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“Yes,” she says softly, avoiding my eyes.
I don’t tell her about all the other times, about the routine beatings and sodomies. Jail in Africa isn’t for the weak. “You didn’t come in here for my history with Zane.”
“No.”
Stroking her back, I say in my best reassuring tone, “Tell me.”
“This is hard.” She fumbles with my buttons again. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Start with how you escaped. I want to know everything.”
“Why?”
So I can prevent it from happening again. So I can be sure there are no hands to chop off or people to kill. “Making conversation. Once you start talking, the rest will flow.”
Inhaling deeply, she fixes her gaze in my lap. She tells me how she evaded Brink, how she ended up at the gym, and what happened at Phil’s place. She tells me about running away from Phil and being knocked over the head, how she woke in a strange room, and what her kidnappers did. She confesses that she heard Zane and Anne talking about killing her as she slipped into unconsciousness. I listen to everything in silence, unable to stop the growing rage inside me for the people who’d touched my wife, even if those people have paid. She tells me she went to the church in Brixton to think about Zane’s offer, and that going to Dalton wasn’t planned. It was a spur-of-the-moment visit to tell him she wasn’t going to get him the evidence.
Holy fuck. It comes as a surprise, but I believe her. I’ve already punished her for conniving to escape and for visiting Dalton. She’s got no reason to lie about it. Zane is gone. Even if she still wanted to find the evidence, her only chance of doing so is dead.
I’m left with one question. “Why did you decide not to do it?”
“I had to make a choice. You or my freedom.”
The statement hits me everywhere at once, right between the eyes, in the gut, and in my heart where it burns as conflicting feelings mash up inside me.
She chose me.
It’s what I wanted, for her to come to me willingly, yet, I find no joy in the sacrifice. She chose me, and I fucking broke her skin with a cane because a man like me has to honor his promises. A man like me has too many enemies to break even one. A man like me can’t cultivate trust by cutting anyone slack, least of all his wife.
I don’t deserve her choice, but I’m not a good enough man to refuse. I let the knowledge settle, let it feed my possessive side until my soul demands to hear the words again.
“You chose me.”
She looks away as if she’s ashamed about her decision, about giving up the fight. A better man would let her go, but I pull her closer. I feel the weight of my ring on her finger, my logo on her skin, my tracker under her flesh, and my seed in her womb. Still, it’s not enough. Her words aren’t cold yet, but they don’t dispel my fear. My fear of losing her is bigger than her word and my tokens of ownership. I don’t own her heart. I doubt I ever will. This is why I accept her decision like the greedy monster I am, ignoring the fact that I’m not that different from her dead husband, trapping her in a loveless marriage. I bet Clarke promised kindness. My promise is punishment. He lured her with honey. I’ll keep her with pain.
Kissing her neck, I inhale the sweet scent of her skin. Even now, after her shower, the seductive smell of her perfume clings to her hair. It’s everywhere—in our bedroom, on our sheets, in the study, and all over my clothes.
It’s too soon, but I can’t resist. I slip my fingers into the elastic of her pants and pull them down her thighs and over her feet. Making her straddle me, I unzip my fly and take out my cock. I barely push her panties aside before sliding into her. The shirt that’s too big for her obscures my view, but it’s not our fucking I’m interested in watching. It’s her face as I own her.
She gasps as I go too deep, hitting a barrier. I pace myself and take her shallower. If I can’t have her love, I’ll take her choice. It’ll be enough. This is what I tell myself as I grip her hips and move her on top of me with easy strokes. When she gets the rhythm, I grab her ass. Her globes are full and firm. I imagine the red lines running across them and my cock twitches. I imagine her skin, whole and unmarked, and I’m as close to ejaculating as I’ll ever get. I don’t need marks on her body to turn harder than steel. I only need her tight little cunt. I’m not going to hurt her in any way she won’t enjoy ever again, at least not in a physical way. There’s plenty not to like when love isn’t in the equation, but I refuse to think about it now.
