Beauty in the Broken

Carrying me like this, he climbs the stairs. My efforts have no effect on him. In his bedroom, he kicks the door shut and drops me to my feet. I fling around to face him.

He doesn’t look at me. His jaw is set in a hard line, and his brown eyes are turbulent. He knows I’ve been to see Harold.

“Damian, please let me—”

He holds up a finger. “Do not speak.”

Turning a laptop on the coffee table toward me, he presses play on a video clip. It’s footage of Zane and me on the stairs. Shit. He has hidden cameras. I should’ve known.

He moves to another clip of Anne and me in the bedroom, when she stated her terms.

Looking at him with big eyes, I gauge his reaction, but his face is blank. Cold. I can’t read him.

“Did you accept Anne’s terms?” he asks.

He knows I did. I remain quiet.

“Did you accept Zane’s terms?”

“No,” I whisper.

He glances at the laptop where the scene with Anne is still playing out. “That’s not what it looks like.”

“I said I’d answer him tomorrow, and my answer was going to be no.”

“You expect me to believe that after the lies you’ve been hiding?”

Imploring him with my eyes, I say, “Yes.”

“I gave you truth.” He slams the table. The laptop rattles. “I gave you love.”

I stare at him, my lips parting, not sure I heard right.

Stalking to the window, he grips the sill so hard his knuckles turn white. “I gave you affection. I gave you everything that’s mine.” He turns his head to look at me, disappointment engraved in the beautiful lines of his face. “After everything, this is what you choose.”

His words ignite a spark of anger. I will not stand here and let him accuse me of ungratefulness when he forced the everything he so eloquently quoted upon me. “You forced me to marry you. You forced me to lie when you forced me to stay.”

“I didn’t force you to fuck me, and yet you do, often and with enthusiasm. Is that a lie, too? Every time you cry out your orgasm, do you fake it?”

“No!” How dare he degrade the only pure memories I have? Suddenly, I’m shivering with rage. “Don’t you dare judge me when your own hands are stained black. Yes, I took the bait when Zane threw it at me. What did you expect, Damian? I’m not a wife. I’m a goddamn prisoner.”

He straightens too slowly, with too much calculation. “I made you a promise I have to keep.”

I remember only too well, and too late. I should’ve kicked him in the balls when he was angrier. Now, he’s too controlled. Observant, he watches my every move, predicting my intentions. I glance at the door. His gaze follows. He believes I’ll try to bolt.

I move. He jumps. Instead of fleeing toward the only exit, I grab the paperweight from the table and fling back my arm. Before I can throw it, he grabs my wrist. I whimper in pain and frustration as he squeezes until my fingers open, and the heavy weight drops with a plop on the carpet.

“Cooperate,” he hisses, “and I’ll take it easy on you.”

I believe him, because he never lies. Fighting will only make it worse.

He undresses me slowly, tenderly almost. He caresses my breasts and stomach. He trails his hands over my back and buttocks and tells me how beautiful I am. He brushes my hair over my shoulder and kisses my neck.

“I hate you for making me do this,” he presses against my ear.

Trembling in his arms, I rest my cheek against his chest. “You don’t have to.”

He lifts first one then the other arm, stretching them out horizontally. “I never break my promises.”

He fetches rope and secures me to the bed frame like the last time, but instead of stringing me up, he ties each arm to a bedpost, making me kneel with my upper body on the bed and my ass in the air. Unlike the last time, I know what to expect. It makes the anticipation worse. When he pushes a ball of socks into my mouth and secures it with his tie, my fear skyrockets.

I shouldn’t have gone to see Harold. I should’ve asked Damian to take me, but I never wanted him to find out what I was planning. Whatever he was so painstakingly building, whatever love he mentioned, is wiped away by this one, impulsive act.

Turning my head sideways, I watch him pick up a cane from the chair. My heart stammers. He didn’t have to fetch it from the study. He had it waiting, because he made a promise.

My courage fails. I protest around the fabric in my mouth. I want to beg him to believe me, but he won’t, not after the damning evidence he’s seen. He’s going to punish me for accepting a deal with Zane. He’s going to punish me for running to Harold, and for plotting my escape. Whatever I tell him now won’t matter.