Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Henrik
She’s leaving tomorrow, the old woman.
Finally.
I’ve given her too much of my time, sitting in that goddamned sunroom and listening to her talk about the latest shows she’s seen in Venice or Paris, places where she should be, not here, with me.
And now, every time we talk, she demands to know if I’m seeing someone, if I’ve finally moved on.
Her persistence drives me insane.
Last night, she wanted to know if she should have dinner for three planned out.
The woman is intolerable, with her nonstop chatter about who’s with who, who’s doing what, as if it matters .
I watch her through the window as she lingers in the garden, smirking at one of the statues like she’s in on some private joke with the artist.
She treats everything like a prop in the play of her life.
She used to get drunk with other gallery owners and bitch about people.
Maybe that’s why I still can’t get drunk enough to forget the shit she’s done.
Now she’s sipped just enough wine that she’s more unbearable than usual.
I wonder what it would be like to paint her with oil paints.
Call it “Two Bottles In.”
Maybe it would get her attention.
She’d see herself in those shades of gray, old and faded.
Tonight is going to be impossible.
She wants to go to the gallery.
I know she’ll ask again.
I know I can’t keep putting it off.
The last time we were supposed to go, she got too drunk so I drove us to a restaurant and watched her drink before bringing her home.
Couldn’t have her embarrassing me at my own business.
The only question is how many glasses of wine she’ll have before bringing it up.
She’s already on her second, sitting on the goddamned sunroom sofa like it’s a throne and we’re her court.
Mia.
My light in the dark.
I grab my phone and tell her to be at the gallery.
She has to be there.
It's been too goddamn long without her here.
I tell her to wear something professional, yet something that speaks to her gothic style.
Something that’s perfect.
Something that’s fucked up in just the right way.
I need this.
I need her.
I need it all.
I stare at the phone.
Each second feels like an hour.
A year.
A lifetime.
Has she forgotten about me?
Does she know how much I need this?
Does she know how much I need her?
Does she know how much she needs me?
Minutes go by.
More .
More.
More.
The text comes back.
It says, “Okay, be there in an hour.”
Yes.
She has to be there.
It will shock my mother, and she’ll know it’s my form of rebellion, having everything she thought I couldn’t.
I go and get my mother, rushing her out the door, knowing she’ll hate everything about my gallery.
She asks what the rush is, I pretend I don’t hear her and open the door to the McLaren, shoving her inside.
And then, finally, we’re in the car and heading towards my gallery.
“Are you angry at me?” she asks, and her voice sounds almost innocent.
It makes me even angrier.
How does she do it?
How does she know what will piss me off the most?
She’s always done it.
Always, always, always.
The first time she visited me in the city, the girl I was seeing had just left my place.
She took one look, and I knew what she was going to say.
“Is that who I think it is?” Her tone was filled with disgust.
Days later, the girl was gone, just like my mother knew she would be.
“I told you she wasn’t right for you, Henrik. Why didn’t you listen to me?”
That’s how she does it. The past. The future. Everything.
I’ll never let her be right again, especially not about Mia.
She acts like I’m weak, like I’m different, like I’ve changed.
But, she can’t see me.
She never could.
But, Mia does.
Finally, we arrive at the gallery.
I toss my keys to the valet and get out, not bothering to open her door.
Her shoes click obnoxiously on the pavement as she walks inside.
Click, click, click. It grates on my nerves, infuritates me.
She looks at one of my new paintings and frowns. “Is it supposed to be so… dark?” She sounds almost embarrassed.
“I guess that’s what people like now.” And just like that, every artist she’s ever known is better than I am, every painting she’s ever seen is more to her taste, more impressive.
I just ignore her and keep looking around the room for my girl.
“Are we waiting for someone?” she asks, looking around the gallery, and I can’t wait for her to see.
Yes.
We are.
She has no idea what I’ve got planned.
It’s perfect.
It’s worth every second of her aggravating questions, every critical word, every minute I thought I couldn’t handle.
“Are you sure there’s a market for work like this?”
The door opens, and there she is.
My muse.
My world.
I watch as my mother’s eyes go wide.
“What on Earth is that ?”
She’s shocked.
She’s appalled.
She’s seeing everything I’ve planned, and I love it.
Mia’s there, wearing a skin-tight, pleated black pencil skirt, a black and white striped blouse that flares out at the end of the sleeves, with a corset that has four silver buckles.
The black pumps she wears have the same buckles as her corset, and I’m already getting hard.
Already.
I love every minute of this.
Every minute.
Every second.
Every.
Last.
Moment.
I can hear the crack when her expression changes.
The old woman’s disbelief is so loud, so violent, it’s almost a physical thing.
And then she covers it, recovers, because that’s what she does.
That’s who she is.
By the time Mia makes it through the door and heads toward me, my mother’s face is a blank slate, cold and ready to be filled with her next biting comment.
She takes in Mia’s skirt, her corset, her boots.
It’s all very calculated, and I don’t just mean Mia’s outfit.
I mean the old woman’s analysis, as if Mia is an opponent, as if there’s some point to losing this battle but winning the war. “Who the hell wears clothes like that?” she says.
I say, “The woman who will bear your grandchildren. ”
And then there’s the crack again, the shock and awe and sound of all her assumptions breaking.
This time she doesn’t cover it up, and I know she wants me to see it, wants to let me know exactly what she thinks.
“I’m speechless,” she says. “For once, I am actually speechless.”
I don’t say anything.
Neither does Mia, and my mother thinks this means she has the upper hand.
It doesn’t.
Mia knows more than she should, playing the part as I snake my hand around her waist, holding her firmly to my side.
“But she’s so… so… dark…” She trails off, as if finishing the sentence is more shocking than the thought behind it.
“She’s more capable than anyone you’ve ever met,” I tell her, and she shakes her head, pretending it’s a joke.
“Is that why you’re with her, Henrik? To throw dirt on our name? To make a mockery out of the Lindbergs?” She half cries as she speaks.
It’s all fake. Just like her.
“I’m with her,” I say, “because I love every bit of her.”
“I knew you’d end up with someone like her,” she says, and there’s a tinge of defeat in her voice, the tiniest sign that maybe I’ve won, at least for now. "That's what happens to widowers, they crave the darkness."
I let her say more than she should.
I watch Mia’s expression and I wait for the moment she’ll have enough.
The moment never comes.
I’m ahead of her for once, and it feels so goddamn good.
I am more certain of this than I have been about anything in my life.
We stand in the middle of the gallery, and all eyes are on us.
And my girl, my perfect little toy, just stands by my side, regal and poised.
Taking every one of my mother’s punches with grace.
This is why it feels so good.
I’m steps ahead, years ahead, and for the first time in my life, my mother is struggling to catch up.
She’s used to getting her way, but this time she won’t.
This time it’s all going my way.
Her mouth tightens, but she doesn’t give up.
She never does.
“So... appalling, really, Henrik,” she says. And then: “You never liked people watching you with your women. ”
Her eyes dart to the employees, to Mia, to me. “I’m surprised.”
“I’m not,” I tell her.
And I’m not.
I want everyone to know Mia belongs to me.
Mia lets me know with a glance that she has my back, that she’s there, and it’s more intimate to me than any words she could say.
The intensity in that look, the quiet way it screams at me—this is why I love her.
This is why I’m obsessed.
I knew she would be the perfect toy.
“You’re not serious, Henrik,” she says. “You can’t possibly have chosen… this to represent the future of our family line.” She repeats her disbelief, as if somehow that will undo my choice.
But I can tell she’s starting to wonder if she’s wrong.
“Get used to it,” I say. “She’s going to be a part of the family.”
She doesn’t want to believe it, but I’m not the same person I used to be.
She can’t stand that I could be so infatuated with someone like Mia, and she can’t stand it even more because I am.
Because she can no longer control my prospects.
I’ve never seen her this anxious, this unsure of what to say.
She hates being in the dark, hates not having the answers.
“Is that why she’s so quiet?” she says, probing for anything she can use to regain the upper hand. “Is that why you love her? She’s like a doll. Just standing there, staring. Not even a hello.”
“She’s not you,” I say. “That’s why I love her.”
It stings, and I love that, too.
“What about her family?” she asks. “Are they...?”
“It’s none of your business,” I tell her, and it pisses her off.
“I don’t appreciate you judging me based on my fashion choices, Mrs. Lindberg,” Mia finally says, a frown on her beautiful face.
“Hmm, perhaps you are right,” my mother acquiesces. A first.
She’s about to ask more when the phone rings, and it’s like she planned it.
Like she’s been waiting for it, like she needed an escape.
“Hold that thought,” she says, and her voice is full of fake confidence, full of the same old lies.
It’s another chance for her to pretend she knows everything, to make it look like she’s still in control.
Like she always will be.
Like she’s not scrambling.
Like she’s not the one who’s lost .
“Yes,” she says into the phone. “It’s me. I thought you were busy. I’ll be there in ten.” She turns to me, telling me that her friend would like a drink.
I nod, eager to be rid of the wicked wench.
She tells Mia it was nice to meet her, but it's all bullshit.
She tells me she’ll see me tomorrow before she goes.
I nod again, not acknowledging her beyond that.
I’m done with this conversation.
I love the silence like I love Mia.
Obsessively.
My mother finally leaves, and I feel more obsessed than ever.
Mia turns to me and smiles. “That was… certainly something,” she says, watching me with curiosity.
I lean in and whisper in her ear, feeling her skin on my lips.
“ Natblomma, you’re driving me wild.”
I shove my trousers against her stomach, and she can feel my cock.
I tell her we should head upstairs to my office.
She doesn’t know what she’s in for, so I take her hand and lead her up the stairs.
Once we're there, I open the door for her before shoving her in and shutting it behind me.
I’m on her.
My hands on her neck, her chest, the skin under her blouse.
Everything about her belongs to me.
I can’t contain it, and I don’t want to.
She fumbles with my shirt buttons, with my belt buckle, but she’s smiling the whole time because she knows I’ll be too impatient and we’ll end up like this—a fucking mess of fabric and skin and cum and sweat.
My hand is under her skirt, fingers brushing against the place that drives me insane, and it’s warm and slick when I shove them inside of her.
She gasps in my ear, breathless and perfect as I hoist her onto the desk.
Nothing else exists but us.
I pull away for only a second, long enough to yank open her blouse until buttons fly.
She moans when I push against her again, I wrap my hands around her throat. "You're going to give me everything I've ever desired, Mia. You'll bear me children. You'll be my wife. And you'll do it because you belong to me."
I choke her gently at first, watching for any sign that she won’t let me do this.
But there isn’t one.
There's not a single doubt or protest when I press harder .
“Say it,” I tell her as I start to fuck her, hard and deep enough that she’s screaming.
Mia’s fists slam against my chest, and she throws her head back as she gasps, “Yes! Yes!”
Her blouse is tangled around one arm, and I see the red marks I’ve left on her chest and throat, love letters written in invisible ink.
“Tell me who you belong to, Nattblomma ,” I growl, thrusting so hard the desk shakes beneath us.
“You!” she chokes out, grabbing my shoulders to pull me closer, as if there could be any remaining space between us. “Make… me… yours!”
I know it’s true when she comes undone around me, when she clenches and screams my name.
And I follow her over the edge with a growl of my own, planting myself so deep inside her that there will be no doubt about who owns every part of her.
After our fun at the gallery, I take Mia home.
She's driven to exhaustion on the tip of my cock and I have plans.
Plans that involve releasing the violence inside of me on the fucks who tried to claim what was mine.
It didn’t take long to find them.
Two streets over, in the living room of an old house.
A piece of shit with boarded up windows that should have been torn down years ago.
They thought they could follow her.
They thought I wouldn’t know.
They thought wrong.
Just like my mother thought wrong when she said Mia wasn’t a good choice.
I’ll show them all.
I’ll set the whole fucking world on fire for her.
I know exactly what to do.
It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.
It feels good to be this close again.
It feels good to know exactly where they are, exactly how it will go.
They think they’ve gotten away with it, following her, but they haven’t.
They think because I showed them mercy at the end of my gun, that was it for them.
They were wrong.
I’ll do this because it’s who I am.
I’ll do it because I love her.
I’ll do it because it’s so sweet to hear the screams as their flesh melts into the ground beneath their feet.
This is where I am, where I need to be.
My compulsion, my obsession, my love.
I’m driving myself to extremes, and I love it.
I’ll never feel this way about anyone else—ever .
I can’t.
I won’t.
I’ve been planning this since I ate her pussy that night I beat them half to death.
Since the moment I let her go.
Since the second I couldn’t stand being away from her.
The same way I’ve planned everything.
I open my trunk and grab the gasoline, setting it down beside my car.
My hand digs around in my pocket for the cigar I bought just for this occasion.
Lighting it, I smile before picking up the gas can and start splashing it around the foundations of the house.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the fucks inside, oblivious to their own demise.
They will make a beautiful painting, immortalized in death.
I take a long drag, releasing it slowly.
And then I flick the cigar and walk to my car.