CHAPTER17
Luke
The days stretch out in agonizing slowness. It feels like an eternity since I forced Shelaine to be my wife, but in reality, it’s only been about a month and a half. A fucking month and a half of this bullshit. I have no idea what she wants from me. I don’t even know where to start to be able to fix this.
Each day is the same. We both get up, go about our jobs, then meet again at home. There’s no love between us. No tenderness. No gentle coming together to reaffirm how much we care for one another.
I stare at this stranger from across the table, both of us eating in complete silence. And honestly, what is there really to say? I never really made small talk when eating with Ryker, so how would I even be able to know how to do it with my wife?
Wife. More like a cohabitator. I see the pain in her eyes every time she looks up at me. I feel it in the stony silence between us. Any time I try to reach out, to start some sort of conversation, she either goes back to eating her damn food or finds a way to leave. She skulks about in our home as If she’s merely an unwanted guest here.
But how can I convince her that she’s not? Not only do I want her, but I also crave her. I need her by my side. I’m not content with just laying my eyes and hands on her. When I decided to force her to be my bride, it was also for companionship and not just control.
It’s just no use. She hates me. It doesn’t matter that she’s never said it. It’s a growing chasm between us, a gulf that I don’t even have the tools to close. With Ryker, there were no sweet words. Not really. We never had the type of relationship I’m trying to forge with Shelaine. We had sex, either pleasurable or punishing.
The only way to even come close to cracking Shelaine’s shell is by throwing her on the bed and fucking her like I hate her. Though it was still exhilarating to watch her come apart underneath me, there was something missing. Something died between us when I forced her to become my wife, and I thought things would eventually go back to normal. But I was wrong.
Every night after I’m done fucking her, I leave to go back to the couch. At first, she’d cry herself to sleep, and I had to listen to it, unable to comfort her. But that makes perfect sense - I’m built to destroy and not to comfort. Each day living like this just makes it all the more clear.
It hurts. As if my knife is slicing me open over and over again. But what can I even say? What can I even do? It’s my fault. All of it. She told me she didn’t want to get married, but I forced the issue, binding her to me. I never like admitting when I’m wrong, but perhaps this is one of those times.
Shaking my head, I peel myself off of the couch and stretch. I never expected to be a stranger in my own home, forced to sleep out in the living room, as if I didn’t actually belong, but part of me just couldn’t kick her out of the bed. She offered to switch, but there’s no way in hell I’d ever let that happen. She’s far too delicate to sleep out here. I’m used to sleeping on the floor; at least the couch is squishy.
Even now, as I tiptoe into the room to watch her, I’m still floored by her beauty. Her soft snores and vulnerable expression draw up my balls and stiffen my cock. I can’t tell her when I’m going to fuck her. If I do, she makes up some excuse or just refuses until I’m practically raping her. Those are the days I hate the most. It feels too close to what happened to me.
Perhaps if I didn’t care about her, I could do it with no problem. Hell, I’ve taken girls in Malum without their consent, but with Shelaine, it’s different. She’s pulling out emotions in me that I never thought were there. If only it was someone else. Then, it wouldn’t kill me to sit across from her night after night, eating dinner in silence.
Padding my way over to the bed, I palm my erection and look down at her. She hasn’t moved a muscle. Granted, I seem to be one of the few weirdos actually coherent at five am. Keeping my moans soft, nearly silent, I stroke cock, making myself content with marking her as she sleeps. Her moan as she turns over nearly undoes me. It sounds so close to the erotic sounds that pour out of her when I take her by force.
As she moves, the sheet pulls down a bit. Just enough to expose her breasts. Angling my swollen, sensitive head toward her chest, I continue to stroke, pulling up memories of when we were good to get me there. All it takes is remembering her spread before me with those cut-off panties. Dating her was perfection; it’s the marriage that’s fucked up. With those mental images in my brain, everything tightens up as I cum. But even as it splashes against her skin, she doesn’t wake up.
Shaking my head, I turn to walk away, leaving the cum to dry on her skin. I don’t want to chance waking her up only to be hit with that wall of sorrow and anger. When she’s asleep, it’s as if I can almost reach her; I can almost touch the girl that stole my heart. I don’t feel like such a monster when she’s asleep.
Lately, it seems like she’s always exhausted. Even when she sleeps as much as she does, it doesn’t seem to be enough. Leaning down, I slide my fingers through her hair, giving her sleeping form a half-hearted smile. It’s only been about a month and a half. New relationships like this take time. And, now that she’s mine, I can give her all the time she needs.
Slipping out of the room, I look over at the camera and lenses. They’re still in their boxes, untouched, but the letter I wrote is nowhere to be found. It will pop up every now and then, but usually, when I see it, it’s near her pillow. That tells me she at least cares about me a little.