“That must have made you feel very betrayed,” he said eventually. Which would have been comforting if he hadn’t added more on. “Being someone else’s game.” His subtext was clear.
Shame pricked at my insides. Maybe this had been the wrong story to tell him after all.
No, it still could be the right story. If I told it to the very end.
I leaned forward. “So you know what I did? I left him at that stupid party and went back to his place. Then I fucked his father in the pool house for two hours. Did I feel betrayed? Yes. And then I got even.”
Edward held my stare for a long time. I could tell his thoughts were brewing, but his expression gave nothing away. My heart hammered in my chest as I waited for his response. I’d bared myself. Then I’d reminded him that I was vengeful, but I’d bared myself first.
Finally, after an eternity, he spoke. “This boy betrayed you, so you ruined both his parents’ marriage and your mother’s friendship by fucking his father. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”
I could feel the color drain from my face. That was what I was saying, but put like that, it sounded...well, it sounded reprehensible.
And it was reprehensible.
Even though I’d left out the fact that Jack already cheated on his wife all the time, and that it had been another decade before anyone found out about it, so my mother’s friendship had remained intact. Even with those details, what I’d done was fucked up.
Which was the most horrible part of the story, if I was honest with myself.
The pain that still lingered all this time later wasn’t from what Hudson had done to me, but what I’d done to Hudson. What kind of messed-up person did that shit? What kind of fucked-up human was I?
I turned my head, afraid that Edward would see that I understood what I was, what I’d done. Because if he saw that, I’d really be exposed.
I couldn’t bear being that vulnerable.
He rose then, and I could feel his anger rise with him like fanned flames. “This evening has been a waste of my time,” he said, his voice eerily controlled. “This isn’t breaking down. This is bragging.”
Without giving me another look, he pivoted and headed to the door. Before he disappeared beyond it, he said, “I’ll give you my response tomorrow. You’re free to do as you please until then.”
He shut the door behind him with an uncharacteristic slam.
I sat stunned. And mad. And hurt. And embarrassed. But mostly mad.
I’d done what he’d wanted. I’d given him his stupid-ass story. And now I was free to do as I pleased? Fuck him because that was a lie. I wasn’t free to leave the island.
And fuck him for thinking he knew anything about me, about what was and wasn’t breaking down. I’d opened up to him. What I’d said was horrible, but it was hard. Sharing what I’d shared had been hard.
I reached for my wine and chugged the rest down in an attempt to push down the emotions building up inside of me. When it was empty, and the feelings remained, I threw the glass against the wall.
Shattering items was becoming a habit.
If only it were just Edward’s antique vases and glassware being shattered and not also me.
Nine
As bitter as the night before had ended, I woke up with a tickle of excitement. He was here, on the island, and that meant that no matter what happened, the day would be different than they had been when he was away.
Plus, there was the added expectation of his response. I lay awake in bed for nearly half an hour wondering what it would be, imagining the ways his reaction to my tale could play out. Now that he’d made clear his sadism centered around the psychological rather than the physical, the boundaries of what might happen felt exponentially larger. The possibilities of what would happen next were titillating and unfathomable and frightening, and the dread I’d felt about what he’d do to me when I’d thought pain would be involved had been replaced by intrigue. I wanted to find out. I wanted to know.
Once out of bed, though, the thrill simmered down.
The house was quiet, Edward wasn’t around. It was exactly like every other Saturday on Amelie, when Joette and Tom and the staff had the day off and the meals were prepared beforehand and the day belonged to myself. There wasn’t even yoga on the weekends. Ideally, the privacy was a good setup for newlyweds who hadn’t seen each other in months.
Edward and I had never fit the notion of “ideally.”
With no interest in being the one to seek him out, I went about my routine in the ways I normally did, lounging by the pool, reading An American Marriage until the story of a black man’s twelve-year incarceration for a crime he didn’t commit began to diminish the terribleness of my own imprisonment, and I had to set it down. It was hard to complain about my situation in comparison. My jail was a paradise, sure. And it could be argued that I deserved it, since I was far from innocent. It could definitely be worse, was worse for other real people.
I saw that, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to believe I had it bad. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to be pissed. I wanted to be self-righteous and indignant and full of contempt.
The fact that those emotions weren’t as readily accessible as they’d once been was both surprising and surreal, and it was definitely discomforting.
Edward arrived back from wherever he’d been in the early afternoon. I didn’t see him come in, but I felt the atmosphere change, felt him, and, when I looked up, he was at his library window watching me. He saw me notice him and didn’t flinch, as though he had every right to be staring at me.
My pulse sped up and my cheeks flushed, and, especially perceptible because of all the weeks he’d been away, I realized how much I liked having someone around to look at me. How much I liked him looking at me.
Before I could help it, I smiled.
Immediately, I thought better and scowled, hating myself for getting caught up in his stupid gaze. Hating him for having a gaze worthy of being caught up in.
I’d turned away too quickly to find out his reaction to my mistake, but, imagined or not, I felt his smirk on my profile and hated him for that too.
When I finally came in an hour later, the house was buzzing with the makings of a big dinner, the kind we’d had regularly on our honeymoon, and that sent me fuming again, for no reason I could discern. Then, later, as I cleaned up and applied makeup in my bathroom, I realized the reason was because company for dinner very likely meant company after dinner. Which meant waiting another day for Edward’s response.
It also meant sharing him with others, and I wanted him all to myself. With that awareness, another wave of anger rolled through me.
My mascara applied to one eye only, I leaned back to study the woman in the mirror. My blonde hair was coiffed in a low chignon, sun-kissed highlights giving vibrancy to my appearance. My face—which I kept meticulously protected with sunscreen—was flawless, my foundation seamlessly matching the tanned skin at my décolletage. My yoga-toned shoulders curved pleasingly, my never-nursed-a-baby breasts still as perky as they’d been a decade ago. In every way, I was a portrait of stoic beauty. No one could possibly know that my insides were shaking with fury and shame, that there was a magma chamber of turbulent emotions in the pit of me that only seemed to erupt in my husband’s presence.
My appearance was a lie I told without even trying.
What did Edward think he’d find underneath? What would he find if he kept looking?
It scared me that I didn’t know the answer to either question.
Having been given no instruction and needing armor, I dressed powerfully for dinner. The dress was ordinary enough—a mid-thigh length black silk slip dress with a racerback. It was a little fancy for our group, but Edward had included it in the wardrobe he’d sent, so that made it appropriate in my mind. The part that gave it power was what I’d put on underneath—sheer black panties, matching garter belt, and thigh-high stockings. Hosiery on the island was completely impractical, even in February, but they m
ade me feel good. Made me feel sexy and potent and charged.
Especially when I added the red satin Casadei plisse high-heel sandals. Try calling me little bird now, Fasbender. I was anything but.
Yes, it was a power play, too. An outright opposition to what he’d had me wear the night before. Maybe it was asking for trouble. Maybe I wanted trouble. I didn’t really know anymore.
The irony was that he probably wouldn’t even notice.
Except that dinner wasn’t like the old days.
When I came out, it wasn’t the big dining table that was set, but rather the small radial dinette that overlooked the ocean. And it was only set for two. The lights were off, candles were lit. A bottle of champagne sat chilling in a bucket of ice next to a bowl of fresh strawberries.
I heard movement behind me, and without looking, I knew it was Edward. The heat of his presence bounced off the windows and enveloped me. Then his hand was at the small of my back, escorting me to my chair.
“Don’t let this get to your head.” His breath tickled the hair at my nape. “It’s Valentine’s Day and Joette has certain notions. It was easier to perpetuate them.”
“Easier, yes.” As if he’d ever chosen any method because it was easier.
I sat in the seat he offered, placing the linen napkin in my lap as he moved around to take the chair across from me. He was stunning in dark pants and a white dress shirt with black buttons, the top two open. It was a somewhat casual look for him, but not quite as laid back as he usually dressed on the island. And he’d taken the time to style his hair. All to let Joette believe our romance was real?
Maybe.
My breath stuttered when I considered the possibility that it was something more.
Once seated, he leaned across the table to pour the blanc de blanc in my champagne flute. “We can use the opportunity to discuss some rules.”
He was so good at plying me with alcohol just before diving into serious subjects. I took a sip of the drink while he poured his own. “Are the rules your response to last night?”
He didn’t answer at first, reaching over again to remove the silver cover from my plate, revealing white fish with lemon and capers and green beans with almonds. My mouth watered at the sight. Mateo didn’t go out on the boat that often, but all the fish that was served on Amelie came from his fishing trips. Every dish I’d had so far had been incredible.
I didn’t wait for Edward to pick up his own fork before diving in. The fish melted in my mouth. Orgasmic.
Distracted by the divine taste, I almost forgot I’d asked a question until it was answered several minutes later. “The rules are not my response,” he said, now several bites into his fish. “But you need to know them before we get to that.”
I took another sip of my champagne. “I’m guessing that I don’t have a choice in whether or not I follow them.”
I’d become quite good at considering rules as a challenge. Without hearing what they were, my mind was already preparing to find ways around them if not outright defy them.
Edward smiled, as though he expected my response. “Of course you have a choice. What choices you make determine how quickly this process goes.”
“The process of breaking me down, you mean.”
“Yes. That.” He put another bite of fish in his mouth, and I watched, mesmerized. The way his jaw worked as he took it from the fork. The way his throat moved as he swallowed. The way these simple actions made my pussy clench and weep.
I was really glad I’d worn the power stockings. I needed them right about now.
He rinsed everything down with a swig from his flute. “Are you amenable to me continuing?”
It seemed strange that he was asking. Usually he just did with no regard for my opinion on matters. I understood his motives, understood that this was a test. I knew what answer he wanted and the test was to see if I’d give him that answer or be defiant.
Defiance was my nature with him. My gut reaction.
I forced myself to think first. I thought about how things had gone so far since my captivity. How the gifts had begun when I’d stopped trying to escape. How the struggling only seemed to prolong whatever he had planned for me. How prey caught in the sightline of a predator often froze or played dead.
If I ever wanted to get out of here, that’s what I had to do—play dead. “Okay, then. Go for it. Tell me these rules.”
It was almost imperceptible—the slight nod of his head, the gleam in his eyes caught by chance in the candlelight. He was pleased.
And then it was gone, his expression once again stoic. “For now, we will only address the rules for our sessions together. There will be more in the future. Do not assume that this is all.”
I forced myself to take a deep breath.
“During these sessions,” he went on, “you cede your power to me.”
I laughed. “I wasn’t aware that I still had power to cede.”
“Are you sure about that?” He tilted his head, both brows raised. “I’ll tell you now that the most important rule is honesty. I expect you to only speak the truth, or the truth to the best of your knowledge. You will not exaggerate or deflect. Lies will not be tolerated. Withholding information when I ask will be considered a lie.”
My body tensed at his bold expectation. He wanted me to lay everything down for him. Everything. I was beginning to understand what that really meant. Was I willing? No. But if I thought about it in terms of a longer game, of me playing into his hand until he let me go, then I could tolerate it more.
The real question wasn’t was I willing, but was I able?
That, I didn’t know.
All I could do is try. “In that case,” I said, pushing my words from my throat where they wanted to stay. “I suppose you want me to say that I am aware that I do have some power.” He was affected by me—that was power. I had my body. I knew how to play against his possessive nature. I had the ability to withdraw.
They were my only weapons, and he wanted me to put them down.
A sudden rush of bitterness took over my tongue. “Forgive me if I find the power I have left so miniscule that I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”
That earned me a leveled stare and the next rule. “You will show respect. Sarcasm and backtalk are not acceptable forms of communication.”
“Well, I’m screwed.” I grabbed a small strawberry from the bowl and took a seductive nibble from the tip. “We aren’t in a session now, are we?”
“Fortunately for you, we are not.” He watched me finish it off, his eyes glued to my mouth as I licked my fingers afterward. His eyes were dark, hooded.
Yeah, this whole ceding power shit was going to take practice.
“Normally, whenever we’re alone like we are, we would be in session.” He set down his fork and picked up a strawberry himself, dipping it in cream before reaching across the table, offering it to me. “But we are just beginning.”
I was suddenly very aware of my blood rushing through my body, at the damp spot between my legs. Leaning forward, I let him trace my mouth with the cream before I took a small bite. My tongue swept slowly across my lips. When I moved in for the next bite, however, he pulled his hand away, popping the rest of the berry in his own mouth.
He sat back then and frowned. “That was a freebie,” he said. “Not what you deserved. To receive pleasure, you must earn it.”
“Oh, then I’m not screwed, you’re saying.” It was exactly the type of sarcasm he’d said that wouldn’t be tolerated.
“Punishments are also mine to dole out as I see fit.” The dark expression was back. The idea of punishing me turned him on as much as anything else, I realized.
That was…intriguing/fascinating/scary/hot.
It was a bunch of things all at once that I didn’t know how to process.
“No snappy comeback to that one?” He stroked his chin. “Interesting.”
“I was thinking.”
“Thoughtfulness is good. It shows you’re taking
this seriously.”
Maybe not seriously enough. “Do I get a safe word?”
“You won’t need one.”
Either that meant he believed his punishments didn’t need them or he didn’t care if I felt unsafe when he administered them. Both options felt dangerous.
He studied me. “That makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?”
“You like that it does, don’t you?”
He paused then chuckled with a shake of his head. He picked up his fork and resumed eating. It was two full bites later before he said more. “If you feel unsafe, you’ll tell me. There doesn’t need to be a game about it.”
It sounded clear enough. Still, I didn’t trust him.
But there was nothing I could say to argue. “I assume that means there won’t be restrictions on my speech.”
“No restrictions. I do expect you to think carefully before you do—to choose carefully. But no outright restrictions. Half the fun is what you come up with to say.”
I rolled my eyes, decidedly disrespectful. It was fortunate we weren’t in a session.
Sessions, he called them. Not scenes like the books I’d read referred to times of kink play. Like he meant them to be therapy.
I frowned realizing that might very well be the case.
I tried not to think about that. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Your birth control shot runs out next month. There will be a nurse brought to the island to administer another.”
“Then I will be screwed. How fun.”
“I did tell you fucking was part of this bargain.” He swirled what was left in his glass before taking it back in one swallow, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Just, from everything that’s happened so far, it feels like I’m being fucked in a very different way.” What was terrifying was how much I still wanted him despite that.
I tossed my napkin on my plate and pushed my plate away, my irritation returning. “Let me guess. This nurse will only speak French.”