He rises behind me, the screech of the wooden chair a warning, and I turn around to face him, backside digging into the counter edge. Right where I stabbed him last night. Fear trickles down my spine as he moves closer, and I tense when he reaches forward and brushes my cheek, cupping the side of my face with his huge hand.
“You’ve done well today, Jasmine,” he says, flat, deadpan… and then he kisses me. Damp lips against mine, the momentary touch of his tongue to the seam of my lips, prodding lightly. Inside my head I’m screaming, my fingers scrabble for purchase on the lip of the counter and hold on tight, but I manage not to push him away.
Good wife, good wife, good wife.
I let my lips part, and his tongue thrusts against mine in an awkward way — and then it’s over. He steps back, brown eyes focused on me, and lets out a slow breath. “Let’s sit together.”
Sit together? What the fuck does that mean?
Without another word, he walks into the family room and I have no choice but to follow. I’m playing the most important role of my life, the one that will hopefully save my life. I have to be the good wife tonight, I have to be ‘Jasmine,’ but I can’t help it when my eyes drift toward the couch where he spanked me and shoved soap in my mouth just yesterday. He doesn’t even look at it though; he’s at the bookcases pulling out one book and then another before he faces me.
“I believe God has been with us today, Jasmine. Though He has not blessed us with a child yet, He has shown you the light of walking in his path.” Daniel moves closer, holding out one of the books, which I recognize immediately as a Bible. “Before we take our rest tonight, I want you to read Ephesians, chapter five. The scripture will keep you in the light, Jasmine, and keep the Devil at bay.”
Numbly, I take the Bible from him and sit when he gestures at one of the chairs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sit in either of these. He’s always sat on the couch and made me sit beside him. Is this good? My mind is working overdrive as I flip through the well-worn book, looking for the header ‘Ephesians,’ but I can’t focus. He turns the lamp on and sits down with one of the books on cattle.
Maybe this means he’s starting to trust you.
No, that’s stupid. It wouldn’t take this little. Laundry and thank you’s? If this is it then he’s simpler than I thought. But… maybe he is. Either way, it’s out of my hands, so I simply stare at the words in my hands. I’m tempted to point out the whole part about the ‘sexually impure having no inheritance in the kingdom of Christ’ but that is not what a dutiful wife would do, so I keep it to myself. Then I see what he wants me to read, ‘Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord.’ The whole damned section is about giving my body to him, submitting, letting him do whatever the fuck he wants to me because he decided to call me his wife.
My fingers tremble against the book as I try to wipe my face of any hint of disgust or rage — because I feel both — but Jasmine wouldn’t. Not the insane image he has in his head of her, and I have a feeling the real Jasmine didn’t submit the way he wanted either.
That’s why I’m here now.
“Do you see what God asks of us, Jasmine?”
Fuck you.
“Yes,” I manage to get the word past my clenching throat, and the ghost of a smile touches his lips before he stands and takes the Bible from me to replace the books on the shelves. I’m glad to be rid of it, sick of staring at his twisted justifications for everything he’s done to me.
“See? I know you will be a good wife, Jasmine.” He’s still talking in that damn monotone, but I can hear a subtle difference in it. Pride.
He’s proud of me for this shit, and it makes my skin crawl. As he closes the gap between us, it takes effort not to move away.
“No. You are a good wife, Jasmine. We were meant to be together in His divine plan. God recognizes our union and knows we are to be of one flesh, and soon we will be fruitful.” His hand lands on my stomach so fast that I jump, but he doesn’t seem to notice as his thumb brushes back and forth over my shirt. “We just need to stay close to God’s word, to His teachings, and we will be blessed.”
No, no, no. There’s no way in hell I can agree with him, no way I can make those words leave my lips.
“Let’s go to bed, Jasmine.” He gestures ahead of him, and I take a slow breath before I lead the way upstairs.
You can do this, Sloane. You can fake it. It’s the most important role you never auditioned for. Be Jasmine a little longer, and he’ll believe you.
Then you’ll be free.
Then you’ll go home.
Twelve
Him
The sun wakes me and it’s like God’s light is reaching down from Heaven to fill me up. There is a lightness to my spirit that I cannot remember feeling before now, and I know it is His glory. His joy that I showed mercy to my wife when the Devil tempted her, that I brought her back to His path.
She is a good wife. My wife.
Mine to protect, to lead, to cherish.
I lean up on my elbow to look down at Jasmine, and I’m still caught by the beauty of her features. The absolute perfection of God’s creation in her form. Her hair looks darker against the sheets where she’s curled into a ball, one hand tucked under her chin, and as much as I want to kiss her lips, to touch the softness of her skin — I wait.
Yesterday was a gift from God. I know without a doubt that He reached out to Jasmine in the basement while I toiled outside. He calmed her wildness, and His strength and mine have barricaded her against the temptations of Satan’s silver tongue. Like Daddy always said, punishments are penance that bring us closer to God, and though she strayed for a while... I have brought her back. The Devil will not stop trying to tempt her to sin, just like he will never stop trying to make me falter in my path, but together Jasmine and I will be stronger than him.
She proved that to me yesterday.
Dutiful, kind, obedient. If only Momma and Daddy could see her, could have known her as my wife and not just my friend… I know they would be proud. Are proud, up in Heaven, watching over us, but I wish they were here to know her now. To see her grow round with their first grandchild.
God, please help me to be a shepherd for Jasmine. Guide my hand, help me to stay strong for her and keep the Devil at bay so that we may be fruitful and raise our family in your light. Amen.
As I finish my prayer, I rest my hand over her stomach, picturing her round with child, and the lightness inside me grows. It is God’s promise that He will bless us if I keep her on the path of righteousness.
Jasmine grumbles, her nose wrinkling as she twists in sleep, and I lift my hand to let her rest a little longer. I will get ready first, and then let her catch up on her chores from yesterday before I go into town. I know she needs feminine things, and I will provide for her as a good husband should.
It will make her unhappy to be away from me, but she will only be in the basement a few hours today while I drive to town, and I know that will bring her comfort.
Leaning down, I press a gentle kiss to her temple. “I love you, Jasmine.”
She shifts again, making the soft, sleepy sounds I’ve come to cherish so much, but I make myself rise from bed. Keeping my promises to myself, to Jasmine, and to God, must always come before my own desires.
* * *
Her
The basement is worse today, because there’s nothing to do. No more laundry to wash, nothing to do but read the fucking Bible he sent me down here with.
Dammit.
I thought I was close this morning. When he had me start cleaning the house, completing my ‘Friday’ chores that I would have done yesterday if not for him being out with the cows, I’d foolishly hoped he would just leave me to it. Drive away toward town and leave me, ‘Jasmine,’ his dutiful wife, to clean his house alone.
But, no.
He doesn’t trust me enough yet. Not even after I gave him a fucking blowjob this morning. Not even after I was nice and polite during breakfast and during my g
oddamn chores.
No. When he was ready to go, he put me down here and locked the door.
God, what I wouldn’t give for my iPhone and a set of earbuds right now. Shit, I’d even settle for a fucking AM radio. Something, anything to break the monotony of the silence ringing in my ears altered only by the soft sounds of birds outside in the sunlight. But all of that — radio, iPhone, any of it — is a form of ‘false idolatry’ to him. A blasphemy in God’s eyes. So, I sit here, ignoring the Bible on the table, and I hum songs that I can remember the lyrics to, singing as much of them as I can until I switch to a new song when the words run out. Because if I give in to the silence, that might drive me mad before he gets the chance.
Movement catches my eye, and I look up to see a quick shadow cross in front of one of the basement windows, like a bird swishing past. The sunlight returns for a moment, and then it’s back again. Larger. The shadow turns into legs wrapped in jeans, and I realize he’s home. Sighing, I walk to the table to get the Bible so I can pretend I was reading like a good wife, but as the feet and legs move past the second window something clicks and it feels like electricity screams through my body.
That’s not him.
The legs are too thin, too narrow. His legs are like tree trunks and these are slender, tapering down into normal-sized hiking boots that are nothing like the massive leather work boots he wears.
That isn’t him. That’s someone else.
Another human being.
Still clutching the Bible, I scramble onto the table and leverage the window open. “Hello? I— I’m down here! In the basement!”
Knees bend and now I can see more than just feet and legs. There is a torso and arms and a hand that moves to the wall of the house just outside the window.
“Oh, hey, ma’am! Sorry, I didn’t see you!” It’s a real voice, a man’s voice, a human voice with a soft, slightly Hispanic lilt, and I feel tears in my eyes. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m with Torros Energy, and I was out checking one of our lines, and I found a break in your fence that some of your cattle could get through. Is your husband around, ma’am?”
He says the word ‘husband’ and I cringe.
“No! No, you don’t understand! He’s not my husband. I don’t belong here. He took me, and he’s keeping me here, but I’m not his wife, and he won’t let me go. You have to help me, get me out of here, please!” The words tumble out of me, and I know I should slow down, but I just keep going, begging him to help me, releasing every word I never thought I’d have a chance to say until finally I hear his voice cut in.
“Whoa! Whoa, ma’am! What did you say? I don’t understand what you’re saying!”
“I’m sorry.” I start again, keeping my voice steady, trying to make it sound rational. “My name is Sloane Finley, and I’ve been kidnapped. There’s a man here, and he took me, and he’s holding me prisoner. I’m locked in the basement right now, just please, please go! Go and tell the police to come as fast as they can.”
“¿Qué diablos es?” He sounds shocked, unsteady, and I can’t blame him because I know it sounds crazy, but I need him to go. I need him to get help.
“Please just hurry!”
“Okay, okay, I’ll go get them. Shit, I—”
I hear the noise and register the sound of it more than I do the sight at first. It’s the sound of water splashing against a windshield, like driving through a puddle. Except it’s not. A spray of crimson fans across the glass of the window, and tiny droplets spatter against my face. My brain refuses to believe what I’m seeing until I glance down. Pinpoints of red freckle the cloth of my shirt, my chest, and I scream.
Oh God. No, no, no.
I’m screaming and I don’t stop even as I drop the Bible to the table, watching as the legs are drug away, one foot twisted unnaturally as the shadow passes out of sight and sunlight floods back into the basement. Something breaks inside me, and I start sobbing, and then scream again when I try to wipe at my shirt where the spots won’t go away because the blood — his blood — is soaking in. All I do is smear the specks into tiny arcs and release another pathetic wail.
He killed that man. He just… killed him.
Climbing off the table, I stumble back from the horror show on the windows. I can hear the panic and fear in my voice echoing off the ceiling and walls even as a part of my brain tells me screaming is a foolish thing to do. What’s the point? Do I expect anyone to hear me? Someone to come save me? There’s no one else, only him, and he just killed a man, the man who could have been my savior. I know I should stop, because it’s pointless, everything is pointless, but I don’t. Can’t. I scream and I sob and then he’s there.
Daniel grabs me, and I scream again, but the end of it gets muffled as he presses me to his chest, his arms holding me tightly. “It’s okay, Jasmine. It’s okay.”
My arms are trapped at my sides and I want to raise them and beat on him because he killed that man. That man who might have gone back into town and told the police about the crazy lady on the ranch out in the middle of nowhere, and they would have come and investigated because there shouldn’t be a crazy woman here. I shouldn’t be out here, but I am, and he has me trapped not just in his arms but in this place where I don’t belong because I am not Jasmine!
“No, no, no, no.” I hear myself whimper and he must hear me too, because he pulls me tighter to his chest. My ribs creak, and it’s hard to breathe, and I wonder if now he’ll kill me too.
“It’s okay, Jasmine. It’s okay. He won’t hurt you. I took care of it. He won’t take you from me.”
“Wh-what?” I choke.
“He won’t bother you again. I took care of it. I will always take care of you. I will always protect you.” His iron hold relaxes a bit and my breath shudders.
“Protect me? He… he wasn’t going to hurt me…”
“I know. He won’t hurt you now, Jasmine.”
I feel his hand on my back, stroking me gently. He hears me, I know he can hear me, but he’s not listening to my words. He’s hearing what he wants to hear, shushing me like he would a small child. Saying what he thinks I want to hear. But, what is the right to say right now? In this fucked-up situation where he just murdered a man because he was talking to me? Some stupid, innocent guy who just wanted to tell some dumb fucking rancher he had a broken fence.
I let another wail escape, sob, but I don’t try to fight him as he lifts me into his arms and carries me up the stairs into the house. I can’t do anything about him, about this. This is never going to end until I can make it out of here… or I die.
Die like an innocent man did minutes ago because I spoke to him. Because of me.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
He carries me up the stairs to the second floor, into our room. I don’t fight him when he undresses me. His hands are still covered in blood, and it smears across me in red slashes that I wish were cuts that would bleed me out. End me. But they don’t.
Carrying me into the shower, he just stands there, holding me while the warm water sluices over my skin. I watch as pink streams carry the horror away down the drain, and the last tiny piece of hope in my chest for a rescue gets swallowed by the drain, along with the blood. No one can save me. I’m not a princess in a tower, no one is coming for me, no God is going to help me or hear my prayers — if I don’t get out of here, my only choice will be death.
I don’t want to die.
As I watch, any trace of what he’s done swirls away in a sheen of water that all too soon becomes clear. Washing away the evidence of a murder shouldn’t be this easy, this quick, this simple to do. But for him it probably is.
Will I be so easy to wash away?
I know the answer is yes, and while I continue to shudder, his hands stroke me.
“It’s okay, Jasmine. It’s okay.” He’s offering comfort, and I want to lean away from him, lean with my head against the cool tile that might let me feel somewhat normal. Give me back some sense of life. But I can’t. He’s holding
me too tightly, too far from the wall, and like everything else he denies me even this one small comfort.
My thoughts slow, gears in my head grinding to a halt as I remember a kind, Hispanic voice, a fleeting flash of hope, and then it all goes away.
There are lingering traces of soap on my skin where he’s bathed me. He cups my breasts, fingers like claws either pressing into my flesh or brushing over my nipples. They’ve stiffened, a response I can no more control right now than I can the wetness he coaxes out of me when he fucks me. I can feel his cock pressing into my back, and his fingers dip between my legs to clear a path for what I know he wants. In other circumstances I would tense up as he touches me — would already be stiff — but I’m in shock. It’s odd to know it, to realize it with utter clarity, and yet be completely divorced from what’s actually going on.
He wants a compliant wife, a submissive slave who only obeys as a good wife should? He has that now. In this moment. I can’t fight, can’t react, no matter how much a tiny part of me screams to do so. I am as lifeless as I can be without falling limp to the floor of the tub.
I just don’t care. I can’t. For the moment, he’s won, and I give him everything.
Me. His ‘Jasmine.’
* * *
Him
Jasmine is still now. I feel her heartbeat beneath my hand as I cup her breast, and I know she is soothed by my presence. That man would have attacked her, taken her, and he’s been dealt with. She need not fear him any longer.
My actions were just, as God said in Exodus 22: If a thief is found breaking in and is struck so that he dies, there shall be no bloodguilt for him. Jasmine knows this, it’s why she’s stopped crying, screaming, gone tranquil in my arms, calm as I run my hands along her curves. I want her so badly as I move one hand to her face, cupping her cheek, tracing my finger along the edge of her jaw. This time I can feel her love for me. Feel it in the way she doesn’t go rigid to my touch. How she stands so quiet, placid, unmoving.
Jasmine Page 10