“Damian—”
“Lock her in my room.”
He steps aside to let one of his men exit.
“No,” I cry as the man drags me away. “Damian, don’t do this.”
Damian doesn’t even look at me. He turns away, allowing the bulk of a man to burn me with his touch on my arms, shoving me past Russell and Anne, and up the stairs.
“Please,” I beg when we reach the bedroom, “don’t lock the door. I’ll stay. I swear.”
My plea falls on deaf ears. Once he’s left me in the room, he shuts the door. Through the closed door, I hear the man call to Zane for the keys. Rushing to the door, I jerk on the handle, but the guard is blocking it.
“Let me out!”
More footsteps fall outside, followed by the turn of a key. A flick of the door handle confirms my worst fear. I’m locked in.
No, no, no.
My chest closes up.
It’s nothing.
It’s not.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. It’s as if I’m trapped under water, and my only urge is to fight my way to the surface. Shamelessly, I bang on the door, a vague corner of my mind aware of the fact that everyone in the house can hear the noise I’m making, but I can’t bring myself to care.
When my fists hurt too much to carry on, I rush to the window and throw it open. I already know it’s two stories down with no ledge, but I search for something I might have missed, like a gutter pipe running down the wall. There’s nothing but smooth brick. My dress suddenly feels to tight. I claw at the high neck, ripping off a button. Forcing myself to take deep, steady breaths, I unbutton the bodice. My hands are shaking, and the buttons are so tiny it turns out to be a daunting task.
Sitting down on the window seat, I inhale as much of the night air as I can drag into my uncooperative lungs. Sheer willpower allows me to focus on my breathing until I can let my mind drift. I’m back in time, living the happier moments of my life before my mother died, until I fall into a trancelike state that allows me to escape the reality of the situation.
By the time the door opens, I’m covered in a cold sweat. Damian stands on the threshold, shirtless, carrying a tray. Kicking the door shut, he walks to the table by the fireplace. I can’t help but look at his hands when he deposits the tray. They’re clean, his nails free of dirt or blood.
I tense when he walks to me, flattening my back against the cold glass of the windowpane. He towers over me, all muscles and man, and now that I’ve seen what this man is capable of, his dominating presence is scarier.
Eyebrows furrowed, he studies me. “I’m sorry you had to see that. It won’t happen here again.”
Here. He didn’t say it wouldn’t happen again. He just won’t do it here.
My mouth is so dry it’s difficult to speak. “Why?”
“He stole from me.”
My voice is hoarse. “How many fingers?”
“Three.”
“Was that really necessary?”
His eyes darken until the black almost consumes the brown. “This will be the fate of anyone who dares to take something that belongs to me.”
I swallow, remembering he accused my family of stealing from him more than once. “Harold?”
“I have something different in mind for him. He deserves losing more than his fingers.”
My heartbeat turns erratic. I don’t ask what he has in mind for me. I don’t want to know. When he reaches out, I flinch, but I don’t move. I’m backed up against the window. There’s nowhere to go.
He wipes a thumb over my cheek. “I scare you.”
I don’t deny the truth.
He continues to stroke my cheek as he speaks. “I can’t promise to never hurt you.”
Everything inside me constricts at the confession. I didn’t expect anything less, but hearing him say it makes the fear more tangible, rising to lie shallower in my chest.
“I can promise you, though,” he carries on, “that I won’t let anyone else hurt you.”
Lies. He broke that promise even before he made it, and if it depends on Zane, he’ll break it many times over.
Dropping his hand, he walks to the table and picks up a glass and plate, which he carries back to me.
“You haven’t finished dinner.”
I take the plate on autopilot, grimacing at the lemon pie. My appetite has vanished, and the thick layer of meringue makes me want to vomit.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I can’t.”
He hesitates but exchanges the pie for the glass. The whisky, I drink. I need the burn that opens my throat and dulls my senses.
“Tea?” he asks, still standing over me like a doctor scrutinizing a patient.
“What?”
His fingers brush mine when he takes the glass. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Would I? I’m in no state to think, never mind analyze my dietary cravings.
“Have a warm shower,” he says. “I’ll bring you some Rooibos to help you sleep.”
He’s already at the door when I find my tongue. “Damian.”
He turns and waits, watching me with those intense eyes.
“Where is he?”
Irritation plays over his face. “I presume at a hospital.”
“Your men took him?”
“Of course not. They dropped him at his car.” He flexes his hand, fingers splayed. “Why are you so concerned about him?”
“You just chopped off a man’s fingers, and you ask me this?”
“Have your shower.” He turns away from me, animosity written in the tight set of his broad shoulders.
“Damian.”
He pauses. “What?”
“Please don’t lock me in.”
There’s something in his gaze as he looks at me from over his shoulder. Suspicion. A question. He doesn’t say anything but humors me by leaving the door open when he goes.
Not wanting to be caught naked, I rush through the shower and pull on a nightdress. When I step out of the bathroom, a cup of tea is standing on the nightstand, still steaming. Feeling cold to my bones, I take a sip. It’s sweet, just like my mother made it that time when the car knocked me off my bicycle.
Damian
The evening has turned into a nightmare. I shouldn’t have brought that thieving scumbag to our home, but we snared him unexpectedly when he exited the Minerals Council, and I couldn’t drag him into the streets or behind the nearest dump where the city has crime surveillance cameras.
Since my evening is already ruined, I go in search of Zane, and find him and Anne in front of the television, laughing at a slapstick comedy.
Anne looks up when I enter. “Damian, you poor baby. What an awful day you had.” She gets to her feet, lithe like a cat, and grips my shoulders from behind. “Sit down. You can do with a massage. Zane, pour him a drink.”
Zane shoots her a dirty look.
I shake off her touch. “We’ll have that drink in my study.”
I don’t wait for Zane’s reply. He knows better than to argue. In my study, I pour two whiskies over ice.
Zane enters slowly, his step cautious. “What’s going on?”
“Sit.” I point at the chair facing my desk, not the armchairs by the fireplace.
He eyes the chair uncertainly but doesn’t question my motive. When he’s sat down, I place a glass in front of him before rounding the desk and taking my seat.
“Jeez, Dami.” He laughs nervously. “Why so formal?”
“You know I’ll always be obliged to you for having my back.”
“But?” he asks, more caution slipping into his tone.
“But hurt my wife, and you hurt me.”
“Whoa.” He raises his hands. “I didn’t hurt Lina. She hurt herself. She’s crazy. You do know that, right?”
“She has no skin left on her wrist.”
“I told her not to struggle.”
“You should’ve used padded cuffs.”
“Metal is all I could find on short no
tice.”
“Not good enough. I can almost forgive you for your ignorance on that one, but not for letting her take a sleeping pill strong enough to send her into a goddamn coma.”
“Dami, the woman—”
“I’m not finished. You disappointed me tonight. I fucking counted on you to keep her out of it.”
“I can’t tell her what to do. She’s your wife. She won’t listen to me.”
“Next time, try harder, or I won’t be as forgiving.”
“Are you for real?” He gets to his feet. “Are you blaming the fact that she gatecrashed your torturing party on me?”
“I trust you to have my back. Tonight, you didn’t.”
“Keeping your wife innocent doesn’t count as having your back. Not in my book.”
“It does in mine. Is that clear enough, or do you need a memo?”
“Dami.”
“Don’t test me. Not on this.”
“Fine. I’m sorry about her wrist and for letting her trip on a pill, and I’m sorry if I was supposed to detain her tonight.”
“Distract, not detain.”
“Distract,” he agrees feebly.
“I accept your apology.” I lift my glass. “Are we good?”
Reluctantly, he picks up his. “We’re good.”
He downs the drink and slams the glass down on the desk. “Is she going to become an issue?”
Anger pulls at my patience. “Explain what you mean with issue.”
“Is she going to come between us?”
I pin him with a stare. “Between what exactly, Zane? What are you assuming is between us?”
He swallows. “Friendship. Is she going to come between our friendship?”
“Not unless you make the fact that I married her a problem.”
He lifts his hands again. “No problem.” His smile turns wry. “I’m only watching out for you.” Walking to the door, he throws in, “As I’ve always done.”
He doesn’t slam the door, but he doesn’t close it quietly, either.
I’m going to have to keep an eye on Zane. It’ll hurt me to kick him out, but I meant what I said. Lina comes first. She may hate me as much as Zane is loyal, but she is my wife.
Lina
After the incident, I avoid Damian. It’s not difficult. He’s gone for business every day, returning late at night. He doesn’t cuff me to the bed, but I often wake with his heavy arm draped over my stomach, tying me to the heat of his body. Afraid to wake him, or more accurately, his sinister lust, I never stir. I endure the discomfort and the itch to change positions. I listen to his breathing, inhale his male scent, and remember what he’s done. When I think about how intimately his hands have touched me and what those hands are capable of, a shiver always finds its way from my cold insides to the overheated surface of my skin.
Like I’m avoiding my husband, Zane avoids me. Russell pretends I don’t exist. Except for a formal greeting or a stiff reply to a question, he doesn’t speak to me. He does nothing but follow me around with a small distance in physical space and a growing distance on an intangible level. I don’t see much of Anne, either, who is too busy going to make-up and hairdressing trials for Saturday’s wedding reception.
As the house is slowly being transformed into a gala venue, I grow more nervous. Facing a room full of people for hours on end with a poker face is not on the top of my list of enjoyable experiences. The media will be here. Photos will be taken. I’ll have to play the role of someone I’m not and wear a mask among people who believe the worst of me. I’ll have to pretend I don’t hear the whispers, the allegations, and the musings about how crazy I am. In a room full of enemies, my husband being the greatest, I won’t be able to let my guard down for a second.
In the build-up to the unwanted event, I search the house from top to bottom, but the evidence is nowhere to be found. Since Damian made a point of not inviting Harold to the party, sending a strong message to the speculating media, I don’t have to deal with Harold yet, but I prefer to get my hands on those documents sooner than later. I’m prepared to make the sacrifice for the prize they’ll buy me. What are three fingers in exchange for freedom?
Saturday arrives too soon. Caterers, waiters, and cleaners mill around the house. I seek refuge in the kitchen where Jana prepares a pot of chamomile tea, as if it’ll soothe me.
“I know you’re nervous,” she says, winking.
I am, but not for the reason she presumes. I’m not a blushing bride worried about what can go wrong at her wedding party.
“Everything will be perfect.” She checks her watch. “You better get ready if you don’t want to be late.”
“Are you staying?” I hold my breath, praying she’ll say yes.
“No can do. It’s pizza night with the kids.”
“Of course.” I offer her a meek smile. “Have fun.”
A selfish part of me wants her to stay so that I have a friendly face to anchor me, but Jana has her own family to take care of.
Pouring another cup of tea, I carry it upstairs and get ready like Jana suggested. It’s a lot like our wedding ritual, with me emptying my stomach in the toilet before pulling on a black dress. It’s a simple cut with a long skirt and high neck, the silk more charcoal than black. Harold bought it for me to wear to Jack’s funeral when I was too drugged to get out of bed and take care of such a simple task.
The ringing of the doorbell makes my stomach tighten. The stomping of steps on the stairs makes my skin clammy.
Zane puts his head around the open door. Dressed in a tux and bowtie, he would’ve been handsome if not for the personality that taints his exterior looks. His gaze flickers disapprovingly over me. “The first guests have arrived.”
I don’t skip a beat, fitting an earring as if I’m not fazed. “They’re early.” And Damian is late.
“The waiters are offering them drinks. I suggest you move your ass. Dami will be here in five.”
When he leaves, I notice Russell in the corridor, guarding the bedroom door. He’s staring straight ahead, as if he’ll turn into a pillar of salt if he glances into the room.
Ignoring the increasing amount of voices coming from downstairs, I twist my hair into a tight bun and apply light make-up. The cosmetics aren’t to look pretty, but to mask the paleness of my lips and cheeks. I’m applying lipstick when I hear my husband offer Russell a greeting.
Automatically, my hand holding the lipstick stills. Three heartbeats later, Damian’s image appears in the reflection of the mirror. He stops on the threshold of the dressing room, taking me in. With one hand in his pocket and a finger hooked into the hanger of a dry-cleaning bag that hangs over his shoulder, his stance is casual, but there’s nothing laid-back about his stare that seems to peel off my very skin. Like Zane, he’s dressed in a tux. The fact that his thick hair is still damp means he recently had a shower. Where did he get changed? At the office?
“Sorry I’m late.”
He owes me no apologies, and I don’t miss this one is lacking an excuse.
“Your guests are already here.” I say your like an accusation. I never wanted any part in this.
His lips tilt in a corner, mocking my spitefulness. “It couldn’t be helped. I was occupied.”
“Cutting off fingers?” I ask drily.
“If I was, would you want to know?”
I’m not going to answer that.
“I don’t own a tux,” he says. “I needed to rent one, but an alteration had me running late. I showered at the office.”
The admission makes me a little less angry with him. I can’t help but feel a sliver of sympathy for the wealthy man who doesn’t own a tux. It says so much about his past.
Feeling the heat of his stare on my back, I finish applying my lipstick and rub my lips together. “I’m ready.”
It’s a lie. I’ll never be ready, but the quicker we get this over with, the better.
For two seconds we’re frozen in our staring, evaluating each other and finding one another shor
t, and then he breaks the moment of unspoken accusations with a single step and word.
“No.” His voice is overbearing, dominating.
“Excuse me?”
He advances on me. “You’re not going like this.”
I turn to face him, bracing my hands on the vanity counter behind me. You don’t give your back to a lion. “Like what?”
His brow shoots up. His smile is indulgent. “You’ll wear this.” He holds the dry-cleaning bag out to me.
He came prepared. He knew how I’d be dressing, and he wasn’t going to make the same mistake as with our wedding. I should’ve expected his course of action, but it still comes as a surprise, so much so that when he pushes the bag into my limp hand, I fold my fingers reflexively around it. I can’t let go of his eyes. I’m holding them in disbelief but most of all in fear.
His gaze dips to where I clutch the plastic. “Open it.”
When I don’t move, he takes back the bag and pulls down the zipper. The dress he extracts is worse than I could’ve ever imagined. Red silk overlaid with chiffon drapes low in both the front and back. Thin straps hold up the shoulders, and a slit almost reaches the hip. It’s a whore dress. There’s no other word for it.
I look from the dress to him in horror. He can’t be serious. But he is. There’s a glint of malice in his eyes as he gauges my reaction.
I can’t wear that. Blood zings through my veins, shooting up from my feet to my fingers to tingle like pinpricks. I feel the heat in my cheeks and hear the gush like a drumbeat in my ears. Panic envelopes me, sending a rush of cold sweat to my skin and nausea to my stomach. As if on cue, the scarred flesh of my arms starts itching. It burns without the prompt of a touch. The mere imagination of a hundred people’s eyes on a part of me I’ve never shown to the world is enough.
“I—” I lick my dry lips, battling to summon my voice. “I can’t wear this.”
He narrows his eyes with intent and addresses me with a soft, dangerous voice. “You will, or I swear to God I’ll make you walk downstairs in nothing but your underwear.”
I start at his words, the urge to back up instinctive, but I’m pinned between him and the vanity counter.
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