Chapter 22 #3
My voice rises, fury climbing over the grief like a second spine. “What was I, then? Just a pawn? Something convenient to keep close while you stalk my family?”
I shoot up, running at him, ready to slap that calm look off of his face, but he halts me, grabbing my arms tightly with a shake.
“I didn’t claim you because of him,” Hayden growls, “and you’ll watch your tone. I’m being patient because you’re in pain, but it’s wearing thin, Darling, and you do not want to push me”.
He gives me a tug, pulling me towards the staircase and away from Dale and Archie.
“Of course not, but I was a convenient addition to your assignment, wasn’t I?” I snap.
He doesn’t deny it.
“You truly meant it when you called me your whore, didn’t you?
” I bite the words into his face, hating the cold in his eyes and hating more how I still lean in, aching for his touch even as he withholds the truth I deserve.
“Every time you were inside of me, calling me that, you meant it. I was just a means for information, wasn’t I? ”
The weight of it lands in my chest like a stone dropped into deep water.
My whole life—my marriage, my grief, my trust—it was all a tool. Maybe even a threat he had to neutralize by pretending to love.
“I let you in,” I whisper, stunned by the betrayal as it settles in. “I let you in, and you were already dissecting me.”
“Martine, you’ll watch your—”
“I need to get out of this room,” I snap, lacking the ability to bend to him, no matter how desperately my body wants to crumble in his arms.
My knees are weak, but my voice is steady now. Deadly steady.
“If Ford is alive, I want you to find him and bring him to me. If my uncle’s involved, I want you to deal with him,” I gulp, struggling to find my words in the chaos of my feelings.
My realizations. I run a hand through my hair and take in a deep breath, trying to find a semblance of calm.
“But from now on, I want the truth. All of it. Not what you think I can handle. Not what you let me see. I want everything.”
Hayden nods once, but it’s Archie who speaks.
“Hayden, tell her,” he says quietly. “Tell her it’s about her.”
And the way he says it makes my blood run cold.
The chill crawls up my spine before I even realize I’m stepping toward him.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask, the words cutting like glass. “What do you mean it’s about me? Is it because my uncle is involved?”
Archie’s mouth opens as if he might actually answer me.
Hayden’s voice snaps through the space like a crack of thunder. “Archie, shut the fuck up.”
I whip around to face him, pointing my finger. My once perfectly French-knotted hair has now sprung loose, and strands whip me in the face from my quick movement. “No. No, don’t you dare. You don’t get to shut him up after everything you’ve already kept from me. I deserve the god damn truth.”
Hayden’s jaw is tight, his eyes locked on Archie like he’s trying to kill him with his stare alone. “This isn’t your call, Archibald.”
“No,” I say, the trace of a wild animal in my voice. “It’s not yours anymore, either.”
I turn back to Archie. He’s watching me closely now, as if weighing how much more truth he’s allowed to reveal. But we all know he’s just someone trained to follow orders, but just drunk enough on the drama to enjoy breaking a rule.
“Say it,” I tell him. “Say what you meant.”
Archie looks at Hayden again.
Hayden doesn’t move; he simply glares as though one wrong move from Archie will lead to his death.
And I realize, right then, I already know too much and am walking an incredibly dangerous line.
“Martine,” Hayden warns, but I ignore him.
I see it in Archie’s face. He’s about to speak.
And then, suddenly, Hayden is moving faster than I can register.
Before I know what’s happening, he has one arm around my waist and the other behind my thighs. My feet leave the floor with a sharp gasp, and I slam my fists against his back, writhing as he hauls me up over his shoulder.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I yell, kicking. “You can’t keep throwing me over your fucking shoulder to shut me up! Put me down!”
He’s done this countless times now, using this move to subdue me, and a part of me quivers at the idea of what’s to come from his force.
I’m always in for a bit of pain marred with pleasure when I’m thrown over his shoulder.
“Not here,” he growls, voice low and final.
Staff freeze mid-motion. I catch Dale’s stunned expression, Archie’s crooked smirk, the absolute disbelief painted across the room as Hayden carries me through the hall.
I pound and pound against his back as though he’s a beast stealing me and dragging me to his cave.
“Hayden,” I snap, breathless, struggling against him. “Stop—”
But I know exactly where he’s going; he wants to fix this the only way we know how. The only sure way we know to communicate.
The bedroom door slams shut behind us.
He throws me onto the bed, chest heaving, hands already at the delicate zipper of my gown.
“Don’t,” I spit, pushing at him. “Don’t you dare use this to shut me up.”
“I’m not shutting you up,” he snaps, voice hard. “I’m reminding you of your place.”
The dress slips from my shoulder before I can stop him. The silk gives way with a tug, the fabric tearing off my skin.
“You don’t control me,” I say, shoving at his chest. “You don’t get to flip the switch when things stop going your way.”
“I have all of the control,” he growls, pinning me to the mattress. “You little fucking brat.”
His mouth crashes against mine, all heat and fury and unspoken desperation. His quick and hot need to tether himself to me, to quiet my crying, to own my body again.
I hate that I respond.
I hate that my body arches against his on instinct.
But I do. I wrap my legs around him and groan into his mouth as he takes my lips with his own. It’s violent, wet, and fast. It’s sexy and hot and all-consuming, and I can barely breathe from how his lips take my mouth.
Because this isn’t about love, it never was.
This is about power.
And while we both know it’s he who holds all of the power, neither of us is willing to give it up. I’m not willing to concede.
His hands are in my hair, pulling me closer, as if he’s starving for something, as if he can’t stand the space between us. My mouth opens beneath his, allowing him to take the kiss deeper.
I moan without meaning to. My hands claw at the lapels of his jacket, dragging him closer, and for one brutal, perfect second, I hate how much I want him.
And then I remember.
What he knew.
What he kept from me.
What he’s still keeping.
I break the kiss with a gasp and pull back just far enough to look him in the eye.
And then I slap him. Hard.
His head snaps slightly to the side, and I see the flicker of surprise before he turns slowly back to face me.
My hand tingles. My chest heaves.
He says nothing, but his eyes say everything. Suddenly, they turn so dark, so cold. A patience overcomes him that’s chilling, and in that moment, I realize I pushed too hard.
I stare at him, furious and breathless, and still I push. I can’t be stopped. The hurt is lashing out in waves uncontrollable to me. “You don’t get to fuck your way out of this.”
He exhales through his nose, slow and steady, and I can see him recalibrating, shifting from lust to calculation again. I already see the unhinged look in his eyes, and I know in that moment, I’m honestly and utterly fucked.
The red mark from my slap is still fresh on his cheek, and for a moment, I think he’s going to end me. But then I see it—his jaw tightening, eyes darkening, control slipping just enough to make something primal break through.
He lunges for me, and I barely resist. I’m already breathless. Already wet. I know this version of him. And I know exactly what pain and pleasure he’s going to pull from me.
“You don’t get to punish me for this,” I hiss.
He grabs my ankle and yanks me down the bed in one swift motion, scratching my back on the embroidery of the blanket.
“You’re a reckless, spoiled fucking brat who needs to be reminded of her place.”
Suddenly, he grabs my left arm with a menacing tug, making me jump at the quick force of his movement.
He pulls my hands above my head and binds them to the wrought iron frame with the silk rope that’s always ready, attached at the legs. The silk is tight, but soft. He knows exactly how much pressure is correct. How much I like it when it hurts.
“You’re angry,” I murmur, heat flushing through me, “you don’t get to do this when you're angry.”
He leans over, lips brushing my ear. “I’ll do whatever the fuck I please to my wife, because I own her.”
Despite the venom in his words, I arch into him, pressing my thighs together, pretending to squirm. “Fuck you.”
He bites down on the side of my neck just above the muscle of my shoulder so hard I cry out in a sob. Holding me there like a wild animal for more than a minute until I scream that it’s more than I can take.
His hands are rough as he secures my feet with the rope at the legs of our bed. It hurts how quickly and hard he shoves my legs apart, but somehow the pain grounds me. A sudden calm sits in my gut against the roughness of his approach.
“You think this is losing control?” he breathes.
His hand slips beneath my panties, trailing a soft touch between my wet folds before rearing back and slapping me with full force across the face, smearing my arousal across my cheek. I moan despite myself.
Shock courses through my veins as my wrists pull at the ties, but beneath the fear is something much more sinister: I don’t want to be free.
“Be a good girl and thank me for slapping you.” He says arrogantly as I wail out, barely able to contain my shock.
I sob into the room, so goddamn furious with this man. And terrified—because there is a pain inside me that only he can release. When my husband gives me pain, it shatters something open. It floods me. It frees what I can’t reach on my own.