Page 44 of Graciously His

“I won’t use my bullet journal at all if you’re going to use it against me.”

I let out a scoff, then finish off my vegetables. When I look at Grace again, she’s staring at me, her plate pushed aside. She’s not even close to finishing her meal, but she’s had enough to satisfy me.

“You cooked,” she says, “so I’ll do the dishes.”

I know exactly what she’s doing, escaping both the table and this discussion, but I allow it. “I’ll help you carry things back into the—”

“I’ve got it,” she says, setting her dishes on the tray and coming around the table for mine. I watch her face, which reddens.

Interesting.

I realise this is the first instance of Grace serving me, and I wonder if that’s what has her flustered. I sip my water as she scuttles away, listening to the sound of the tap turning off and on in the kitchen, the scrubbing of a sponge against the cast iron. She has no idea how to handle the skillet, of course, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll re-season it later. The noise dies down after a few minutes, and I picture Grace leaning against the island counter, eyes distant as she tries to figure out what to do. How to escape properly, or else extend her power within the situation.

I get up, taking my empty glass into the kitchen. I find Grace staring out the back door, towards the dark forest. I put my glass into the dishwasher then approach from behind. Her eyes widen in the glass of the French doors, her image dusky.

“Come, little heart.”

“Where?”

She sidles away. I stop her with an arm around her waist.

“Where we’re going to settle everything in our marriage: the bedroom.”

She shakes her head, messy hair sliding over her shoulders. “I don’t want to.”

I ignore that and get into what matters. “Do you need to go to the bathroom? If so, now is the time.”

“Why are you asking me that?”

“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.