Under His Rule

“Hello,” I say, swallowing away the lump in my throat. The man averts his gaze and focuses on Noah. “You know this isn’t allowed, right?”

“Rules are made to be broken, Patrick,” Noah replies sternly.

They both glare at each other, and then Patrick scoots his chair back and gets up. “Okay. I’m done,” he says, briefly glancing at his plate of food which is only half empty. He too walks to the door, but he does throw a final glance my way and winks, leaving me with an awkward, unsettling feeling in my stomach.

“Sit,” Noah says as he holds the chair in place almost like a threat.

I do what he asks, and he scoots me closer to the table where there’s an empty plate in front of me. But I don’t dare to touch any of the utensils … or the lovely food begging to be eaten.

Noah walks to his side of the table, right across from me.

“Well, I guess I’m finished,” the other patriarch says, right before Noah sits down next to him.

“John, you too?” He sighs.

“I’ll see you at prayer time,” John says, and he walks out of the room, clutching a book. When the doors are closed again, Noah and I are all alone in a giant room meant for many … but none like me.

“They don’t want me here, do they?” I ask.

He makes a face. “Acute observation.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, neither do I.”

He smirks. “I do.”

He grabs two pieces of bread and some jam and peanut butter and spreads them onto the bread before smashing the two pieces together and taking a bite.

“Go on. Eat,” he says.

I frown and stare at the plating and the utensils. My fingers automatically reach for my mouth. Normally, there would be a cloth tied around my mouth and the women wouldn’t be allowed to speak. It’s been so long since I last felt my own lips while in front of a dining table, it’s almost surreal.

“What’s wrong?” Noah asks, taking another bite.

“Nothing.” I look away.

“You’re not used to eating like this?” he asks with a genuine voice. When he sees my surprised face, he adds, “I know the ladies at the dining hut only let initiates eat with a scarf around their mouths. But you don’t have to do that when you live with me. Besides, you’re not an initiate anymore.”

I blink a couple of times, confused as to how he knows we had to eat like that. Did I miss more cameras, or did someone tell him? Or did he and his fellow patriarchs decide that this is how initiates—women—are to eat? Voiceless and without emotion?

“Don’t be scared to eat and converse. You’re allowed here. I promise you won’t be gagged. At least not at the dining table,” he jests and winks. I’m sure he means something entirely lewd. “Perks of being mine.”

Mine. Every single time he says that word, it reverberates in my ears.

Did I make the right choice?

Should I have chosen another man over him?

Stuck in the huts for life or a life of luxury as a pet to a man determined to own me?

No one should ever have to make that choice … but I did, and now I have to live with the consequences. There’s no easy way out. No escape button. No exit game.

There’s just him, me, and this goddamn table filled with yummy treats. I can no longer ignore my growling stomach, so I grab a piece of toast and the butter too. Picking up my knife is another hard job, though, as we didn’t get them in the dining hut. All we got were spoons and occasionally forks, if the food was difficult to pick up. But everything was pre-made, ready to be gobbled up in one go, none of it this exquisite.

There are actually blueberry pancakes and maple syrup.

Just like in the real world.

It’s as if everything’s normal again … but it isn’t.

Smearing on the butter feels like it takes forever, especially with his persistent gaze.

When I’m finished, I place the knife down and take a bite. God, it tastes amazing. I can’t remember the last time I had butter on toast. Was it always this good?

“Glad you’re enjoying the food,” he muses, smiling.

I put down the toast.

“Is this how things will go from now on? We’re going to pretend everything’s peachy?” I retort.

He cocks his head. “I’m just asking if you’re enjoying the food. That’s it.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say.

“Yes, it does. I want you to enjoy yourself,” he says.

“Why? To make all this more palatable?” I raise a brow.

He stops in the middle of cutting a pancake into pieces. “This is just one of many benefits of becoming my wife, Natalie.”

I sit back in my chair, leaning away from the food. “Well, I don’t want it.”

He snorts. “You sound like a petulant child now.”