Chapter 2 #2
I force myself to shower and put on real clothes. A deep purple dress, appropriate for a family dinner. I apply makeup to hide the dark circles under my eyes and cover up the hollow look that's starting to settle into my face.
My sleep has been shit, and after five days, it shows. I need a spray tan, Botox, and a trip to Fiji.
Maybe one I won't return from.
Saint comes to collect me at six fifty-five, dressed in dark slacks and a black button-down. I can see one of his tattoos peeking out. He looks me over with the clinical assessment I'm getting used to.
"You look acceptable," he says, his eyes roaming over me.
I give him the finger. "Thanks. You look like a sociopath."
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "The therapist Antonio made me see as a teen would agree."
I itch to ask questions, but I don't.
We walk to the dining room in silence, and I take in my surroundings now that I have a guide.
The Marini compound is massive, maybe even bigger than the Nero one. But where my mother favored marble, creams, and golds, this is all dark wood and expensive sculpture. It's very masculine, screaming power and virility in a way that makes me smirk.
Antonio is already seated at the head of the table when we arrive. He stands, gesturing to the seats on either side of him. Saint takes the right. I take the left.
We are silent as we take our seats and begin.
Lyla serves the first course. It's some kind of soup that smells rich and buttery.
"I'm glad you could join us," Antonio says, lifting his wine glass. "To family."
Saint and I echo the toast. I take the smallest sip possible, wanting to keep my wits about me.
"Tell me, Gemma," Antonio says. "How are you finding married life?"
"Lovely, especially since Saint works so much."
Saint hides a laugh.
Antonio gives me a small smile, clearly entertained. "I'm aware that my nephew can be a handful."
"I'm sitting right here," Saint says flatly.
"I know. Which is why I'm being polite about it." Antonio turns back to me. "I have three sons. Did Saint mention them?"
"No."
"All away at school. Harvard, Yale, and Oxford respectively. Very good boys. Studious. Respectful."
Saint rolls his eyes. "Unlike their delinquent cousin."
"I didn't say that." There's a note of suffering in Antonio's voice. This isn't the first time they've had this conversation.
"You didn't have to." Saint isn't petulant. He's neutral.
He doesn't appear to care, and yet I see a hint of tension.
There's affection there, buried under layers of Marini stoicism. But it's also like Antonio wishes Saint were different. More like his sons.
Even I see it.
It's similar to my own mother and brother.
There's a power play here. A grown heir fighting against an old guard. I push that idea off to the back of my mind.
"They'll be home for Christmas," Antonio continues. "They were disappointed to miss the wedding, but you know how demanding school can be."
His words make my stomach churn. I do. I was in the middle of getting my graduate degree when Antonio invaded my life, and I'd been forced to give up my studies.
I focus on the soup, taking small spoonfuls. It's too rich, but I swallow politely.
"You're not eating much," Antonio observes.
"I'm not very hungry."
"If the food is not to your liking, I can ask the cook—"
I shake my head. "It's delicious. I'm just not feeling my best." I take another small spoonful.
Saint is silent beside me, but I feel his eyes on me.
The main course arrives—chicken, roasted vegetables, risotto. It looks and smells delicious, and it's not nearly as heavy as the soup.
"More wine?" Antonio offers, reaching for the bottle.
"No, thank you."
"You're sure? It's a very good vintage."
"I'm sure."
His eyes narrow, and he glances at Saint for a moment. There is a small smile on his face.
He pours himself more, then Saint. They talk business—shipments, territory, some issue with a union at the docks. I tune it out, focusing on the mechanical act of cutting my chicken into smaller and smaller pieces.
"Gemma."
I look up. Both men are staring at me.
"You've cut that piece into confetti," Saint says. "Are you going to eat it, or are we just practicing knife skills?"
I eat, focusing on my food instead of my thoughts.
"Good girl," Saint says, and I want to throw my plate at him.
I force down a few more bites even though I want to shove this plate up his ass.
By the time dessert arrives—tiramisu—I feel sick. When this dinner is over, I'll be expected to go upstairs.
"I should go," I say, standing abruptly. "I'm not feeling well."
Antonio frowns. "You barely ate any dessert, and Lydia is famous for the tiramisu."
"I'm not feeling well."
That damn smile—again.
Saint stands too. "I'll walk you back."
We leave Antonio alone at the table, and I can feel his pleasure. Is it because I came and ate or because Saint is attending to me? I can't think enough to focus on it.
The walk back to the bedroom is silent. My stomach churns with every step, the food sitting heavy and wrong.
We reach the door, and Saint opens it for me. A mockery of chivalry.
"Thanks for the escort," I say, moving to close the door. I go to slam it.
He stops it with his hand. "It's eleven."
"What?"
"It's eleven. Time for our...appointment." He gives me a sly smile.
My stomach drops.
"Can we skip tonight? I'm not feeling well."
"No."
"Saint—"
"Get on the bed, Gemma."
There's something different in his voice. Harder. Crueler. The detachment is gone, replaced with something that makes my skin crawl.
I back into the room. He follows, closing the door behind him.
"You know," he says, unbuttoning his shirt, "Antonio is worried about you. He’s been on my ass because he thinks your depression will keep you from having a kid. He wants me to ‘make you happy.’" His eyes rake over me. "But I think you're full of shit."
"What?"
"You’re being a bitch on purpose.”
“Excuse me!” I want to punch him in his ridiculous face, but instead, I stare there, incredulous. “Do you seriously think I want to draw this out?”
“I think you’d do anything to defy me.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart pounds in fear. Where the hell is this coming from?
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm doing everything I can. It’s been five fucking days, Saint. I can’t just magic a baby.”
"Bullshit." He's shirtless now, moving toward me.
I hate how his abs ripple. God really fucking hates me because Saint is physically attractive, and a complete nuisance.
"You're not even fucking trying. You just fucking lay there, and then, walk around this place like a ghost. Antonio thinks I’m fucking torturing you.”
"I'm not—"
"Save it." He crowds me back against the bed. "And let me make something clear. My uncle doesn't give a fuck how you feel. He'll pretend he does, but he wants a baby, and Adrian wants an alliance, which means he needs to give Antonio what he wants. Neither of them are going to save you from this.”
I fall back onto the mattress, and he's on me immediately.
Different from the other nights. Rougher. He yanks my dress up, doesn't bother with my underwear—just tears them off. The sound of fabric ripping makes me flinch.
"Saint—"
"Shut up."
I reach out and rake my nails across his cheek. He howls, and I smile. “You want to hurt me,” I growl. “Be prepared for me to give it back.”
He enters me hard, no preparation, and I cry out at the intrusion.
"This is what you wanted, right?" he grunts, hips slamming into mine. "To make this difficult. To fight back the only way you can. To make me the bad guy.”
“You are the fucking bad guy,” I say, scrambling to punch him. He holds down my hands.
“I don’t want to be tied to you any more than you are to me,” he grunts.
So instead, I rear up and try to headbutt Saint. He moves out of range, not stopping. “Fuck you, Saint.”
“Fuck you.” His eyes are intense as he thrusts, and something about this moment, about the charge of it, the weird passion, the knowledge that we are both miserable makes me tighten.
He slams into me, and I can’t help it, I feel moisture starting to form. Saint does too, and he snickers. “Like it rough, huh? Is that what you’ve wanted, to be used? Have I been too gentle?” He leans down and bites my lip. Blood fills my mouth, and I spit it in his face.
“I hope you fucking die,” I growl. “And that I’m the one to do it.”
“Promises, promises.” He reaches down, pressing his thumb to my clit. I try to stifle the cry that builds inside of me. "Maybe if you acted like a wife instead of a prisoner, this would be easier," he says, rubbing me. "Maybe if you tried—"
"I don’t want to be your wife," I choke out. I claw at his chest, trying to get him off me before he realizes this weird turn of events. My lower belly is tightening, and I’m trying to buck him off me.
"Yeah, well, I didn't want you either. But here we are." He thrusts hard one more time and this angle has him hitting my g-spot. I tighten, and I know he feels it.
I’m coming. I’m losing.
“Oh God,” I cry out, arching off the bed, lost in the sensation.
Saint laughs, and I feel him finish inside of me with a harsh groan.
He pulls out immediately. No lying there. No recovery time. Just done.
He zips up his pants, not bothering with his shirt.
"Keep your legs elevated. Maybe it'll take this time, and we can both be done with this."
He leaves.
The door closes, and I lie there, legs still spread, feeling him leak out of me. I'm shaking. He took me, used me, and what’s worse is that I enjoyed it.
A lot.
The food in my stomach feels like poison now. Too much. Too heavy. Wrong.
I stumble to the bathroom, barely make it to the toilet before I'm vomiting. Everything from dinner comes up—the soup, the chicken, the risotto. My body rejecting it, rejecting everything.
I heave until there's nothing left, until I'm just dry heaving over the toilet bowl.
Finally, I sit back, wipe my mouth, and stare at myself in the bathroom mirror.
Mascara-streaked. Red-eyed.
I brush my teeth three times, trying to get rid of the taste. Then I climb into bed, my side, not his, and pull the covers up to my chin.
When Saint comes back twenty minutes later, I pretend to be asleep.
He doesn't wake me, allowing me at least a little bit of dignity.
Just climbs into his side of the bed and turns off the light.
In the darkness, I count my breaths.
One. Two. Three.
Anything to not think. Not feel. Not exist.
The pattern continues for weeks.
We’ve gone back to the clinical nature of our forced copulation.
Days blur together. Saint comes at eleven. I lie down. He fucks me. I do everything I can to stay still and motionless. He comes. He leaves.
Sometimes he's detached.
Sometimes he's rougher, as though he needs to lose himself in my body.
I hate those nights. Because I too want to get lost. But I’ve already forgotten myself once, and I refuse to allow it to happen again.
I spend my days bored as hell. I no longer lock myself in the room. Instead, I go outside. Take walks in the garden, go shopping at Bergdorf's. I try to appear normal. I even go and see Sera once, but it's too hard.
On day twenty-one, I wake up to cramping. When I go to the bathroom, I see it—blood.
My period.
I'm not pregnant.
Relief and dread wash over me in equal measure.
Relief because I have one more month of not being tied to Saint permanently. No baby feels like there’s a possibility of freedom, of escape.
But also dread because it means we need to continue this nightly routine that is slowly eroding me.
I think I might break after all.
I tell Saint that night when he comes in.
"My period started."
He pauses, belt half-unbuckled. "You're sure?"
I roll my eyes. Is he serious?
He stares at me, waiting for an answer.
"Very."
Something flickers across his face. Disappointment? Frustration? Hard to tell with him.
"Alright. We'll start again when it's over."
"It'll be about a week."
His brow raises.
"We'll have the best chance just after. When I'm ovulating."
He sighs, closing his eyes slightly. "Fucking fine." He buckles his pants. "I'll be back in a week. You're free to do whatever the hell you want."
I already do. Mostly. Kind of.
Saint leaves me alone. During the day anyway. I hate it.
Seven days of reprieve.
Seven days where my body is my own.
I should feel grateful.
Instead, I dread it. How much longer can I be expected to survive this?