by Jane Henry
The veil tumbles to the side, its falling a symbol of sorts. I can no longer hide. It slides to the ground and gets crushed beneath his heavy footsteps as he drags me to the furthest end of the property, to a small apartment with lights blazing. He yanks open the door with his left hand, still holding me in his right, then to my shock, bends and lifts me up and right over the threshold, placing me clumsily to my feet so quickly he nearly tosses me through the door. I stumble, but he grabs my elbow to right me, then slams the door behind him.
By now, his fit of temper because he was given marred goods has me in a fury of my own. I can’t help who I am. I can’t help how I look. And if I’m to be married to this monster, he can have some damn decency.
“Hardly carrying me over the threshold!” I spit out at him, quickly scurrying around the kitchen table to put distance between us. I look quickly around for something to defend myself if he’s going to hurt me. Now that I’m his property, I’m fully prepared for him to rape me. There are rules governing consummation. I begin to tremble.
This isn’t my fault. I didn’t agree to this. I didn’t scar my face, and I didn’t promise him anything, so he has no right to direct his anger at me. His eyes darken as he prowls closer to me, and I fear the worst. I know that look. He’s going to hurt me, I know it, but there’s something my new husband will learn about me. I won’t stand and take it.
Glancing wildly about the room, I see a set of kitchen knives on the counter. I sprint, and grab the largest one by the handle, spinning around to face him. “Do not fucking touch me again.”
He freezes and puts his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender.
“Caroline,” he says in his deep, angry voice. Unlike the other men of the Bratva, his accent is less noticeable, though still there. He barks out a command that makes me jump and nearly drop the knife. “Put that down.”
I blink and stare at him, my hand trembling. What will he do if I put it down? What will he do if I don’t? Oh, God, this was so stupid.
“No,” I tell him, shaking so hard the knife vibrates in my hand. “I don’t trust you. I don’t want you to hurt me. I did nothing to deserve your anger, and you will not touch me!”
At that, he looks at me in surprise and anchors his large hands on his hips. “Is that what you think?”
I blink. “What?”
“That I’m angry with you?”
“You’re glaring at me. What am I supposed to think, that you’re enamored with my radiant beauty? Look at me. I’m no fool.”
He fixes me with a look that would make the most powerful men of the brotherhood quake. “All you’ve done to earn my anger is wield a knife at me. Before then, my anger was not directed at you.”
I grip the blade, unsure of how I would even use this thing if I had to. I suppose I’d slash at him and try to hit an artery or something. Hell, I don’t even really know where those are. Stupid. Unfortunately, the sight of blood also makes me want to vomit, so this was a very poorly executed decision.
“Oh, really?” I ask incredulously. “Then why have you been glaring at me?”
His lips purse but he doesn’t respond. “Put the knife down,” he repeats.
“Not until you answer me,” I counter.
He takes a step toward me and I hold the knife higher.
“We might as well make this clear from the beginning,” he says, almost thoughtfully. “You will not raise your hand to me, ever. You will respect me as your husband, and you will do what I say. I do not respond to ultimatums.” His voice sharpens to steel. “Now put that knife down before you hurt yourself.”
Clearly, he’s the domineering sort. Shocking.
I still hold the knife, but now I’m not exactly sure what I’m going to do. I don’t want to hurt him, but I don’t want to do what he says either. If I obey, what will he do in retaliation? I look to the door, then the window. There’s no escape. If I run, and he has any authority here at all, he could have a legion of men at his beck and call, ready to catch me and return me to him. I don’t know what awaits me if I obey him now, but whatever it is will only worsen if I run.
This was a stupid, reckless decision, and I have a feeling I will regret pulling a knife on my new husband. Damn. I already do.
Foolishly, I continue to talk. “And what will you do to me if I put this down?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I will lessen the punishment you’ve already earned for pulling a knife on me.”
I swallow hard. Damn. But not a surprise.
“And if I don’t?”
His eyes darken and his brows draw together. “I will take that knife from you before I whip you soundly, cuff you, and put you to bed.”
My pulse spikes. He isn’t lying.
This is the man I’m married to?
The knife clatters to the floor, and I swear I see him smile when he bends to pick it up. Do I amuse him? There is nothing at all funny about this situation. He bends and lifts the knife, rises with a sigh, and places it on the counter behind him.
“Now come here,” he says, his implacable gaze on mine as he quirks a finger at me. Aw, hell. I know I’m in trouble, and I have no idea what to expect. I’m shaking before I reach him. I’ve botched up our wedding night so badly I want to cry. There’s nothing at all romantic about this, but I could have at least kept the peace.
Maybe.
“It was self-defense,” I say as I walk toward him taking tiny steps. I bite my lip, unsure what to do next or if the humor I see in his eyes is something I can trust.
“Self-defense?” he repeats. “And what exactly were you defending yourself against?”
“Your anger, obviously,” I say. “Big, burly men like you who are angry often hurt people.” A shadow crosses his features, but I’m telling him the truth. “And it was… precautionary. Reactionary, even. I wasn’t actually going to hurt you.”
“And isn’t that the problem?” he says. I’m close enough to him now that he grabs my arm and yanks me to him. I look up at him, and swallow hard. I can’t speak. “You could have hurt yourself sooner than you’d have hurt me,” he continues. “I don’t believe you could even stand the sight of blood.”
“I can!” I lie.
“Really?” he asks. To my surprise, he reaches a hand in his pocket and removes a switch blade. He spins it around and gives me the handle. “Show me.”
“What? No! You can’t—I—”
“Cut me then,” he says, pushing the blade into my palm. “Prove it.” My imagination quickly conjures up the image of his skin slicing open and vivid red blood splashing onto the floor. My stomach rolls with nausea, and I shake my head.
“I can’t,” I admit in defeat, my voice shaking. “I hate the sight of blood and would likely vomit all over this pretty tiled floor.”
He purses his lips, folds the knife, and places it back in his pocket, then does something that shocks me. He glides his hand to the small of my back and draws me to him, and when I’m pressed up to his warm, strong body, he holds my chin between his fingers to capture my gaze. He doesn’t scold or lecture but looks at me for the first time tonight with kindness in his eyes.
“My initial anger was not directed at you,” he says, his voice softer now, his tone kind. I remember the words Marissa told me.
He’s a good man.
In that moment, with the kitchen lighting illuminating his features and his eyes gentling before me, I almost believe it. Almost. But men are chameleons, morphing into what they think you want to see, and I don’t trust them. The ones who feign kindness are the worst of the lot, because they lure you in, making you vulnerable before they bite.
“You saw my scar and reacted,” I say, my voice hard, but my throat is tight and my voice shakes, so I can’t say anything more. I swallow hard. I don’t want to cry again. It hurts to cry, and I don’t want to hurt anymore. Not tonight.
“I did,” he says honestly, nodding, before he releases my chin and gently draws his index finger down the length of my
scar. I shudder. No one has ever touched me there, and it disturbs me how easily he does.
“My anger was directed at whoever gave you this scar. Not at you.”
Oh.
Oh.
That’s… very different.
I swallow hard. “I—I’m sorry, then,” I tell him. “I had it in my head that you were angry at me for being ugly, and I—”
His eyes cloud again with anger and he puts a finger to my lips to silence me.
This time, I obey.
“I don’t ever want to hear you say that again,” he says. “Never, ever again. Do you understand me?”
I nod mutely.
He brushes my crazy hair off my forehead and tips my face up to his again with a finger under my chin. “And you must never raise your hand to me again. This is the only warning I’ll give you. Threatening me in any way will earn you swift and severe punishment. Is that clear as well?”
I nod again, my heart hammering so hard and fast I can’t speak.
“Good,” he says shortly. “Then we will put this behind us after I’ve punished you.”
Panic sweeps through me. I don’t know what to think or do around this man, and that terrifies me.
How will he punish me? I’ve been punished in so many ways my imagination runs ragged trying to understand what he’s doing, when I realize he’s pulling out one of the kitchen chairs.
What will he do?
My answer comes the next second when he gives me a sharp tug and places me belly-down over his knees.
I screw my eyes tight and can’t help but throw an arm up in protest, but without flinching he merely takes my wrist and pins it to my lower back. I freeze when he pats my ass with his huge palm.
I begin to panic. Even though I’m over his lap for clearly what will be my punishment, this feels intimate and borderline sexual. For a girl like me, that’s terrifying.
“This will be brief and serve as a reminder only,” he says, seemingly oblivious to my distress. “Because I know now why you acted as you did, and I don’t wish to mar our wedding night with the memory of a harsh punishment.” With that, he yanks down my leggings, and I want to die. The only reason I’m over his knees like this is so he can spank me, and I’m utterly humiliated. I whimper but don’t move out of his grasp.
“Let me go!” I protest. “Please! I won’t do it again.”
“You’re damn right you won’t. Repeat after me. ‘I will not raise my hand to my husband.’”
My voice is strangled and tight when I repeat, “I will not raise my hand to my husband.”
Whack.
His massive palm cracks against my ass. It hurts worse than I expect, and I gasp in shock, frozen in pain before he speaks again.
“Repeat. I will do as I’m told.”
I take in a deep breath then repeat, “I will do as I’m told.”
Whack.
Another harsh slap has me whimpering and squirming. I’m shocked at how much this spanking hurts, but grit my teeth, determined to take the punishment I’ve earned. I have no choice, and I don’t want to incur further punishment.
His voice lowers, even more serious than before. “Say, ‘I will never call myself ugly again.’”
I blink in surprise, but I’m too afraid not to obey. My vision blurs and my throat tightens, but I manage to get the words out. “I will never call myself ugly again.” With one massive hand wrapped around my waist, he brings down his palm and gives me the hardest spank he’s given me yet. I gasp out loud and dry sob, caught up in so many emotions I don’t even know where to begin to sort them.
Then it’s over. My punishment was three hard slaps, humiliating but not cruel. He’s chosen degradation over pain with this reminder, and it’s worked. I want to crawl under a blanket and pull it over my head. I want to lock myself in a closet and huddle in the corner and cry myself to sleep. But I can’t. I have to face the man I’ll spend the rest of my life with, knowing I belong to him and knowing he has the power to do whatever he wants with me. So when he rights me, I can’t look at him. Instead, I instinctively bury my face on his chest, so I don’t need to make eye contact with him. Too late I realize that my self-preservation brings me intimately closer to him.
He doesn’t respond at first, as if surprised by my reaction, his arms hanging by his sides. I feel him draw in a breath, but then he doesn’t speak. I bring my hands to my face and curl up on his lap, miserable and chastened and hurt. I don’t want his comfort or consolation, I just have nowhere else to hide. To my chagrin, tears splash on my lap.
After a moment, he loosely brings his arms around me to hold me. I tense. “Look at me,” he says, his voice sharp.
Right now, sitting on his knee, my body still aching from the swift but firm punishment, I couldn’t disobey him if I wanted to. I’m too raw, too vulnerable, and the tone of his voice sends my pulse spiking. That quickly, he removed my defenses and reduced me to tears. I don’t like that he has that power over me, but I can’t control my reaction. I don’t want to look at him, but the tone of his voice leaves no choice.
With great reluctance, I remove my hands from my face and look at him. I’m shaking from head to foot, my whole body taken with tremors. I’m consumed with so many emotions, I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know how to process what’s happened or how to sort through everything I’ve felt.
“That can’t happen again, Caroline,” he says. “Do you understand?”
I nod, and swallow hard.
“Good.” His voice hardens and he removes his arms from me. He’s done with this. “Now, I’ll not have my wife walking around dressed in clothes like these.” He plucks me off his lap and stands me in front of him. “Remove them.”
I blink. Of course this is what he’ll do next, and I hate it. The vulnerability vanishes, and in its place, anger rushes in like a stampede. Powerful, destructive, and all-consuming.
I close my eyes and grit my teeth, resigned to my fate. By Bratva law, he has to consummate our marriage. But this isn’t my first rodeo.
He won’t be the first man who’s taken me against my will. I could resist him and fight him and face whatever punishment he gives me. I have no doubt this is what awaits me if I defy him.
Or, I could surprise him and do what he says.
But he’ll get no affection from me. No tenderness. He might as well fuck an ironing board for all the reaction I’ll give him. I know how to shut myself off from the physical, to take myself mentally to a place beyond the present. And every time I do, the wall I build up around my heart gets thicker, stronger, a veritable fortress against any and all emotion that even hints at intimacy.
“Fine,” I tell him, lifting my chin and meeting his eyes. He doesn’t blink or look away but narrows his eyes. I suppose he’s prepared to punish me again if he needs to, but he won’t have to. I’m not going to disobey his majesty.
My hands travel to my bulky clothes as I hold his gaze. I hope he doesn’t like what he sees. It’s easier for me to hate him if I see repulsion in his eyes rather than lust. And he’s stuck with me.
I used to be thin and lithe, but that was before my innocence was taken. I’ve let my body grow curvy and full.
The truth is, he’s wed to a woman scarred inside and out. He chose me, so he’ll deal with what he’s got. Forever. And he may have punished me for pulling a knife on him, but he’s married no submissive wallflower.
“Of course you want me naked,” I tell him. “Isn’t that what they all want?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he says, his eyes narrowed on me. “I’ve never been married before. You?”
I huff out an angry breath. “Well, no.”
“Then how do you presume to know what all husbands want from their wives?”
I look at him in surprise. Is he joking? But no, there isn’t an ounce of humor in his eyes, and he holds his body erect.
“If you didn’t want to have a ready-made fuck toy, then why did you want me?”
“Ready-made fuck
toy,” he mutters to himself. “Have to admit, I like the sound of that.” Then he sobers and shakes his head, and his tone grows curious. “Do you know my role in the Bratva, Caroline?”
“Of course not,” I snap. “I know nothing about any of this. I was taken from my home, forced to wear a veil, and told I had no choice but to marry you. I…” I swallow hard and my voice tightens with the realization that hits me. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Tomas.”
“Tomas,” I repeat. “And you’ll… expect me to call you by name?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Sometimes. Though sometimes I’ll demand sir.”
I nearly snort out loud. Also, not a surprise.
I’ve taken vows to this man. I’ve kissed him and gone over his lap for a spanking. I’m about to strip, and I just found out his name. It’s ludicrous. Completely backwards. But then again, this is Bratva life. I’m only a pawn in this, and I know it. I always have been.
“You know I am Bratva, Caroline,” he says thoughtfully. “But did you know I am pakhan?”
Shit. I had no idea he was the king of a group, at the absolute pinnacle of leadership. I’ve seen over the years how the pakhan gets whatever he wants, how he’s king of his domain.
And I’m his wife.
“A leader in my position does well to have a wife,” he says. “Your brother owed me a favor.”
That’s what I’ve become? A favor.
“Lovely,” I mutter, and at that, I can tell I’ve pushed him too far. His eyes narrow and his spine stiffens. My mouth goes suddenly dry.
“This conversation is over. We’ll talk later. Now, your only job is to do as I say. Go to the bedroom.” He points to the bedroom. “And strip.”