Desmond closes his eyes, and takes a long inhale. “Because I don't trust the men in the room to hold their tongues or treat you the way you should be treated. Which will also look bad with our Tielman guests.”
Ouch. Makes sense. I appreciate his honesty, and I thank him for it. He approaches me and quickly swoops me up in a burning kiss, just when I thought he was about to leave the room. It takes me by surprise, and even more so when he pushes me hard against the sofa, his whole body on top of mine, rocking softly. The fire burns, and I whimper for more.
He stops his movement after kissing me breathless, and whispers, “When I come back in the evening, I'm taking you. I'll fuck you so hard that you'll forget what your own name is.”
I growl as he reaches a hand down my skirt, hiking it up so that his fingers trail over the underwear. Causing an electric jolt when they briefly press against my clit. He removes his hand, grinning. “That's a promise.”
I let out a groan of frustration as he leaves me, rushing cold into the heated space between us before. When he reaches the door, he faces me with eyes twinkling. “Oh, and try not to masturbate when I'm gone. I want you ready for me.”
He leaves, and I instantly plan to ignore him. My fingers rush towards my core. I have to get out the thrill within before it teases beyond measure. But just as I begin to work on myself, guilt creeps over.
Eventually, I stop in a huff of frustration and arousal.
Fine.
I'll hold it back somehow. I'll be ready for him. Good god hearing him say that is invigorating. Taking charge of me, promising me a world of pleasure. I don't understand why I like it so much. I hate being perceived as the weaker sex, and yet I want him to dominate me.
Does that mean I'm weak?
Or is it just thrilling to lose the reins every once in a while, and turn from control freak to being controlled?
There's even something secretly arousing about the fact that it's a Claymore. What Anna back home might call it, is a hate-fuck. Where your soul burns against the other person, and yet somehow you're still drawn enough to them to take it all out in a furious session of sex. It feels like a contradiction, and yet she informs me, quite gleefully, that it can result in the best sex someone will ever have.
She hasn't done it with a Claymore, however, so maybe she's talking out of her ass. Or maybe she has, and just didn't know they were one.
Well, there's nothing left now but to wait for Desmond to finish up all his shit, so he can rush back into our rooms. So we can give into feelings before our own minds take over and ruin the experience.
After making myself presentable, I leave the rooms, and have the heavy misfortune to bump into Rayse. The shorter, angrier son takes one look at me and sneers. I have a strong suspicion he's here on purpose, since he doesn't have his rooms in this section of the estates.
“Is my brother in the room?” he asks, and although I sense it might be dangerous to say no, I tell him the truth anyway.
“He went to some meeting to cool off relations with the Tielmans,” I say, which causes Rayse's eyes to flash.
“That so? My brother's telling you all this, is he?” He prowls closer, and I subconsciously back away from him.
“I am his wife. We're bound to share things on occasion.”
“Not family secrets, I should imagine. It would be unbecoming of him to tell you everything. Because who knows what you can report when you speak to your father?”
“You listen into my conversations,” I say, irritable.
“It's easy enough to come up with coded words and sentences,” he says, now drawing closer. “I've told father that we shouldn't be allowing you that privilege at all.”
“Yeah, that won't be strange at all. I'm sure my family will just brush it aside if they never hear from me again.”
Rayse bares his lips in a snarl, fingering his Claymore sash. He wears it proudly. I don't think I've ever seen him without it. He looks like he's about to hiss something else, like a furious snake, but at the last moment, he backs off. It doesn't take much to know why, as footsteps from the other side of the corridor tells me of a few servants approaching, including Danny and Morgan, back from their short break, Jay and one of the kitchen staff. He sweeps past without another word, and I wonder just what he was planning to do.
Fill me with doubt? Spit how unworthy and false I am? His footsteps pound off into the distance, and it sounds like a bull charging.
“Hey!” Jay says, apparently oblivious to the tension. Or she noticed, and is just pretending that everything is okay. That's possible, too. “I want you to meet Freda here. She's a Kelman from the salt flats. Here because she's part of some exchange where they sent a Grantmore to their household.”
Ah. An exchange of hostages. I smile at the Kelman girl, who blushes furiously for some reason.
“Wow,” she says. “You're real pretty. Jay said you were, but it's not the same as actually seeing it, you know?”
Judging by Jay's face, infused with happiness, this is one friendship I want to encourage. Maybe things are finally up for her. I grin, shaking the Kelman's hand, happy that she doesn't flinch or treat me like some odious piece of slime. “Nice to meet you. Though it might not be great for you to be seen around me. I'm not the most popular gal in the house.”
“Oh yeah, I already know. It's real stupid,” she says. There's a slight burr in the way she speaks, like there's something stuck in her teeth. “But seeing you here is great. If a Claymore and Hartson can learn to get on, then everyone can.”
“Oh yeah. Positive role model. That's me.”
“That's the spirit,” Morgan says. “Set an example, and all will follow.”
“Hey! I literally just said that to you like two minutes before,” Danny complains. I walk with them towards Jay's favorite section of the estate, since Jay was coming to pick me up. I feel emboldened, walking with people rather than slouching through the halls by myself. It's easy to laugh, to jump right in with the girls. It almost feels like being back home. I do notice my laughter seems to perturb Ethel as we pass her, since I guess she thinks I'm not allowed to laugh or experience any kind of joy whatsoever. Fuck her, then.
When we reach the servant's rest room, Paul is there as well, and although I greet him with a hug, I can't help but think of Desmond's words. To be careful around him.
I don't want to believe Desmond, but I have seen that Paul associates with Ethel Endmore. I shouldn't judge people for the friends they hang out with, but Ethel's got it in for me.
I'm gently probed at by the servants as we engage in coffee and conversation. They're curious about the status of my relationship with Desmond, of course. They also wonder if I feel like I'm fitting in better, if things are improving. These questions are of particular interest to Danny and Morgan, of course. They're the ones who have a say over our lives, after all.
It's easy to laugh with them when I know what to expect later, when Desmond returns. Even Rayse's foul mood isn't enough to put it off. That idiot can go die in a fire for all I care about him. I do have a feeling the world would be better off if he in particular met a sticky end somewhere.
“You two need to date, I think,” Jay says, which waggles a few eyebrows. “No wait, let me explain. I mean that you need to be seen doing more lovey-dovey stuff together. You haven't had much opportunity to date, have you?”
“No,” I admit, rather gloomy from the realization. “We are getting closer, but the cards haven't fallen that way for us yet. Maybe I should ask him.”
Morgan nods vigorously, until Danny stops his nodding with a thump to the back. Paul nods as well, though he's more hesitant.
“Are you really getting on with him, though? He always seems to be busy elsewhere. It gives the impression he's trying to avoid you.”
“True,” Jay says, frowning at Paul. “And impressions do mean a lot.”
Eventually we head down to the stables to help Paul groom the horses. Although Danny and Morgan have been a little less vigi
lant watching over me, I can see they dislike Paul, who acts ignorant to their own attitudes. Jay and the Kelman have to go elsewhere for their duties at one point, then Danny stalks off as well, leaving me with Paul and Morgan. I scowl when Rayse enters the stables, heading towards his own horse, a bad tempered black coated beast, which always tries to bite my fingers if I go near it.
Sounds like him, to be honest. “Already fucking the stable boy I see,” he says, out of earshot of Morgan, who has been dragged off into conversation with Paul.
“I'm not fucking him,” I say hotly.
“Is it the guard instead? Trying to win over the Graves so they spare you?” Rayse snorts, and I grit my teeth, infuriated by the audacity of him. He just doesn't stop. “You can't win here, whore,” he hisses at me, his cold dark eyes locked with mine. “You won't destroy my people. You won't trick me like you tricked my brother. Obviously you've got some magical pussy right there, if you got all the men riding after you so hard.”
“Oh, fuck off,” I say, though all my senses feel under attack, and my heart's hammering in a way that makes me want to run from the scene. I've gone from calm to fight or flight in just a few seconds of talking to this asshole. I don't have the wit to come up with anything else. My mind locks over.
“No. I won't fuck off from my own home. You're the intruder here. My brother doesn't care for you. He only pretends because he seems to think that we're not strong enough to stand on our own two feet. He thinks we're weak when we're not.” He grins. “Bet it must feel so good, having him fuck you. That same dick's raped more Hartson vassals than you can count.”
A cold, icy feeling clutters over me when he says that. “He doesn't rape.”
“Doesn't he? Why don't you ask him? You think he's never gone on a raid and given into temptation?” Rayse continues to wear that creepy grin, though his attention turns to his horse when Morgan hustles closer, sensing something's wrong.
“Are you okay?” the Graves man asks. I remain mute.
No I'm not.
I'm not okay with this. A slow sensation of panic creeps inside. What am I doing here? What do I think I can change? I'm surrounded by rapists and murderers. I'm –
“Here,” Paul says, gently guiding me. “Let's get you to a quiet place. She doesn't look well,” he says to Morgan. “Let's get her somewhere quiet.”
Morgan nods, glaring at Rayse. “Keep her safe,” he says curtly, before storming over to Rayse. Paul steers me as Morgan and Rayse begin a glaring match, voices quiet, but slowly escalating in volume. Paul steers me right into what seems to be a shed of some sort, hovering just outside the estate, complete with an armchair and a few books scattered on a table. It's out of the way, behind the stables, in a small garden patch that seems well maintained. It smells musty here, like it hasn't been washed for ages. Paul closes the door, clicking it shut, and then plops me on the chair.
“Rayse is a real piece of work, isn't he? Look, let's calm you down. Here, this is one of my favorite books...” Paul proceeds to shove book after book into my face, getting me to read the blurbs, to check if I've heard of them before. He cracks out a small drink from a crate tucked in the corner of the small shed, and I accept it, knowing that it'll help me relax further, because my nerves are all strung, and just thinking of Rayse and his words and the implication behind them is enough to make me want to vomit.
The alcohol is slightly stronger than anticipated, however. I cough from one swallow, and Paul laughs.
“Yeah, that one's a little spicy. I can get a weaker one for you, if you want? Plenty to choose from. I keep this place locked so the other servants don't rob me. It should belong to the servants who live in the cottages outside, but it's been unused for a while. So I've taken it.”
“M'fine,” I say, waving off his offer, and taking a little more. Nope. Still burns just as badly. “What is even this stuff?”
“Our famous gut-rot,” he says. “About forty percent.”
Forty? I hastily shove it away. That's too strong for me. He swaps the drinks around, and the second one is sweeter, with a smaller kick than before. It tastes fruity, like blackcurrants crushed together, and he informs me as much that this is the main flavor. The information is much appreciated. I'll probably ask Desmond if we can have a few of these stored up in our rooms for future reference. Paul sits opposite me, leaning forward slightly, legs splayed, bottle between his legs. It's a pretty open gesture, but the expression is wears is so full of concern, that I feel like confessing everything to him. Including my frustrations with Desmond.
However, I know I won't. I can't reveal the truth of our marriage, that it's a sham.
“I fucking hate Rayse,” I tell Paul, relaxing into the chair. “I feel like he exists to make my life and Desmond's miserable. We're trying so hard, and he just keeps throwing shit at us, you know?”
“I know there's always been a strong rivalry between the siblings,” Paul says with a distant look in his eyes. “Always trying to one up one another. Even when it came to the raids, they'd try their best to get the most successful results.”
Again, I feel a kick to my heart, as if one of the horses had back-heeled me in the stables. Time's draining outside. Light is fading gradually, and it'll be dark in perhaps an hour or more. Had I really been in this place with Paul for so long? Where is Morgan and Danny? Usually they'd be on my ass if they couldn't find me for too long, or if they didn't have confirmation of where I was.
I should be heading back to Desmond soon. He promised me something tonight. But I'm not even sure if I still want it. I'm a little woozy from drinking, but not bad at all, as I've been careful with my consumption.
“No one would blame you if you ran away,” Paul says then. “Or if you felt you were being treated badly, and wanted to find fun elsewhere.”
“Mm,” I say, before my unease forces me to go on alert. Paul's face, previously so warm and understanding, now has a strange glint to it.
“No one would blame you, either, if you were to be found in the company of other men. Men who don't care about the history between your clans. Real men who know what to do.” He smiles then, but it feels more sinister than before. He reaches out and lays a hand on my knee, and all my fears come crashing together.
Oh no.
I'm in this shed alone with him.
He lured me away from Morgan.
He keeps making offhand comments that make me sick to be here, surrounded among the Claymores.
“I can treat you right,” he whispers, hand sliding up my thigh. “I'll keep the other servants off your back. I know Ethel – I can make your life so much easier. All you need to do is a little favor for me.”
I stand up abruptly, slapping his hand away. “No, Paul. I don't want this. I'm going to go now –”
“I thought you did,” Paul says, as I advance to the door. “You keep flirting with me. You keep looking at me in that sexual way. It's obvious you're interested.”
“No,” I yelp. “It really isn't.” I'm looking at him sexually? What? I attempt to open the door, and gasp when it doesn't open.
“I can make you feel good.” His hand touches my waist, and I snarl.
“Get away! I'm not interested in you! I'm married!”
The lust in his expression fades, boiling over in anger instead. “What's wrong with you? Don't you want this?”
“I just said no!” I rattle at the door and yell, but he lunges at me, pressing me against it.
“You were supposed to be easy,” he says, genuinely baffled. As if I was a coin slot he'd just inserted a quarter into, and now he wondered why I wasn't putting out.
His words sound too much like Rayse. Desmond was right, I think desperately. “Did Rayse put you up to this?” I gasp, squirming against him as he attempts to pin me in place. “Was your friendship a lie?”
He pauses. “Why on earth would I want to be friends with you? You're as pathetic as they come. Rayse was right about that. It's not him behind this, though.” He smirks.
> I scream again, thrashing, hand grabbing for something. Anything at all. It rests on a sliver of wood propped against the side of the shed. Firewood. Splinters dig into my hand as I beat it against him, screaming. He curses, trying to avoid the blows and get a stranglehold on me, but I keep beating until he slumps on the ground, bleeding and unconscious. I fumble for the key from his body, and stumble out the shed.
No one was around to hear me. My heart's hammering fast, disgusted at how soundly I was manipulated. They were right. Paul never liked me. He just wanted to charm himself into my pants, except he failed pretty fucking badly at that.
That's it.
I’m done with it all. I can’t be here any longer. I can’t suffer these transgressions against my soul. They hate me. Paul’s a liar and almost rapist, planted to twist me against my husband and the house, all while pretending to be my friend. Ethel would see me starved and beaten if she could, and Rayse, well – that’s a man prone to torture first, killing later.
I head inside, passing one servant who says nothing. Making it to our rooms, I locate my sash and Hartson jacket, hidden previously from Ethel's sight so she wouldn't attempt to burn them. No one tries to stop me as I leave the rooms and head straight for the stables.
The lack of resilience feels planned, almost. Perhaps they have guests in the house. The stables are empty as I go for the horse with the best temperament, a fine bay with a noble arch to his neck and head, and prancing hooves. I saddle him up, which takes a minute, tighten the straps, then haul myself on. Nudging the horse towards the trees outside the estates, I urge it into a trot, then a canter.
Out of here at last.
Emotions burn within as we stumble through the thick copse of trees, heading towards the mountain trail that I know curves around and eventually leads towards the Hartson borders. I’ve never trekked along this more than once, since the first time was under heavy escort to the Claymore estates. Steep ravines line some of the pathway, though metal and wooden barriers are placed along the edges to prevent any wayward accidents. With the horse I’ve stolen, I can make good time. They probably won’t know I’m gone yet, and I think I can make the end of the trail before visibility worsens, as it’s a clear sky, and the path is lit on occasion from nearby farms and huts. Other than those, it’s a lonely path, and already there’s a bite of cold settling over me. I tie my hair back with a bandana, tucking it out of view. I’m glad to be wearing my clan colors again. I’d missed the jacket. It once belonged to my grandmother, who said it belonged to hers...
Bullied Bride Page 10
