Beyond His Control (His 2)

“I’m not,” I say as she releases me from her grip. “But I’m not letting you go through that again.”

She looks at me with concern in her face before resigning to a sigh. “You’re just as stubborn as I am.”

A smile forms on her lips, and I lean in to her, forehead to forehead. “You already got hurt enough. Let me help.”

She shakes her head, eyes closed. “No.”

“You can’t continue to live like this,” I say.

She licks her lips. “I can as long as I know you’re safe.”

“But I’m not. We’re both stuck here,” I say, still staring at her, hoping she’ll look me in the eyes, but she’s too afraid of the truth to face it, and I know that feeling all too well.

“I won’t let you suffer,” I say.

“You must,” she says through gritted teeth. “You have to stay out of this.”

“Why won’t you let me help you?” I say, tears welling up in my eyes too now.

Her eyes burst open, and she hisses, “Because he’ll kill you.”

It feels as though the air got knocked out of my lungs. “But I’m his daughter.”

“You think he cares about that? None of these men do. They only want heirs … male heirs,” she whispers. “And if you don’t birth a son, what will happen then? Do you think he’ll let her live if he catches one whiff of the fact that you wanted to kill him?”

I shake my head. “Stop.”

“No, you know it’s the truth,” she says. “The only reason you’re alive is because you’re on his good side and because you’re pregnant.”

She releases me and continues pouring her drink, her hand steady this time. The shivers have left her body. All that remains is a woman filled with a fervor I’ve never seen before.

She places the glass on the table and looks at me. “Go back to your husband. Pretend everything is okay,” she says. “Please, do it for me.”

I sigh and avert my eyes, then walk back as she asked me to.

I don’t know what’s gotten into her that she’s gotten so complacent and that she wants me to stop fighting back. Have the scars from the fire terrified her so much, or is something else going on? Has my father discovered something he shouldn’t have?

Does he know about Noah and my mother’s devious plans to get me out?

As I walk back to my place, goose bumps spread all over my skin as the other patriarchs home in on me.

“Where were you?” Noah hisses at me over his shoulder as I step behind him.

“Talking with my mom near the snack table,” I say, befuddled he’d even ask.

“Do you realize how long you were gone?” he growls, turning his head but not too much as to not alert the others that something’s going on.

“You told me she was there,” I say.

“I didn’t tell you to turn it into an entire meeting,” he whispers. “It’s attracting too much attention.”

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I just needed to hug her.”

“Your mom is on your dad’s bad side right now,” he replies. “It’s best if you don’t go there too …” We both look at my father whose eyes bore into me like knives. His hands tighten their grip on his chair, and I can’t help but picture my own throat being squashed by those same fingers.

“Stay low,” Noah whispers. “Play the good wife.”

The mere thought of that makes me want to puke. But at the same time, I know that if I don’t do exactly that, my head might be on the chopping board. Would he kill his own daughter? Does he have that power? And would the people let him?

The fact that I can’t answer these questions means there’s a possibility.

And a maybe.

That’s a dangerous thing when it comes to lives.

The only question is, am I willing to risk mine?

Noah

When the celebrations are over, the people who fucked step forward. Patrick and most of the other patriarchs pick a woman. I don’t.

The president picks two.

Marsha’s disgust is evident on her face, even with that golden mask hiding half. I’ve never seen her this pissed off before even though the president has had many ladies brought back to the temple with him for a night of pleasure.

Something’s changed.

It’s as though the fire she escaped has done more damage than the scars visible on her body … they’re in her mind too. Like a festering wound oozing with hatred. The kind that makes you murderous.

As we walk out of the building, I keep a close eye on the president, who’s sauntering with two ladies, one on each arm, the smirk on his face growing with every second. His wife trails not too far behind, her arms hidden inside the cloak that covers her body. She’s shivering. But I don’t know if it’s from the cold or because of something else.