Chapter Twenty-four
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Husband and strife.
Azalea
“Time’s up,” Malcolm says, seated with me on my couch, palms together, bare, warm.
Blinking out of the trance, I lift my attention from our fingers to his face. “How long was that?”
“Five minutes.”
Neither of us moves away from the other.
“Now, we survive for ten,” he says.
Ten whole minutes without rushing to the bathroom or a Lysol wipe.
Just a few days ago, I think that might’ve felt impossible.
But, true to his promises, Malcolm has put me through torture this week.
At home. At work. There’s scarcely an hour that goes by without him touching me somewhere then setting this cute little pink pig egg timer down.
When it dings, I can grab a wipe or wash up.
The first day, I failed to hold out four times even though the longest he set the timer was a single minute.
The second day, I only messed up once.
The third day, he bombarded me constantly, and by the end of the day, I was too tired to realize he’d begun setting the timer as long as three minutes.
Now, ten minutes seems survivable. Because I’ve already survived a hundred things, and my brain has already been wrong about my demise a hundred times. After five solid minutes of broken rules, I can survive for ten more.
Probably.
I glance at the coffee table, which holds both the little pink timer and my ceramic crow. They’re the only pops of color in the room, so long as I don’t count the man himself, seated before me like a dark shadow.
He doesn’t move to get the timer started.
I don’t mention it.
Instead, I settle my attention back on his hand, recalling the sensation of his fingers against mine. The warmth. The security. The size. His hands are a great deal larger than mine. I’ve never exactly considered myself small, but next to him, I feel it. Deeply.
He’s a head taller, at least, and his shoulders…
I draw my touch down his hand, letting my fingertips graze his palm. Beyond our outstretched arms, he stills, ceasing breath, and I recognize the shift in him.
The more I’ve gotten to know him and the more time we’ve spent together where I haven’t been livid or overwhelmed by the resulting vibrations, the more I’ve noticed minor things in his character and behavior that make me wonder if I’ve ever known anything about him at all.
He’s careful.
Calculated.
A schemer.
But he’s also oh so desperate.
Right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s afraid to move and break this moment into a thousand pieces. He’s desperate for my touch, terrified to ruin it. So he’s stopped breathing. Just in case intaking air might scare me off.
There’s a distinct power imbalance when it comes to us.
I’ve always felt it.
I’ve recently struggled against it.
But I’m only now realizing who has the upper hand.
And it’s not him.
“Ten minutes,” I whisper, reminding myself of the days I’ve survived so far. I picture touch after touch after touch in my brain. And then I dare to scoot forward. My stomach tightens as I fit my body against his, head to heart. He doesn’t move. He still isn’t breathing. But his heart.
It hammers.
My eyes close.
Nearly a full minute passes before his chest shakily moves. His arms hesitate before closing in. Once settled around me, tension abandons him. Desperation becomes relief. And I could rip it away in an instant if I wanted to. I could pull out and watch him break. With one look, I could make him beg.
“We’re less than a month away from Flag Day,” I say.
“One day less,” he murmurs.
“Do I really have to attend the ball?”
As his wife, technically, he has every reason and right to mention how it’d be of some significance that I attend my brother-in-law’s wedding.
As a driving player behind the planning, it would be logical to note how my presence might assist in keeping the event running smoothly.
There are a handful of reasonable arguments.
But Malcolm doesn’t bother with any of them.
Instead, pleading tints his voice as he says, “Please let me see you in blue.”
I smile. Then I muse, “I wonder if the dress you custom-ordered or my divorce papers will come in first.”
“There are no divorce papers.”
“Not from you.”
His muscles tense. “It’d be foolish to divorce me now. Nothing’s changed between us, and the longer we’re married, the more of my assets you could leave with. But, first, we need years together. To prove you deserve them.”
As if I care at all about his assets. “Nothing’s changed?” I ask.
“We haven’t exactly done the things that husbands and wives do.”
I huff. “Sure we have. We fight all the time.”
He laughs; my head tremors from the vibrations in his chest. His bare fingers comb through my hair. “Did you have a rough childhood, dove?”
Rough? I don’t know… “My parents passed away when I was little. I don’t really…
” My muscles constrict as the burn of alcohol lingers in the dark recesses of my mind.
“I think my mother got sick.” My vision blurs, and I try to focus it on my little ceramic crow, but the shadows stretch off his feathers and blacken the room.
“She passed away in a hospital bed. So…pale. White. My father couldn’t take care of me afterward.
My aunt took me in. Later, I overheard that he’d also died.
From a broken heart, everyone at the funeral said.
I was too little to really understand what was going on.
All I remember is my relatives and his friends murmuring about how he should have held on, for me.
There’s a chance it felt like my fault for a while.
Like I’d done something wrong. Something to make him not hold on.
A few weeks later, my aunt couldn’t take care of me anymore, so I guess I figured I’d messed up there, too.
Thinking back on it all, though…” My fist tangles in Malcolm’s shirt.
“…it’s very likely my father committed suicide, and I reminded his sister too much of the brother she’d just lost.”
Stable, Malcolm’s hand flattens against my back. Soft, he says, “Where did you go after that?”
“System. I was passed around because I was a handful. You know. A child in the developing stages of madness. Eventually, I aged out. And, finally, I could embrace the madness undisturbed.” Until he came by, at any rate.
“I’m so sorry.”
My shoulder lifts, a weak half-shrug. “I don’t think about it much.
I guess that’s part of the charm of not really feeling my emotions well.
It doesn’t hurt even if maybe it should.
It’s just stuff that happened. I don’t really feel like I was a part of it.
It’s all kind of hazy, like a dream I’ve already woken up from. ”
“Do you think…” His lips settle against the top of my head, and the sensation of his words hum in my brain. “…being in the hospital so often on top of how everything else played out contributed to your set of rules?”
He didn’t have to spell it out so neatly, did he? I mutter, “I’m sure having both my parents die and no one who wanted to keep me afterward took a toll on my psyche. Thanks for identifying that, Dr. Phil.”
“Free of charge, you’re welcome.”
“How would I ever have learned that my childhood trauma played a role in forming my adult issues without your help?” I drone.
“You would not have,” he says firmly. “You’re so lucky I’m here to provide clarity.”
Pushing myself up, I meet his eyes and ignore how very, very close together our faces are—because it’s good for me and my desensitization therapy, or something. “What’s your damage?” I ask.
“Mine?”
“Yeah, you’re messed up and insane, too. What happened to you? Are your sweet parents a front? Were you actually raised by Loki?”
He smiles. “Was I raised by one of the more beloved villains in our society? You flatter me.”
“Spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill. I had a very loving home and comfortable childhood. The most depressing thing in my history is that my brother has been, and still is, my best friend.”
“Poor thing,” I coo. “Please tell me there’s a non-profit organization dedicated to the relief and awareness of minorities like you.”
He chuckles, carefully setting his bare hand to my cheek.
His thumb swipes, and I find myself forcing my mind to focus on the sensation and the heat. There’s no warmth like this when gloves stand between. I crave it. I crave an idea of closeness. With someone. Anyone, really. But he’s the person whose treachery I’ve survived for two long years now.
He’s the only one who’s stayed with me amid the madness for this long.
Eyelids lowering, he stares at my lips. “It’s not really traumatic, and I know it’s my own fault.
I just have a horrible personality and fail to make friends.
People are fascinating to me, but in all the wrong ways.
Maybe it’s a god complex. Maybe it’s a side effect of growing up in a position of wealth and power. Maybe I just suck.”
“Probably that last one,” I offer, kindly.
His smile softens. “I won’t argue. To me, you’re an anomaly, Azalea.
Everything about you is perfect. Lovable.
Precious. I like how deeply you feel things when you let yourself feel them.
But I also like the way you’re practically a doll when you’re bottled up.
I find myself entranced by your precision and your analysis.
You’re so diligent at work and at home. Before I fell in love with you, I couldn’t shake the sick desire to stain you.
I think that realization is when I pressed that ketchup heart into your clothes.
I’d have preferred ink, but I worked with what I had available when the compulsion hit me.
I felt bad about it afterward…but I felt worse when—weeks later—you wore the same dress, and I saw that the stain had come out. ”
I press my lips together. “Actually…”
His attention lifts, from my mouth to my eyes.
“I don’t know if it would have come out or not. I threw it away the minute I got home and ordered an exact replacement.”
He exhales a laugh. “Only you.”
Yes, only me. On account of mental illness.
I don’t know why, but I smile. “You’re really not a good person at all, crow.”
“I’m sorry, dove. Would you like me to try to be better for you?
I can make an effort to lock up my more unsavory parts.
I can figure out how to control and constrain myself.
Because I will. I’m sure I’ll mess up at least a thousand times before I get the hang of it, but I’m also sure I’m nothing if not determined. ”
“I’d suggest a shock collar…” I murmur.
“But I’d probably like it,” he murmurs back, tenderly.
I hum. “It could be fun watching you struggle against your twisted instincts and desires. I’m sure I can figure out something that would work as a punishment for failing to live up to your higher identity.”
His thumb settles against my chin. “If you make it a game about suffering, I’m afraid I’ll never get any better.”
“I have a question.” I ignore his finger on my chin and hold his warm gray eyes. “Am I just a toy to you? Some interesting character to conquer in a game? Something to amuse yourself with? Someone to just keep around until it’s not fun anymore?”
“Once, you were. Now…” He carefully brings his thumb closer and closer to my bottom lip.
When the tip of his nail grazes, I flinch, hardening myself, and he grows drunk on the sight of me.
“Now,” he breathes, “you’re my wife. I love you.
I love you so much it hurts to be near you yet never close enough.
I love you so much that you’re all I can see when I close my eyes.
I love you to the brink of madness. If you’re a toy, you’re the only one I want to play with.
If you’re a character in a game, we’re the only true ending.
You’re the only one I want to be with even when there’s nothing amusing happening at all.
When we went to Fantasy Haven and you didn’t say a word to me the entire car ride, I couldn’t shake how much fun I was having regardless.
I fixated on the songs you chose. On the way you moved.
On what caught your attention outside. Just watching your eyes take in the world could consume me for hours.
If this isn’t love, it’s an infatuation that has only gotten worse with time. I never want being around you to end.”
Heat soaks into my cheeks, and I reach for his face. Stubble meets my palm, scratching, and I don’t know what to do with the sensation.
The hum.
The vibrations taking root inside me.
Beneath me, his body shifts, accommodating mine more completely, and I can’t explain the peace that rears.
I think…probably…it’s been a very, very long time since I’ve been loved.
“Crow?” I whisper.
Words thin, he exhales, “Yes, darling dove?”
“Are you sure nothing has changed between us?”
“Care to find out?” He holds my hand to his skin. “Say I love you.”
I wince. “But…”
“Just say it. You don’t have to mean it. Just see how it feels. I promise nothing bad will happen if it’s a lie. You’re allowed to lie to someone like me.”
My heart rate accelerates until I’m certain the frantic pounds are in all the wrong places. Still, I say, “I…love you.”
He whispers a swear.
My mind loses its grasp on my body. And everything—everything—for the first time in decades…is silent. There’s no pain. There’s no fear. There’s no condemnation over possibly having just told a lie. There’s nothing.
Blissful, sweet, empty, safe nothing.
Malcolm’s thumb lays flat on my lips, poisoning my mouth, but nothing spears me through the chest or spikes in my gut.
I’m fine.
Completely fine.
Maybe because…dying in his arms…would actually be fine.
He kisses my cheek, and my eyes close. His breath fans against my ear. “Sleep with me tonight, darling dove.”
I shiver.
“Say you’ll come to my bed. I’ll wait all night for you if you do.”
Frail breath escapes me. “But we haven’t even…”
“Just sleep. I’d like to hold you for hours. Let that be the next thing you survive.”
I swallow. “Going from ten minutes to hours seems a bit…”
“It’s been thirty minutes already, dove.”
My lashes flutter, and I search for the clock over my entertainment center. When did it get this late?
“Are you even ready to leave yet?” His fingers bury in my hair and force my head to his chest. “I touched your mouth. Don’t you need to clean up?”
Instinctively, I clutch him. But I can’t bring myself to answer.
Gentle, coaxing, and wicked, he whispers, “That’s what I thought…
We’ve spent two years together. Subconsciously, you already know I’m safe to be around, no matter what I do to you, so let me hold my wife for a night.
Trust me, not your rules, to keep you safe.
In fact, let’s break your rules into a million pieces.
Because even after they’re strewn about in chaotic disarray… ”
My heart thumps.
“…we’ll still be together.” He clutches me, refusing to let go. “And I will keep you, because I will always keep you. No matter what.”