Beauty in the Broken

When I wake up later, I’m alone. Through the window, the sun sits low on the horizon. It’s a depressing time of the day, a time when you wake from a nap and realize you’ve wasted all the possibilities of a day away. The chill of loneliness always seems to descend with dusk.

I rub my eyes. My bladder is so full it hurts. Getting to my feet, I make my way to the bathroom. The doorbell rings. I hear voices downstairs and tense. One of them belongs to Damian and the other I don’t know. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but the conversation seems to be pleasant. It’s not the police. It must be a business associate.

After relieving myself, I have a quick shower to wash away the remains of our lovemaking. Exiting the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my body, I stop in my tracks. A strange man stands in the bedroom. He’s unclipping a metal case that displays several instruments of torture. Damian is sitting in the armchair, sipping an espresso.

This is it. Much sooner than I expected. My punishment has arrived.

Chapter 21

Lina

“Get dressed,” Damian tells me.

“Why?”

Possession flashes in his eyes. “Do you really have to ask me why?”

“What’s going on, Damian?”

The man ignores me, lining up his tools.

Damian gets to his feet and walks to me. I stare up at him, fear blooming in my heart. Holding my gaze, he embraces me. My wet hair soaks his dress shirt, but he seems oblivious to the wetness. The dark intention in his eyes is in direct contrast to the tender way in which he holds me. It’s confusing. My brain gives my body more conflicting signals. Anxiety mixes with the soothing feeling of his comforting hug. This is what it feels like to love a dangerous man.

My heart almost stops.

The realization bulldozes over every other sentiment except that tendril of fear. The fear and this secret, this terrifying insight, form a potent cocktail of absolute devastation.

I’m in love with my husband.

I think I’ve always been. I fell for him when he was hardly a man, and I never stopped falling. I tried very hard for this not to happen. Now it’s too late. He’s my downfall, my beautiful destruction.

Dragging his lips over the arch of my neck, he stops at my ear. His voice is soft and low. “Do as I say, angel.”

My breathing spikes with a rush of adrenaline. I’m trying to cope with the knowledge that fixes with thorns and parasitic roots in my heart while getting a handle on my apprehension. I don’t miss the silent threat in Damian’s order. With a last glance at the stranger, I hurry to the dressing room. I’m drying myself, mindful of the marks on my bottom that still hurt, when Damian steps inside.

He looks at the yoga pants and T-shirt I’ve put out on the chair. “Put on the pants,” he says. “Leave the T-shirt.”

My mouth goes dry. “Why?”

He gives me a regretful smile. “You know why.”

“You’re going to punish me,” I whisper.

“Yes.”

My hands start to tremble as I pull on a pair of panties. “How?”

He tilts his head toward the bedroom. “Come on out when you’re ready.”

I fumble with the pants, pulling them on the wrong way around. Too distressed to change, I towel my hair dry and brush it out. Keeping the towel wrapped around my breasts, I step back into the bedroom.

The man has pulled on a pair of surgical gloves.

“On the bed,” my husband says.

A plastic sheet has been spread out. It looks like a murder scene.

At my hesitation, Damian flicks his fingers. “I don’t want to have to constrain you.”

I shoot the man a pleading look, but he stares straight through me. I don’t have a choice but to oblige. Damian makes me lie down on my stomach, ensuring the curves of my breasts are covered with the towel at my sides.

“Where do you want it?” the man asks.

“On her shoulder.”

He’s going to tat me.

“I don’t want a tattoo,” I say.

“Black?” the guy asks.

“Yes,” Damian says. “Black seems appropriate.”

The man dabs my skin with a disinfectant swatch. “You have to keep still.”

While he prepares me, Damian sits down on the other side of the bed and takes my shaking hand. He rubs it reassuringly between his palms.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

“I gave you a ring, but you rejected what it stands for.”

I get it. He gave me the status of wife, but since I ran, he’s branding me like a cow. Like property. I’m being degraded.

The man starts tracing a design on my shoulder.

“Damian, please don’t do this.”

“Hush, angel,” he says, not unkind. “This is so everyone knows to who you belong.”

Meaning he’s having something put on my skin in permanent ink that everyone in the city will recognize.