Chapter 19 #2
“Because,” I close in, my hand sliding down her stomach, toying with the edge of her leggings beneath her tunic, “I want you ready for what I’m going to do to you tonight.”
At her alarmed intake of breath, I stroke her hair gently with one hand, the other tracing tiny circles over her belly.
“What are you going to do?”
“Poor little girl—you’re not used to being taken care of properly. I’ll always make sure you’re ready for everything I have planned. And that includes the basics: food, water, bathroom. So, are your basics in order, Grace?”
Her eyes find mine, wide and mistrustful. “I’m not doing anything with you tonight, Nate. And I don’t want to answer weird questions about water or bathrooms or any of it!”
We come to it.
My chest brushes against hers as I draw closer. “You’ll learn that answering my questions is in your best interest. Let’s go.”
I slide my hand to her wrist and tug her forward. She pulls, clearly trying to stay on this side of the house, but I can feel her anticipation. I know what she needs, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. Grace balks again when we approach the master suite. My perfect bride, eternally resistant.
I pick her up, just like last night, and carry her over the threshold.
“No,” she whispers, tears glistening in her eyes. “Please, Nate. I can’t do this again.”
“We’re going to have a nice talk.” I seat myself on the bed, Grace in my lap. “Starting with access to your bullet journal.”
She huffs in frustration, struggling to get off my lap. I let her go and she overbalances, stumbling back a few steps.
“Asshole,” she mutters.
She strides to the bathroom, locking the door behind her.
Instead of seething at her ongoing attempts to delay me, I turn down the bed and light the fire.
I light candles, too, then retrieve a bottle of lube from a drawer, putting it on the bedside table.
I consider the condoms in the drawer, then decide against them.
Never with Grace. With her, I want to feel every single thing.
With her, I want no barriers. Plus, I’d bet my left nut she’d have trouble with latex.
The lock finally clicks and she emerges from the bathroom, face freshly washed, eyes wary.
“I’m going to bed,” she says, voice low but determined.
“Yeah,” I walk towards her, “we are going to bed—after you agree to my terms.”
She throws her hands up. “What are you even talking about, Nate? I’m here, aren’t I? I haven’t left, even when I had the chance to. I’ve done everything you’ve told me to do!” She steps back towards the bathroom when I draw close. “What more do you want?”
“I’ve already told you, Grace. I want everything.”
“Well, too bad,” fire ignites in her eyes, even as she swipes an angry tear away, “because I have fuck-all left to give!”
“Watch your mouth—keep those f-bombs for when I’m fucking you.”
I wait, my eyes on her. Grace telegraphs every move before she makes it, confessing the sin before it’s committed.
Her body shifts into readiness and she tries to make a dash for the bathroom, probably to lock herself in again.
I grab her shoulders and use her own momentum to push her up against the wall, my body caging hers.
It’s a posture that’s starting to feel wonderfully familiar, and I revel in it, my cock hardening.
“Let go of me!”
“So you can lock yourself away?” I catch her wrists in one hand; with the other, I pet her hair, soothing her even as I work her down.
“You do realise I could get that door open in about two seconds, right? You make me do that, Grace, and I’ll remove it from its hinges—permanently.
So, if you don’t want a door to exist between me and your basic bodily functions, then keep fucking fighting me. ”
Her rigid posture slackens and I release her wrists. She’s staring down at my chest, her own heaving. I let her catch her breath.
“You are beyond insane,” she whispers.
“Is it insane to take care of my wife?”
“How is obsessing over my every living moment taking care of me?”
I smile, pleased that we’re coming to the point. “You’ve been perfectly cared for since the moment I arrived at that police station. Thank you for admitting it.”
“Cared for by whose measure?” She wedges her elbows between us to cross her arms, clearly trying to make herself feel less uneasy.
I decide to drop all pretense, going right to the facts, which are indisputable.
“How has your pain been, Grace? I know you’ve had some air hunger today, but I also know your joints and stomach are better since you’ve been under my care.”
She tries to push away from me. “We have one day of data, which is completely useless since I’m a grieving widow who’s been kidnapped by her brother-in-law. You’ve managed to lower my pain levels in the midst of all that—does that mean I have to give you access to everything?”
“Yes.” I take her hand, pulling her towards the bed. “That’s exactly right. You give me what I ask for, and I give you the care you’ve needed for decades.”
“And where does it end? You get to see my bullet journal and my medical files. You get to have my—my body. Where does it end? Are you going to demand access to my phone, too?”
“No need,” I say, letting the words drop between us.
I release her as her eyes sharpen, readying myself. I could hide the spyware until she puts it all together, realising every tendril of control I’ve spun around her life. But that’s not what I want our marriage to be. I want her to give me everything—even if I’ve already taken it.
“You knew my mother called,” she whispers, staring up at me, “you knew the moment her call came through. You lied to me! You said you didn’t even turn on my phone—and you, what?—installed some kind of spying program on it?”
“All I did,” I answer slowly, “was let you come up with your own truth in a moment when you needed to calm down.”
She steps away, panic pulling her spine into a rigid curve. “That’s fucked up, Nate, even for you! You forced me to let you handle my mother on the phone—then you made me believe a lie so I'd talk to the doctor. And now, what, you want to confess?”
“Now you know exactly where things stand. I copied your bullet journal. I put spyware on your phone. I arranged our marriage to be legally binding. Sit down and tell me what you want, Grace, and we can find a middle ground. I told you that everything is negotiable, and I meant it.”
She hovers, eyes darting from me to the sliding door, then to the bathroom. “I-I don’t want to negotiate.”
“Poor love. I know it’s a lot, but we need to talk this through so that we can get to where we need to be by the time you go to sleep tonight.”
Her brow knits, her eyes coming back to me. “And where is that?”
“In agreement with one another.” I lean forward, blocking her access to everything but the bed. “And with me so deep inside you, you can’t think of anything else.”
I watch her hands clench into fists at her sides. Someday, she might just lose herself and smack me.
I’ll be ready for it.
For now, I decide to soothe her.
“Now,” I continue, “tell me what you need to feel like you’ve got some control over the situation.”
Her shoulders descend a little, her spine loosening. I try not to look pleased. She’s unhappy, but she’s not running.
“I need privacy,” she whispers.
I nod towards the bathroom. “Every time you’ve wanted privacy, you’ve had it. You had time on your own this morning. A walk with a new friend. A doctor’s appointment, up until the final bit.”
“I need my phone and my journal to be private. And my laptop, when it gets here.”
I nod, considering. “If you want to keep me out of your phone and bullet journal, you’ll need to do two things. One, keep your mother blocked. Two, use a shared fertility app.”
I see her shiver, and her eyes drop to the bed. “Why do you need to track my fertility?”
I note that she doesn’t contest my need to track her contact with the Munchausen bitch.
“Remember when I told you the basics had to be covered?” She nods, her lips parted slightly, cheeks flushing with something that straddles the line between embarrassed and aroused.
“Your fertility is one of the basics. If I don’t know what’s going on with your cycle, I won’t know which parts of you to prepare.
Now, I don’t mind the idea of putting a baby in your belly, but I know you do, so I need to keep track. ”
“You’re talking about it like,” she swallows, and I lean in to trace the moving line of her throat with one finger, “like we’re—”
“Like we’re married. Which we are. You need to accept it and act accordingly. I know I will.”
I pull her closer, nibbling the spot I traced until she gasps, her hands on my chest, pushing at me even as she sways into my arms.
“I’m not your wife,” she whispers. “I never agreed.”
“And you’ll never have to.” I nip at the curve of her shoulder.
“So that’s settled. We’ll share a fertility app and I’ll stay out of your bullet journal.
As for the spyware,” I cup her ribs, one hand on each side, stabilising her as her knees go weak, “why not let me stand digital guard for you, like the good husband I am?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers, more of her weight filling my hands as her breaths turn heavy.
“Then the spyware stays until you ask to renegotiate. I’ll take care of your phone from afar. And your laptop, once it’s here. We’ll be beautifully synced up, my love.”
“I don’t trust you,” she whispers, even as she stops trying to lean away from me. “Not one bit.”
I consider her words as I slip the buttons of her tunic open, revealing the dip of her sternum.
“That’s all right,” I murmur between kisses, “because now I get to teach you exactly what trusting me means.”
Seams pop as I force the tunic out of my way, pulling her bra down. Her protests die when I cover her lips with my hand, just as I take her breast into my mouth.