the fierce, desperate woman who is now my wife.
I wrap my fingers around her upper arm and pull her down the hall to the bathroom. She tries to twist away once, testing my grip. I tighten it just enough to make her wince.
The bathroom light casts harsh shadows when I flip the switch. Eve blinks in the sudden brightness. “I don’t need to use the bathroom.” Her tone makes it sound as though the thought is ridiculous.
Shrugging, I murmur, “Suit yourself.”
“I need clothes,” she says, voice steady despite everything. Trying to sound confident.
“No, you don’t.” I switch the light off again. It’s a relic now—her wedding veil and burial shroud all in one. “It’s time to get you settled into your new home.”
Her chin lifts a fraction. “I’m not going anywhere in this dress.”
I don’t waste time arguing or negotiating. “You don’t make the rules here, Eve.” I guide her forward, ignoring her attempt to dig in her heels. “You don’t decide what you need. I do.”
She tries to twist out of my grasp, but I tighten my hold just enough to make her gasp, a reminder of our positions in this new reality.
I steer her down the hallway toward the bedroom, feeling the building resistance in her body with each step. She’s moving like someone on borrowed time—burning through adrenaline and fury, her exhaustion held at bay by sheer will and animal instinct.
Pushing her into the bedroom, I release her arm and turn on the light. She stumbles forward two steps, the fabric of her dress whispering against the hardwood, then freezes. Her gaze locks on the shadowed corner, on what waits for her there. The cage.
Eve’s breathing changes, becoming shallow and quick. Her eyes flick between the metal, the door, and me. I can see the calculations running behind those eyes—distance, angles, probability of success.
“Don’t,” I warn, but it’s too late.
She lunges for the door. I pivot smoothly, catching her around the waist as she tries to dart past me. Her momentum carries us both forward, but I control the stumble, twisting so my shoulder hits the wall instead of her head.
“Let me go!” she screams, all pretense of calm shattered. Her nails rake down my forearm, drawing blood in thin lines. “You fucking psycho!”
I lock my arms around her, pinning her own to her sides. She writhes against me with a desperation that feels like a fucking aphrodisiac.
“Stop fighting,” I command, my voice level despite the struggle. “You’re only making this harder on yourself.”
Her answer is to slam her head back, aiming for my nose. I turn just in time, taking the blow on my cheek instead. Pain blossoms, sharp and clarifying. I tighten my grip, using my weight to force her down to the floor.
“Enough.” My voice booms.
She twists beneath me, bucking up with her hips in an attempt to throw me off. I capture her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand while the other closes around her throat.
“Are you done?” I snarl, staring down at her flushed face.
Her answer is to spit directly into my eye.
The only reaction she gets is my slow blinking to clear my vision. “The next time you spit at me, I’ll make you drool all over my cock and use it as lube so I can fuck your ass. Got it?”
Pressing her lips together, she refuses to answer me. Wrong move.
I unsheathe the knife at my belt and press it to her sternum. Her breath stutters. One slow drag down the front splits the corset open.
“You want to act like an animal?” I rasp. “Then you don’t get clothes.”
With her wrists still pinned, I grab the sides of the ruined dress and rip.
The corset peels away from her chest in jagged flaps.
But the rest? The weight of her body pins it beneath her, and I don’t hesitate—I wrench it out from under her back, dragging the crushed skirt fabric down her hips, over her thighs, and off her legs in a single violent pull.
Her chest rises and falls, fast and shallow. Whether it’s fury or arousal fueling it, I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter. I see the way her nipples tighten, and the flush that creeps up her throat.
I see everything. And I plan to make her feel it.
I slide my hand between her thighs and cup her pussy—firm, possessive, a filthy claim. Her breath snags in her throat. I press my fingers against her slit and feel the heat, the slickness already coating her folds like an invitation she refuses to admit.
“Still soaked,” I chuckle darkly. “Or are you soaked for me, again? ”
She shakes her head in a useless denial. But her body’s already told me the truth.
I slip two fingers between her folds and drag them up, slow and deliberate, before rubbing tight, punishing circles against her clit.
“Stop,” she gasps, but her hips twitch. “Don’t—”
“Why?” I demand, rubbing harder. “You think I didn’t notice how you moaned for me? How your pussy clenched around my cock like it wanted to keep me?”
She bucks beneath me, mouth falling open in a soundless cry. Her thighs tremble.
“Tell me you don’t want it,” I order, fingers relentless. “Say you hate it while you fucking come on my fingers.”
“I… fuck… I hate you,” she grits out, voice cracking.
Groaning, I finger her soaked cunt faster. “Hate has nothing to do with it, wife. You’re going to come on my fingers like the filthy little liar you are.”
Her body jerks—sharp, involuntary. A cry tears loose as her climax crashes through her, raw and violent. She convulses beneath me, every muscle drawn tight as I work her through it, not letting up even as her breath comes in sobs.
“That’s it,” I whisper, dragging it out until she shakes. “You can hate me all you want, but your pussy loves me.”
Instead of giving her time to recover, I stand, hauling her to her feet in one fluid motion and pushing her the last way toward the cage.
At the threshold, she makes her last stand.
Eve grips the top bars, arms straightening with desperate strength to keep herself anchored outside.
Her naked body arches against mine, every muscle hard as stone, her feet planted wide for leverage.
The heat of her skin sears through my clothes as she thrashes backward, trying to throw me off balance.
“Please don’t, Jack. I p-promise I’ll be good.”
Her voice cracks, but her grip is iron. I hook my arm around her waist and yank her back flush to me, feeling her heartbeat slam against my ribs. Her hair whips across my jaw as she jerks her head from side to side.
“Don’t make me drag you in there,” I murmur against her ear. “Because I will, and it won’t be pretty.”
She kicks once more, catching my thigh with her heel. Pain blooms sharp and immediate, and I respond by prying her fingers from the bars one by one, slow enough for her to know she’s losing. Her nails scrape metal with a desperate screech before I break her hold completely.
With a final surge of force, I shove her into the cage, her knees hitting the floor with a thud. She scrambles for the door, but I’m already out, swinging it shut. The lock clicks with quiet finality, echoing in the small space like a gunshot.
Eve launches herself at the bars, fingers curling around the metal as she shakes the door with surprising strength. She screams then, the sound primal and raw, tearing from her throat with violent force. Her hands slam against the bars, knuckles whitening with the pressure.
“You fucking monster! This isn’t legal, this isn’t—”
“Legal?” I laugh, the sound soft and genuine. “Eve, nothing about tonight was legal.”
Her eyes dart to the bowls in the corner of the cage. Understanding dawns in her expression, horror chasing close behind. “Food bowls?” Her voice breaks on the words. “Like I’m an animal?”
“Pretty fitting with how you’re behaving.” I smirk.
She sinks to her knees then, hands still gripping the bars. Something collapses in her, making her shoulders curve inward as reality settles into her bones. It’s fascinating to see the fight and adrenaline leave her.
“Why me, Jack? What the fuck did I ever do to deserve this?” she whispers, and for the first time, there’s something beneath the anger. “When you wanted my help, I tried to help you. I haven’t done anything to deserve this.”
I crouch down to her level, meeting her eyes through the bars. “Exactly,” I agree mockingly. “You’re the doctor who does nothing.”
Shaking her head, she swallows audibly. “You won’t get away with this,” she warns, but the fire has dimmed to embers. Exhaustion is taking over as the fight leaves her system.
“I already have.”