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“Were you really a virgin when you came to our marriage bed?” The question comes out harsh, biting, and Marika’s eyes widen in fear that, in my current state, only confirms to me that something is being kept from me.
That my wife very well might not have been a virgin.
That I’ve been lied to, and tricked.
Cuckolded within my own house.
“Theo—”
“Yes or no?” I shout, still grasping her jaw, and tears well in her eyes.
“Yes!” she cries out, but there’s a quaver in her voice, and I don’t believe her.
I don’t fucking believe any of it, and all I can see are other hands on her, another mouth on hers, and I want to punish her for it.
I want to punish them both.
My hands land on her arms roughly, spinning her around to face the dresser. She lets out a yelp of fear, but I’m not listening. I can’t hear anything beyond the blood rushing in my ears, the sound of my own heartbeat pounding through my head, and I’m furious beyond belief.
I trusted her.
I cared about her.
I was going to change everything about my life for her. For us.
I was falling in love with her.
That last thought tears through me, and it feels as if my heart itself is ripped asunder as I grab her wrists, slamming her hands onto the edge of the dresser.
“Theo!” She cries out in fear and pain, but it doesn’t register. I’m not the man who married her at this moment, not the man who took her out on a date so that we could get to know each other before we were married, not the man who touched her slowly, gently, on the first night so that she wouldn’t be afraid. That memory tears through me too—how worried I’d been that I might hurt her, that she would be frightened the first time, my certainty that I needed to hold back my lust for her so that I could ease her into the newness of it all.
I’ve been physically hurt before, but this is a new kind of pain, the idea that she might have been lying to me. That our wedding night might not have been our first time. It’s not only the deeply rooted possessiveness that I feel for her that makes me angry, not only that constant thought ofmine, mine, minethat I have so often for her, that I’ve never felt before. It’s the memory of how she played along, how she clearlyknewwhat I was thinking and led me to believe that was the truth.
Shelied.
She lied.
The anger is overwhelming. I’ve become the brutal man that all of Chicago fears at this moment, the man who was willing to tear apart what was left of the Vasilevs for what their territory could offer, the man who has kept the McNeils the most powerful family in Chicago since the mantle of power settled on my shoulders. “If you wanted the brutal husband you were promised,” I growl in her ear as I press her hands down against the wood, bending her over, “then all you had to do was say so.”
“Theo,please!” She cries out, her fingers curling against the wood. “Please don’t do this—”
“Then you shouldn’t have lied.” I stand back, looking at her trembling, pale body. My fingers reach for the hook of her bra, snapping it free, and Marika lets out a pitiful whimper.
Somewhere in the depths of my cold, angry heart, it strikes a nerve. It reminds me that this is my wife, and I don’t want to hurt her. But every time I falter, I think of another man’s hands on her, of her lying mouth making me believe that she was only mine. I think of all the moments she’s been left alone here, of the trust I placed in her, and the possibility that those moments were spent locked in a romantic embrace with another man, a man who she—
“That’s why you don’t want children with me.” Her hesitance suddenly makes sense. I run my fingers down her spine, touching each ridge. “You want them with someone else. Or were you planning to make it a race to see which of us could get you pregnant first, and then pass the little bastard off as mine regardless?”
“No, Theo! You’ve got it all wrong—” her words are whimpered, begging, and I feel my upper lip curl in an angry sneer.
“Don’t let go of that dresser,” I warn her, my hand pressing down on her lower back, forcing her to bend down over it, her ass arched outwards for me. “Has he fucked you like this yet? Is it as good as when I fuck you from behind?”
Marika lets out a whimpered sob as my fingers slide around to undo the button of her jeans. “Theo, it’s not what you think—”
“It’s exactly what I think. How did you manage to bleed that first night, anyway? Was it another trick, or is my cock just that much bigger than his?” I yank the zipper down, no longer expecting an answer from her. I wouldn’t believe anything she said, anyway.
“Theo, don’t do this—”
“Shut up,” I snarl. “The only sound I want to hear is when your lying little mouth screams for me when I make you come. I knowthat’sreal, at least. Your fucking cunt doesn’t lie.” I snatch the jeans and her panties down over her hips, dragging them down her thighs, throwing them aside so that she’s bare and trembling in front of me, bent over the dresser, her blonde hair hanging around her face. The picture of submission, and that’s all I care about right now.
