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Chapter Twenty-Eight
Saoirse slammed the door to her room—not her princess room, her real room—and then opened it and slammed it again. Wanted to keep opening and slamming it shut over and over again until she’d exhausted herself and could collapse in a weeping pile of rage.
Instead, she dragged her suitcase out from her closet and tossing it on the bed she hadn’t slept in for weeks. Grabbed clothes out of her closet, ransacked her drawers, tossed in books and her other things.
She didn’t know where she could go, but she couldn’t stay here.
Dammit. Goddammit.
How could she have been so stupid? How could she not have seen that despite all his so-called ethics and fairness and basically pretending to be Captain America in a bespoke suit that Arthur was just another fucking man who thought women who’d been assaulted had a fair shake at justice?
She had let him discipline and dominate her. Feed her, fuck her, put her in diapers and a fucking straitjacket. She’d allowed him to do those things not just because he was handsome in that particular refined silver fox way that pressed all her buttons and was competence porn incarnate, but because she had trusted him. And if she were being totally honest, loved him.
Now she felt like a fool. And so fucking angry she wanted to break everything in his perfect house. Throw his books on the floor or into the fireplace, especially that goddamn first edition of Black’s. Smash every expensive bottle of wine and liquor against the dark-wood-paneled walls.
She felt as though she’d been kicked in the stomach. She might literally vomit. Unless she was screaming. Was it possible to shriek and puke at the same time? She’d probably look like that girl from The Exorcist but she didn’t fucking care. Anger and humiliation consumed her while she stormed around her room, trying to get her things together before he came in here and tried to convince her not to go.
If he even would. Maybe this would be the final straw that convinced him she wasn’t worth the trouble, that she was a bigger headache than he’d bargained for when he agreed to let her stay here.
Just then there was a soft knock on her door. Part of her wanted to tell Arthur to fuck right off to hell. Again. But why do that through a door if she could do it to his face?
Saoirse stormed over, took a deep, fortifying breath, flung the door open and prepared to yell.
But the way Arthur was standing there gave her pause. Hands clasped in front of him, his expression not sheepish but definitely contrite. She guessed she could give him a chance to say something, and if it turned out to be some limp, half-assed apology then she could yell at him. Again.
“I am so, so sorry. There’s no excuse for my ignorance and I apologize for the hurt I caused you by forcing you to educate me. You’re correct that I come from a place of extreme privilege and while I’ve gotten better at recognizing that, I’m not perfect. Far from it. You’re right about everything you said, and I’m sorry that my first impulse was chastising you for your language instead of listening to you. It was a knee-jerk reaction that was inappropriate and I apologize. I will do my very best to not let that happen ever again.”
Well. That took some of the wind out of her burn-it-all-down sails.
“Are you just saying that because you don’t like it when I’m angry and you want me to go back to being your sweet babygirl?”
She’d cut a bitch if that were true. And though she knew Arthur was a master of persuasion, of painting the world as he wanted you to see it, she also liked to think she could tell when he was being candid and sincere.
Arthur shook his head, his brows rising. “No. I don’t like when you’re angry but I wouldn’t lie in the hopes of avoiding your ire. It’s deserved and you can yell at me more if you like.”
“I don’t like yelling.”
“I know. And I wanted to tell you too that no matter how you’re feeling, and no matter how you’re acting on those feelings, you are always my sweet, precious babygirl.”
The earnestness in his green eyes and etched into his fine features made a crack in her fury. That was all it took to let all the hurt and anguish out. Much to her embarrassment, Saoirse started to weep and when Arthur stepped forward to wrap his strong arms around her, she didn’t resist, not at all.
“Oh, princess. I’m sorry. So sorry. You deserve so much better than that.”
He petted and soothed her but didn’t try to get her to stop crying, perhaps understanding that she had absolutely no control over it. None.
And she wasn’t sobbing solely for what had just happened. No, she was crying too for the months of being told what had happened to her wasn’t a big deal. That she should forget about it, move on.Don’t talk about it, definitely don’t report the bastard because it will only hurt you.Which was probably true. But even so, wasn’t the telling of it important?
After a while Arthur gathered her up and bundled her over to an armchair in the corner, sitting with her on his lap.
She curled around him and wept until she didn’t have any more tears left, and then she was angry about that too. Stupid body that wouldn’t even cooperate with her meltdown.
He stroked and petted her, held her, and didn’t talk for a long time. When he finally did, he said, “Saoirse, I don’t mean to upset you again, and feel free to say ‘cherries’ or 'fuck off’ if you like, because I may be wildly off base but…”
Arthur took a breath and she peeked up at him.
“What?”
“You have every right to be upset about this as a human being on this planet, especially as a woman. And I know you’re an incredibly empathetic person. So maybe this is an issue that you feel strongly about because of that. But it occurred to me that perhaps you’re so upset because this is more personal than that?”
He tendered the possibility like he was making an offering, holding up a sacrifice for her to do with what she would, and she was at once grateful and wounded by it.
“Did someone hurt you, princess?” he asked softly, the pad of his thumb brushing her cheek.
