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“Tea?” I ask, twisting my hair up in a topknot, and turn my back to him while I crack two eggs into a pan. I step away from the stove, allowing them to fry a bit while I peel some fresh pears and get some jam for his toast.
“Of course-” he snaps, dropping down into his chair at the table. “-and hurry. I have a lot of shit to get done in the shop today. Your laziness cost you my cock this morning. Do you think you will be able to get away with this kind of failure when you’re a mother?”
“No, Sir. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” I apologize for my tardiness while holding back a smirk, knowing this really has nothing to do with me- my punishment was served- and everything to do with the fact that during my short stint strung up in the basement, he continued to brew my special tea bags for himself, and each day, he has felt increasingly worse, not to mention he couldn’t knock me up now if he tried to because his dick is limp and useless- an obvious source of his anger. The skillet in front of me pops, and I’m yanked from my thoughts when a small splatter of hot grease lands on my cheek. So, I lift the pan from the burner and quickly slide the two sunny-side-up eggs onto his plate with the pear slices and toast and then set it on the table in front of him along with my magic tea. “Is there anything else I can get you, husband?”
“No,” He lifts his fork and devours his food in minutes, downing his tea once he’s finished, far faster than I would have thought comfortable for piping hot tea, and I grimace, thinking about his possible burns.
“What?” he sneers, standing up from the table, “Something not meet with your approval,wife?”
I take a step back, secretly enjoying his quick decline in mood and health, but I’m still cautious not to cross him with this vile of a mood. I wouldn’t be the first or even the last Greene woman to be put down for little more than looking at one of our men at the wrong time, and I know when to stay just out of arm's reach. I’m not ready for another round of punishment this soon, especially for something so silly.
“I meant no disrespect. I was just worried you may have burned your mouth on the hot tea, Alastor.” I tilt my head, looking up at him with wide innocent eyes- a look that typically calms him- but no luck today.
“I’m fine,” he snarls and storms across the room to where I’m standing, pinching my face in his right hand and forcing my gaze to meet his. “It’s not your job to worry about me, Carwen. You are to focus on cooking, cleaning our home, and my pleasure. That’s it. If you need to worry about something else, I’ll let you know.”
He lets go and shoves me onto the counter. My hip slam against the roughly cut edge, and I cry out at the unexpected blinding pain, but he just laughs, turning for the door leading to the backyard and closest path to his shop.
“You aren’t allowed to leave the house today. If I catch you trying to disobey my order, you won’t like your punishment. I’ll leave you down there to rot for twice as long without my dick.” He raises a knowing brow, and I hate that he’s right. “And while I’m out, cleaneverything. This place is a wreck.”
I look around the room, confused as to what mess he could be seeing.
“Where would you like me to start?”
Rage flashes in his eyes, and I worry, for a moment, that I will have to make a run for it, but he gathers the stack of plates still drying in the dish drainer by the sink and hurls them at the wall beside me. The entire set crashes loudly and shatters on the floor in a ruined heap.
“Start there.” He laughs darkly. “And then clean our sheets… and yourself. Maybe if you put more effort into the way you look, I wouldn’t have so much trouble convincing my cock to fuck you.” And with that, he grabs a handful of the homemade licorice candies I made from the dish on the counter and then walks out the door.
Things are moving faster than I thought they would, especially since I spent a large part of the week locked up and unable to dose him. His dizziness, headaches, and fatigue are cutting his workdays shorter with each passing day, which infuriates him already, but it seems that messing with his cock may have been the final straw that pushes my already hot-headed husband into a psychotic rage. I need to move faster.
* * *
I rinsethe last of the sweet-smelling conditioner from my hair and then turn, shutting off the shower, and step out onto the plush rug Alastor purchased in anticipation of the day I would need to kneel on the hard bathroom floor to bathe our children. The sentiment was not nearly as sweet as it initially seemed to be when he followed up his explanation with- ‘The only bruises I want on your knees are the ones I make when I’m fucking more babies into you.’–but that’s my husband.
I hum quietly, turning to stand before the mirror, and carefully brush each knot out of my hair; then I lift a pretty bottle of lotion from my bathroom vanity and smooth it over every inch of my skin. When I’m finished, I pull on my prettiest maroon sundress, gather each bottle, and dry them off meticulously.
After cleaning up Alastor’s mess from earlier today, I had trouble deciding what to do with the large box of shattered plates. I knew that bagging them with the rest of the household trash was out of the question since the bag would rip, making a mess worthy of another hard beating when he loaded the garbage into his pickup to haul it off. I definitely couldn’t burn them in the pit, so I carried the cardboard box up to the attic, hoping to stow it away until I found another use for them. Perhaps this fall, once the frost begins to set in and I am stuck indoors, I may use them to artfully cover the top of a table from Alastor’s overflow inventory. While I was up there, I decided to open up the small circular window to air out some of the dust that had gathered over the years. I was hoping that I might find some suitable replacements for the shattered dinnerware among our family’s stored memories until more could be purchased in town, but what I found was way better.
In the far corner, under four oddly shaped boxes filled with musty old clothing and a carelessly discarded antique lamp with exposed, frayed wiring, I found a box labeled ‘Emilia’- Alastor’s mother. The handwriting, though less skilled than his more recent penmanship, most certainly belongs to my husband, and what was inside was an opportunity I just couldn’t pass up. My father- a man who has only mentioned his mother once in my presence, on the night of our bonding- took the time to lovingly wrap and store a box of her personal items, and now I have decided to use that box of treasured memories to toy with his mind, knowing that just the right shove could break what little hold he still has over his teetering mental state.
I walk from the bath into my art room, climb the pull-down stairs up into the attic, and return the bottles of lotion and shampoo to their box. He wanted me to put more care into how I present my body to him. Well, I certainly put more effort into the way I smell. I laugh to myself, hoping the scent of his late mother on my skin will trigger a memory of his childhood. My husband only avoids subjects that upset him, and his mother is most certainly right at the center of that trauma pit. Before I leave, I stop to close the window, thankful it’s on the side of the house facing away from his shop, and then climb down, folding the ladder and pushing it back up into the ceiling. I won’t mention being up there, but if asked, the box of glass and his order to clean the entire house should cover my tracks.
“Carwen!” I jump when the back door slams closed and glance at the digital clock sitting on my desk. It’s far too early for him to be back inside. There are at least three hours of daylight left for him to work in.
“I’m coming, Alastor! Are you alright?” I call out and dash across the room and down the stairs into the living room. Panic shoots through me- both feigned and real- but the one rooted in the depth of my heart that still fights to love my husband despite what I have learned, turns my stomach. My two sides are warring between two very clear and deeply ingrained Greene family rules.
Rule eight: Never deny the head of the family affection. Ever.
Rule six: The weak are to be eliminated.
Which do I honor when they contradict one another this much?
“Do I sound alright?” He hisses from the kitchen, and I skid to a stop, gasping when I see him doubled over in pain, his right pant leg is bloody, and his hand is gripping the table so tightly that his knuckles have turned white.
“Alastor, what happened?” I rush over to him, brushing aside the sweaty hairs plastered to his face, but he bats away my hand forcefully.
“Don’t.” He sneers. “I’m not a child.”
“Of course not.” I smile softly at him, making sure I keep the look of concerned affection on my face instead of the smirk that is trying so desperately to sneak through at the irony of his injury reducing him to exactly what he claiming he’s not,andI smell of his dead mother. “But I am your wife, and it’s my job to care for you in any way you need, just like it’s your job to protect and provide for our family. So please tell me what you need for me to do. Are you hurt?”
