“Shall I ask Reyno to come over?” he asks, pouring me a cup of coffee.
“I’m not ready to talk about it.”
He concedes with silence, watching me intently as I sip the strong brew.
“Will you stay, today?” I ask tentatively.
“Do you need me to?”
“Yes.” For many reasons. I don’t want him to have more blood on his hands by going after Harold. Harold still has the information I want. More importantly, I can’t stomach the idea of anything happening to Damian.
“What do you want to do?”
“Maybe I’ll watch a movie.” Something mindless to help me forget.
“Sounds good.”
“Really?” I didn’t take him for the type to sit quietly on a sofa for longer than ten minutes.
His smile is indulgent. “I’ll even let you choose.”
I can’t remember the last time I watched anything. I don’t even know what kind of films I like, but I grab the offer gratefully. I’ll do anything not to be alone and to keep him home.
Jana arrives with grocery bags in the late morning. By the look on her face, she’s seen the news. She regards me silently as I help to unpack the food.
“It’s terrible what happened,” she says after a while.
“Yes,” I reply softly.
She doesn’t ask questions, but there’s suspicion in her eyes. Her former warmth makes space for distance and a tangible coolness. When we discuss the dinner menu, she’s all formality and business. She politely but firmly declines my offer to help with lunch, making it clear my presence is unwanted.
What did I expect? She’s not a foolish woman. After Damian threw Anne and Zane out, she must’ve suspected there was animosity between us. She must know Damian is a dangerous man who doesn’t walk the straight and narrow. It would be naïve not to think us involved in their sudden murders.
Feeling uncomfortable and in the way, I excuse myself to take Damian up on his offer to watch a movie. I feel guilty for keeping him from work. He’s always busy. More so now with the many loose ends he needs to tie up after the almost-sale of the mine.
Halfway through the film, I fall asleep on Damian’s lap. I wake up with him dragging his fingers soothingly through my hair. My guilt is still a knot in the pit of my stomach. I’m on pins and needles, expecting the police to break down Damian’s door at any minute, but I feel less nauseous and cold.
I don’t still his hands when they start to wander. I need his touch. I don’t argue when he turns me over, pulls down both our pants, and takes me hard and fast from behind. I move against him like a demon woman, taking what I want until we both collapse. I’m still tired and sore and don’t protest when Damian urges me to take a nap after lunch while he works from a chair by the fireplace. He’s been nothing but sweet and considerate, my kind monster, and it’s hard to remember not to get used to his kindness.
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.
“Anyone who sees that,” he continues, “will think twice about kidnapping you in the future.”
“Why? What will be different ne
xt time?”
The hum of the machine starts up.
“One, I made an example of the ones who were stupid enough to try, and two, everyone in Johannesburg now knows nobody messes with what’s mine.”
Unwanted tears leak from my eyes as the first sting penetrates my skin. It’s not painful enough to warrant tears, but my tears are not for the physical pain. My tears are for how far Damian will go to keep me, and that I love him, nonetheless.
Damian sits with me for the two hours it takes, not once letting go of my hand. When the tattooist finally pulls away to admire his work, my flesh feels a little bruised. He looks at Damian, who nods. I’m about to push up from the bed, but Damian clamps his hand around my nape, keeping me face down with my cheek on the mattress.
“Not done yet,” he says.
I strain my eyes to look back at the man. Coldness engulfs me. He’s filling a hypodermic needle from a vial.
I start to struggle. “What’s he doing?”
Damian easily constrains me by pinning my arms at my sides. “Shh. Relax. It’s not drugs.”
My voice rises hysterically. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Calm down. It’s just a local anesthetic.”
“Why?”
While Damian holds me down, the man injects the needle in the fleshy part of my good shoulder. I battle to breathe as fear runs hot and cold up my spine.
After a moment, the man prods me with the needle somewhere at the base of my neck.
“Do you feel a prick?” he asks.
“N-no.” Should I?
“It’s all right.” Damian kisses my temple. “We gave you a shot so it doesn’t hurt.”
“So what doesn’t hurt?” I cry, nearly hysterical again.
When the man brings a thick needle to my neck, I start fighting in all earnest.
“Keep still,” Damian hisses. “If he hits a nerve you can be injured.”
I freeze at the proclamation, crying silently. There’s more prodding, but I don’t feel pain, not even when a thin trickle of blood drips down my neck onto the plastic sheet.
“Doesn’t need stitches,” the man says. “I only made a small incision. The glue is sufficient. Keep it disinfected, though.”
When Damian lets up, I gather the man’s work, whatever it was, is done.
While he sterilizes and packs away his equipment, Damian secures the towel around my breasts by folding one end over the other before helping me sit up and discarding the plastic sheet.
He brings a glass of water to my lips. “Drink. It’s for the shock.”
Too numb to argue, I drink it all. It tastes sweet. Why do people always give me sweet drinks when I’ve suffered a shock?
The man lifts his case. “I’ll see you around.”
Damian shakes his hand and says he’ll see him out.
Swinging my legs from the bed, I try to look at what has been tattooed on my shoulder, but my neck hurts too much to turn. I clutch the towel to my breasts and walk to the dressing room for a better look in the mirror. The ink on my shoulder is the size of a coaster. A falcon’s head peers back at me. In the background is a diamond, sketched three-dimensional, and at the bottom the initials, DH. Damian’s business logo. It’s right next to my armpit. The tattoo will be visible under any sleeveless piece of clothing, a clear statement for all to see. As I’m lifting my hair to inspect the small cut at the base of my neck, Damian enters.
I rub a finger over the bump under my skin that sits just above the cut. “What have you done to me?”
Crossing his arms, he leans against the doorframe. “It’s a tracker.”
I’ve seen it done to dogs and cats, but never to a human. Clenching my fists, I bite back fresh tears.
“I’m not losing you again, Lina. Ever.”
“Which one is the punishment?” I snap, on the brink of shedding those tears I swore I wouldn’t.
“Both,” he replies, unflinching. “I said it before, and I’ll keep on saying it. You get to choose.”
A ringtone fills the room. He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the screen. “Excuse me. I have to take this. Go back to bed. You haven’t rested nearly enough.”
Walking away, he leaves me in front of the mirror with my new tokens of ownership. Where the ring was a statement of kindness, designed to spare me humiliation, the tattoo seems the opposite. His words stay with me as I flop down on my stomach on the bed.
You get to choose.
There’s no way around it. I chose him when I confronted Harold. The knowledge is mine. Damian doesn’t know. I can pretend it didn’t happen, but that won’t make the truth vanish. I already sacrificed my freedom, even before Damian put his logo on my shoulder and a microchip under my skin. I may as well admit it.
Damian
A mine doesn’t run itself, as Ellis likes to remind me. There are contracts waiting to be signed, but I can’t focus. I’m sitting behind my desk in the study with papers spread out in front of me, and all I can think about is how close I came to losing Lina. She’s been through an ordeal. Punishing her is not what I wanted to do, but not punishing her would’ve been worse. She needs to know she can always trust me. I can’t give her reason to doubt my word. Besides, I feel better now that she’s branded as mine in every way.
Dalton needs to be dealt with. I almost lost my mine to him twice. He made a deal with Zane that put his daughter’s life at risk. Taking my gun from the drawer, I check the chamber. Six bullets. I plan on using each of them. If I can’t make Dalton suffer for the long years I planned, I’ll make him suffer in death. No one puts Lina in danger and gets to live.
The very object of my turbulent thoughts walks through the door. Inconspicuously, I return the revolver to the drawer and close it. Business with Dalton will have to wait. Lina associates my study with punishment. I know how little she likes to be in this room. She wouldn’t have come here unsummoned if she didn’t have something important on her mind. Dressed in yoga pants and the shirt I removed this morning, she looks impossibly small and fragile. Impossibly mine. She pads barefoot to the fireplace, her eyes fixed on the naked wall above the mantelpiece.
The atmosphere is fragile. Her ego is still bruised from being tattooed and chipped.
“What did you do with them?”
I don’t have to ask what she’s referring to. “I burned them.”
She turns her head quickly toward me. “Why?”
“You said they made you run.”
Hugging herself, she says quietly, “I thought that’s who you are.”
Not at the price of losing her in more ways than one. She already hates me for our forced marriage. I broke something other than her skin, something inside her, when I punished her with the cane. I hurt her pride. She’ll never admit it, but that’s why she asked me to leave. She couldn’t even stomach the aftercare I offered. I can’t give her the freedom she wants, but I can at least try to give her the happiness in my control. There are other ways of feeding my dark obsessions she’ll enjoy. We’ll find them together.
Weighing my words carefully, I say, “I can be someone different for you if that’s what you want.”
Her midnight blue eyes turn wary. “You shouldn’t have to change for anyone. If this is who you are—”
“It’s called compromise. Isn’t that what marriage is about?”
I don’t like her silence, but I ignore the feelings it stirs in my chest. This isn’t about me. I pat my leg. “Come here.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she walks to me and sits down in my lap. It’s not like her to be so compliant after what just happened.
I fold my arms around her. “What’s up, Lina? Got something you want to say?”
Resting her head on my shoulder, she traces the buttons of my shirt. “I’m sorry about…” Her voice almost breaks. “Anne and Zane.”
My words are harsh. “I’m not.”
She winces. “You were friends.”
“I don’t consider anyone who kidnaps m
y wife and tries to steal my money a friend.”
She studies my face, seeming to search for the right words. “He was jealous. He was in love with you.”
“If he loved me so much, he wouldn’t have done what he did.” If he loved me as much as he claimed, he wouldn’t have hurt me by hurting the only thing that matters.
“He told me your money was his objective even in jail. I’m sorry you have to find out like this, but I thought you deserve to know, and I…”
“You what?”
“I thought it would make it a little easier to cope with the loss if you knew the truth. I’m truly sorry.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry. Zane’s actions aren’t your fault.”
“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”
“I already knew.”
“You did?”
“I figured when I threw him out of the house.”
“Why did you take him and his family in and give them jobs? Did you owe him?”
“Yes.”
She abandons the buttons and lowers her hand to my stomach, absent-mindedly brushing her palm over my abs. “What did you owe him for?”
“Saving me from rape. Zane had alliances. He threatened my attackers with food poisoning.”
Her hand stills. “They believed him?”
“He wasn’t bluffing. There was also a time he saved me from taking a sharpened toothbrush in the kidney.”
She covers her mouth with a hand. “That’s awful. You suffered all of that just because…”
“Just because Dalton accused me of stealing his diamond so he could steal my mine.”
“Yes,” she says softly, avoiding my eyes.
I don’t tell her about all the other times, about the routine beatings and sodomies. Jail in Africa isn’t for the weak. “You didn’t come in here for my history with Zane.”
“No.”
Stroking her back, I say in my best reassuring tone, “Tell me.”
“This is hard.” She fumbles with my buttons again. “I don’t know where to start.”
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