Chapter 6
MAE
“We didn’t get to fuck.”
Those five words are all that’s spoken before Peter reclines the passenger seat. Mouth agape, he snores for the trip’s entirety, blowing hot air on my face with every exhale. He stinks of stale wine and coffee.
Pulling into the garage and turning off the car, Peter finally rouses. With eyes barely open, he leans across the center console and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. It’s stomach-churning.
“I don’t think breakfast is sitting well.” He searches my handbag for the house keys Jason conveniently organized while one of us was knocked unconscious, the other fucked within an inch of her life by a man she only just met. None the wiser to it all, Peter opens the car door and hauls himself out. “I’m gonna try to vomit and go to bed in the spare room.”
“Okay.” I wait, allowing him enough time to pass out before I, too, head in. Any earlier, and I run the risk of finding myself cornered.
When the footsteps and creaking on the second floor fall silent, I close the car door without making a sound and enter the house. There, I observe my surroundings, picturing Jason roaming through each room like the intruder he is, rifling through my clothes drawers and selecting matching underwear. I wonder what he’s touched, passed by, and what caught his attention.
Taking to the stairs, I walk to the end of the hall and stare at my bed, the sheets and comforter neatly folded and tucked, just the way I’d left it.
‘I know where you rest your pretty little head at night.’
I imagine Jason carrying out the threat, becoming yet another monster lurking while I sleep.
I find the rest of the room intact, not a single item out of place. While it lost its sense of sanctuary long ago, Jason’s intrusion is just another reminder of how detached I’ve become as I prepare to flee to the darkest corner of the world.
Deciding to change into an oversized painting smock in the hope of making a dent in my pending collection for the Augustine, I let my dress pool at my feet and stand in front of the tall mirror. There, I inspect the trail of lust and fervent sex Damon left behind, all results from the throes of passion instead of anger. Bruising colors my inner thighs where he bit and sucked his way in between, then on the pale underside of my wrists from when I was pinned down beneath him. And my breasts, too small for his large hands, but worshiped like they were plentiful. Primal bite marks create a stormy pattern on my ass, memories of how all restraint was lost when he had me bent over and at his mercy.
It’s all evidence of him .
Of us.
It still aches between my legs, the dull throb a constant reminder of Damon’s savagery. Yet, despite it all, I stand conflicted. He’s powerful and dominating, with sense-inducing pain a part of his sexual vocabulary just as much as pleasure. I never anticipated how euphorically the two could work together. Tenderness was also not forgotten. He proved a man of his size is just as capable of intense intimacy as he is of domination, the words murmured in my ear, threading the torn pieces of my confidence back together.
And then it was over.
His betrayal and my own, nothing more than a cold, calculated act of blackmail.
Pulling on the painting smock to cover my shame, I pad lightly down the hall and check on Peter. He’s lying on his stomach, his legs not quite making it onto the mattress.
His cell vibrates on the bed, and I debate entertaining the gut feeling, which has become more prominent in recent months. Instinct prevails, and I check the screen, frowning at the lonely-capitalized letter.
K
I roll my eyes at his lame and misguided attempt to look less suspicious and wonder if K is Cheap Sugary Perfume . Or perhaps it’s someone else entirely.
Staring out the window, I look down at the two Hampton-style cottages built behind the pool—Peter’s office and my painting studio—the latter housing incomplete and untouched canvases destined for my exhibit in two months.
Suddenly, all inspiration is lost.
A gross gurgle sounds from Peter’s throat, and as I leave the room, my feet don’t take me downstairs to the outside studio. Instead, I’m led to the comfort of my bed, where I curl up into my pillow and close my eyes.
I dream of Damon.
His disarming smile from across the room when our eyes first met.
His possessive touch has created an insatiable craving for more.
It’s a dream set on repeat.
But it’s not all him.
The voice belongs to someone else, as it always has. Its eery melody haunts the surrounding darkness, determined to drive me to the brink of insanity.
‘I had you first.’
~
“Shh… stay asleep.”
I’m rolled onto my back, but in my dream, I’m falling from the sky. I scream seconds before impact, and I’m jolted awake with the immediate need to be sick, except I’m pinned down by a suffocating weight, a hand fumbling from thigh to waist, sneaking under the oversized shirt.
Peter!
He’s naked and about to push inside me when I grow hysterical, clawing and fighting in desperation like a wild animal backed into a corner.
“ Fuck… ” he rages, recoiling on his haunches, fingers tentatively touching the blood-drawn scratches on his face. In the faint light from the robe, I catch his barred teeth and disdain. Desperate to be out of my husband’s reach, I crawl off the bed, bumping the bedside table. Our framed wedding picture topples off—the glass insert snapping in three.
“What the fuck was that about?”
Panic-stricken, I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”
“You fucking well should be. You almost took my damn eye out.”
“You woke me, and you were about to—”
“I don’t give a fuck what it was, I’m your fucking husband, for Christ’s sake.” Nostrils flaring, he considers me with familiar contempt. “Is this about last night?”
It’s about every night since we married.
“Don’t even think about wielding a grudge against me,” he warns. “Because I’m sure you’ve forgiven me for far worse things I’ve done to you over the years.”
There has been no forgiveness.
“Get back up here and let me finish what I started,” Peter orders, his patience running thin.
I shake my head, adamant I don’t want his touch. “No.”
“I beg your pardon.”
With its pounding heart, my chest explodes with every reason to keep my mouth shut. “I don’t want sex, Peter.”
He rubs his jaw in violent contemplation, and when he stands, I shrink against the wall. “I’m going out.” His cold indifference doesn’t fool me because it’s two in the morning and he’s disappearing inside the walk-in closet. Instead of returning with a shirt, something metallic glints in his hands. With the light casting his face in demonic shadows, I find myself pleading with him.
“Peter, don’t do this. I—”
“I see the look in your eyes, honey.” He snatches my wrist and drags me to my feet.
“No, it’s noth—”
“It’s the same as the last time. And the time before that.” My husband grabs me by the throat, fingers cinching the closer he brings his face to mine. “You think I’m just gonna let you run?”
“I won’t.” I gasp, drawing in as much air as I can.
“I know, and here’s why.” He squeezes tight, my toes leaving the wooden floor moments before I’m hurled onto the bed. Straddling my lap, Peter collects my wrist once more, but this time, he slides on and clicks into place a cold handcuff, connecting the other end to the headboard post.
I pull against the restraint, praying my hand is small enough to slip through. It’s not, and the metal eats into my skin. “Please… you have to let me go. Don’t leave me like this.”
Proving he cares nothing for me except the love of his control, Peter pulls on a T-shirt, dressing for his nocturnal prowling. “We both know this is all your fault, Mae.” He smears a fallen tear over my cheek with his thumb. “So, when you learn your lesson, I’ll set you free.”
~
“You know, the more I think about it, the more pissed off I become.”
My mother’s heirloom periwinkle china teacup slips through my trembling fingers. It lands in the sink with the handle first to snap clean off before the cup breaks in two. The camomile tea, along with all sentiment, goes down the drain.
I turn, meeting Peter’s accusation head-on, his ice-cold stare something of nightmares. I’d heard the front door open and close at seven this morning, but it took him another two hours—and without a word—to unlock his imprisoned wife. Now, he stands before me, a man unashamed of the terror he inflicts.
“I don’t know what—”
“I’m talking about how you spent the entire party trying to minimize my involvement in the Shaw proposal.”
If anything, I was a fool for caring. “I’m sorry. I was looking out for us.”
“ Were you?” He steps forward, and I instinctively take a step back. “Because I’ve had to give it some serious thought as to why you’ve been acting so out of character. Why you seem so hell-bent on speaking up for me when it’s not your place. Why my well-mannered wife is suddenly rude to the very people offering her husband the deal of a lifetime.”
“That’s not how—”
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Mae. And don’t tell me I’ve misunderstood.”
I’m drained.
I’m so inexplicably exhausted that I’m unable to battle against the war he wages on me without feeling the full brunt of it, his crusades wearing me to the bone.
So, I concede defeat once more. “I’ll do better.”
Peter so desperately wants to pick me apart. He pockets every apology and every flicker of fear like they’re souvenirs, always looking to add to his collection. But sometimes, when I surrender without the fight, when I’m easy to slide back under his thumb, my husband will offer me temporary—but conditional—peace.
Arms folded, he leans against the counter. “So, let’s hear it.”
The pounding of my heart becomes unbearable. “What?”
“I want to hear your thoughts on this proposal.”
He’s baiting me. Peter is as interested in my opinion on the matter as I am about his late-night drives.
I couldn’t care less. She can have him.
“I support you and your decision.”
“Oh, come on now. It’s just us. You can tell me the truth.”
The sensitive skin around my wrist burns from the cuff bites. “You should say yes.”
He considers the ease with which I say it as if my skepticism back at the Shaws’ house was all for show. His stare now bores into mine, and it forms an anxious wait to discover if I’m treading on thin ice again.
“I have my doubts,” he finally admits. “Jason looks like he skins cats if they look at him the wrong way, and Damon, he’s a damn force to reckon with.”
Peter may have an inkling of who he’s dealing with, but he’s barely scratching the surface. A part of me—the part that goes against the grain of who I am—wants him to truly discover the Shaw brothers the hard way. “It sounds like a great opportunity for you.”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “The secrecy alone is dodgy.” Then something flickers in his cold, pale eyes, and it causes the small hairs on the back of my neck to bristle. When Peter reaches out for me, I freeze, my breath catching the moment he unhooks the button of my oversized shirt. One more is all it will take to spy the evidence of what the ‘force’ he speaks of did to me. “You know I don’t like you wearing this ugly thing.”
“I planned to paint.”
“I don’t care what you planned to do in it, it’s hideous on you. So, take it off before I rip it off.”