Chapter 28 – Ariane – Bound to Him #2
The day advances. I do chores like I’m starring in a very polite dream.
I ferry laundry and measure pills and read the same paragraph of a book three times without retaining a single noun.
I wipe a nonexistent spill on the counter because moving my hands makes my brain stop replaying last night for three whole seconds.
I check my phone and then pretend I wasn’t checking it.
There’s nothing from Julian (Hallelujah!) and nothing from Finn, whom I don’t see all day.
Neither do I have the courage to go and check.
In the afternoon, I take a walk down to the dock under the guise of getting fresh air and manage to rate every rock along the path on a scale of “could this trip me if I’m not looking” (answer: all of them).
The lake does its lake thing: glimmer, pretend to be benign, hold a thousand secrets.
Somewhere a heron lifts off and rearranges the sky.
I sit on the dock and dangle my feet, letting the anklet be unveiled beneath the cuff of my jeans as if to say, Hi, we’re still here, remember?
As if I could forget. I press my thumb to it through denim and feel that same rushed heat…
fear braided with relief. It should feel like a cage.
It doesn’t. It feels like: he came back.
He wants me where he can find me. He wants me, period.
A rational person would probably be alarmed by how much that matters.
I’m not in the mood to be rational. I’m in the mood to sit with my toes over dark water and imagine what I’ll say when I see him again.
The versions range from heroic to mortifying.
Version A: “You left.” Version B: “You’re late.
” Version C: nothing at all because my mouth forgets language and we make terrible choices again.
I try to pick the one that won’t get me smote by lightning. I fail.
Back up at the house, I try to pitch in and help Maria move a table—because I need to stay busy before I lose what’s left of my mind—and she glares me into not doing it.
I text Penny a photo of the hydrangeas and she sends back seventeen heart-eye emojis and then: How’s your dad?
And how are YOU? I type fine and then delete it because it’s such a liar.
I type complicated and leave it there because that covers most things.
By late afternoon, the light goes honey-soft and the house smells like rosemary and roast chicken because Maria believes in morale.
I fight and win her letting me set the table.
Not the good china… Mom would have a coronary, but the nice everyday plates that reassure us that everything’s back to normal.
When I go to the sideboard for napkins, my pulse wobbles because my ankle brushes the cabinet door and that tiny contact lights up every nerve like a string of fairy lights. Okay. This is getting ridiculous.
Dinner gathers itself slowly and Finn finally appears.
My make eye contact for a brief second before Maria distract me with her fussing.
Richard shuffles in on Finn’s arm, my breath hitching for the slightest, stupidest moment and then righting like a boat after a small wave.
He looks like he didn’t sleep and also like he could bench-press a moral dilemma.
He sets Richard down, adjusts the chair, nods at me.
Not a word. His eyes catch mine for another beat.
There’s a whole conversation in the small quirk at the corner of his mouth and the way his gaze drops to my ankle and back. I force my face to do nothing at all.
From the inside, I’m ablaze.
Eleanor arrives last, composed, pearls calm, expression neutral enough to qualify as Switzerland. “Smells lovely,” she says. “Thank you, Maria.”
Maria says, “I’m off-duty for the next hour. If you need anything, feel free to call me.”
We finally, eat. Richard pronounces the chicken “sincerely seasoned,” which I think means good.
Eleanor tells us the gallery’s suppliers sent the wrong mat board, which is the kind of tragedy only six people in the tri-state area can appreciate.
Finn cuts his food like it once insulted him.
I talk too much because silence makes me itch.
“How was your day?” I ask Finn. Basic and safe. Nothing to see here.
He doesn’t answer right away. His lips fight a tiny smile. He finally says, “Productive,” in the tone that means do not ask me what I produced. Mom’s fork pauses mid-air, then resumes. Richard watches all of us like there’s a painting he’s trying to decode and the artist is laughing.
“Richard shouldn’t be at his desk yet,” Mom says, gentle but pointed. “He gets agitated when…”
“I’ll decide what my father’s ready for,” Finn says, evenly, without looking up. The words are a knife laid flat on the tablecloth.
Eleanor’s eyes flash. She smiles anyway, small and pale. “He’s my husband.”
“He’s my father first.” Finn declares, pushing back uncharacteristically.
What’s happening? He’s never acted this way before. He’s always been grateful for not being the one making the decisions.
Instead of asking the questions swirling in my brain, I stare at my plate and pretend green beans are fascinating.
Something is breaking between them… something more than the usual frost. I want to ask what happened.
I want to know why his voice sounds like it’s made of glass.
I don’t ask. The grown-up in me wins for once.
Richard clears his throat. “Ariane, did you ever fix the filter?”
“I threatened it with litigation,” I say. “It’s considering a plea deal.”
He smiles. “Good girl.”
Finn’s eyes flick to me at that. There’s heat and something darker there, a private echo of last night that makes my pulse trip. I take a sip of water to calm myself down. Now’s not the time to fantasize about my stepbrother.
We finish without incident, which is a miracle and a disappointment.
After, I help clear plates and wipe the table and arrange leftovers in what Mom calls “an efficient manner,” which I translate as “don’t be a raccoon.
” I know Mom hates it when I do anything that the servants can.
It probably reminds her of the time when she used to promise me that we’ll someday get rich and have as many servants as we liked.
But clearing the table has always been the chore I enjoyed the most. After Mom married Richard, I was grateful for the boring chores I didn’t have to do thanks to the many servants Mom could finally afford.
But this? Clearing the dishes and looking at a clean table after everyone created a mess has always felt therapeutic.
It makes me feel like I can clean up any mess.
###
Upstairs again, the house returns to its evening routine: lights dimmed, voices lowered, the TV murmuring something British two rooms over.
I stand in my doorway and listen to the quiet choreography of other people’s lives.
The anklet is a small weight but enough to be a reminder of claim.
I touch it, just once, like one might touch a locket and keep a vow warm.
I’m not brave enough to knock on his door first. Not tonight. But when the soft, deliberate knock comes to mine, two taps, a pause, the rhythm of a secret, I don’t hesitate.
I open my door and there he is. He looks perfect with his tousled hair and black sweats. Finn doesn’t bother shutting the door as he enters my room and before I know it, he crosses the distance between us.
Immediately, Finn grabs my hips, positioning me in front of him. His breathing grows harsh as his eyes travel over my unsexy ensemble, raking me like claws.
He frowns and I can see the thoughts flickering across his face like storms. He slips a hand into his back pocket and withdraws something small and black. When he turns, a lacy G-string dangles from his middle finger. My throat works as I gulp.
“Stand by the bedpost.” His voice drops even lower, intention gritted into every syllable.
I don’t move, fighting too many complexities to command my legs. Trying to find out what he’s do if I defied him.
Grinding his teeth, he grabs my arm and tugs me down the bed until I stand in front of a white lacquered bedpost. “Put your arms above your head.”
He’s so close; a heavy cloud of sandalwood and spice buffets me, turning my knees to water.
I stretch, arching my back against the pillar, deliberately forcing my breasts to brush his chest. He startles, one eyebrow flicking up, before reaching up and securing my wrists with the G-string.
The lace bites into my skin, but it’s nothing compared to being tied with ropes.
At least my feet are on carpet now, grounding me.
Finn lowers his head, leaning his length against mine. His hips press hard, dominating.
I tilt my chin, positioning my lips for him to kiss me. He never closes his eyes, and his gray irises make me feel as if I’ve wandered into a dark forest where dangerous men take advantage of lost maidens.
I swallow hard as he comes within a fraction of kissing me. But with a crooked smile, he pulls back. “You want me to kiss you, slave. That’s not how this works anymore.”
Reaching again into his pocket, he pulls free a pair of silver scissors. Fear widens my eyes. I know he wouldn’t hurt me but… What the hell?
“You don’t get to choose what I do to you. You want me to kiss you. I won’t. Not today.”
I moan, then flinch, wishing I could slap a hand over my traitorous mouth.
God, Ariane, way to sound desperate. I don’t want to be tied up and used.
So why do I ache for it? Shit. Maybe everything with Julian broke me, turned me into some danger-seeking whore.
But that’s a lie. The only thing that happened was Finn.
He controls my body like a puppeteer… I have no will to disobey.