by K. Bromberg
But the unyielding smile on my face is because of Zander. It hasn’t left my lips since he unexpectedly kissed me good-bye on the boardwalk with the parting words, “I still can’t believe you don’t like strawberries.” Then he flashed that disarming grin of his as he took a few steps backward before turning around to head home and grab some kind of something for the mechanic on the boat.
Guess I can cross “kiss the repair guy” off the to-do list.
I laugh at the thought as I unlock the front door, making a mental note to add an item of my own to the list for him. Aware of the waning time before my shift starts, I put the flowers in a vase and head straight to my bedroom, distracted with thoughts of where I can hide the humidor. I don’t want Zander to see it until I can explain my intentions.
Within seconds of tossing my purse on the bed and setting the humidor down, I have my shirt over my head and am toeing my shoes off.
“Now that’s the proper welcome I’d expect from my wife.”
Every part of my body freezes—the toes on my right foot from pushing down against the heel of my shoe on my left foot, my fingers behind my back beginning to unfasten the clasp of my bra, my heart, my breath. The only things moving are the hairs that slowly stand to attention on the back of my neck and the dust dancing in the light of the room.
I’m not your wife. The thought echoes in my head but never makes it to my lips. Nothing does. Instead, I concentrate on the buoyant specks for a moment. It’s the only thing I can focus on, because it takes everything I have to tell myself to breathe, to exhale evenly, and to rein in every ounce of emotion that I feel. To put up the mask. To disassociate. To make him believe when I turn around that I’m not scared of him.
But I am.
Every.
Single.
Part.
Of.
Me.
Because while I’m Getty Caster now—strong, independent, confident, hopeful—all it took was the sound of his voice to transport me back. That calm, even, arrogant, calculating tone that never rises in pitch and yet orders, criticizes, punishes, demeans me. Fear returns instantly as I’m reminded of the times he’d lose his temper or take a ruthless and often unfounded revenge on an adversary because he got off on being the judge, jury, and executioner. And his methodical ways of putting me back in line.
“Now, now, Gertrude.” It’s his warning tone. The condescending Do as I say so you won’t cause me to do something I’ll regret tone. The one that used to make me want to try to be as small as possible to avoid the dead zone from the fallout of his temper. “Did you miss me as much as I missed you?”
I swallow the bile that threatens to rise and take another deep breath. “No, Ethan, I didn’t miss you at all.” My voice is quiet, but at least its even tone doesn’t reflect the fear ricocheting within me.
“Amusing, Gertrude.” Disdain. His voice drips with it. “As you were. Take your bra off and turn around. Now.”
My eyes flick around the room. To my purse on the bed with my cell inside. I wonder if Nick would be able to hear me scream next door through the closed bedroom windows.
The rush of blood is so loud in my ears I can’t hear anything but its whoosh as I answer. “No.”
His hand hits something—a loud crack of a noise—at the same time his voice thunders, “Turn. Around.” I physically jump at the sound, and the dead calm in his voice is even more frightening.
And as scared as I am with him at my back—my mind trying to calculate how far away he is from me or where he is in the room—I also don’t want him to think I’m obeying him. Or that I fear him. Because those two reactions will give him the one thing I refuse to give him ever again: power over me.
“Don’t be scared, Gertrude. It’s just me. Your husband.” His chuckle grates on my nerves.
Just jump.
The thought comes out of nowhere, but it is exactly what I needed to fortify everything I’ve learned about myself in the months since I left this asshole.
I bite back the bile threatening to rise again. Stiffen my spine. Lift my chin. And turn around to face Ethan. He’s sitting at my vanity, leaned against the back of the chair, perfectly groomed as always, but it’s the hatred in his eyes that reveals his state of mind.
“Get. Out.” I grate the words out between gritted teeth, not wanting him to see my chin tremble.
The sound of his laughter fills my bedroom, but it’s anything but humorous. It’s empty, chilling. “I’m just here to take back what’s mine.” A lift of one eyebrow. A mocking curl of his lips. His unrelenting stare, which causes chills to race up and down my spine.
“Fuck. You.”
He’s on me in a flash. Closes the distance in a split second of time. I don’t even have time to scream. Maybe I do. I don’t know. There’s a sound. A crash. A thump on the floor. His voice full of anger. Me trembling: my body, my mind, my heart.
But even through the haze of fear, I do something I never did before. I fight back. Using my hands and nails and legs and feet. Whatever it takes to stop him. I’m a ball of pent-up rage and hurt, even though I know I’m no match for his strength, honed by obsessive workouts and the most expensive supplements on the market. Yet, still, I fight.
I aim for connecting my knee to his crotch, to deliver the only kind of blow I know might incapacitate him, but he blocks it. I’m not sure how long we struggle. Seconds. Minutes. They feel like hours.
My lungs scream. My muscles burn. The sting of pain from his blows to subdue me doesn’t register. Only my rage. Only my hate. Only my fear.
And in some move I can’t even comprehend, he spins me so that I’m facedown on my bed, his knee pressed to my spine, my arms wrenched behind my back with one of his hands while the other fists in my hair.
My face is pressed into the mattress. The thick comforter smothers my mouth and nose. My lungs scream for air. I thrash my head from side to side, try to heave in a breath, try to think clearly, when all I can focus on is the comforter hot beneath my mouth as I suck in any air I can get through it. Panic. I’m no match for his strength.
And just as my mind starts to grow fuzzy and weird spots dance in the blackness of my closed eyes, I yelp out when he yanks my ponytail back sharply, lifting my face off the mattress.
There is no fear. There is no thought other than air. Gulp. Gasp. Suck it in as fast as I can.
I know this game. He’s played it before. Deprive and demand.
Show who’s in control.
Prove that I’m weaker.
But I don’t care. Don’t have the wherewithal to focus on how to prevent the next push into the mattress, because when your body is starved for air, it’s your only focus. How to get more. How to store it. How to inhale it. How much you’re going to get before it’s taken away again.
His breathing hitches from his exertion. The warm pant of it hits my ear as he leans down over me. “Are you this disobedient with your new boyfriend, Getty?” he sneers my new name. His fist twists in my hair, but I bite back the yelp of pain.
Don’t let him have the power.
I close my eyes and wince at the pinpricks of pain all over my scalp. At the fire still burning in my lungs. At the ache where his knee digs relentlessly against my backbone, and the strain on my rotator cuffs as he pulls my arms up from my back.
“Does he know what a worthless whore you are? How your husband had to fuck other women because you couldn’t satisfy him?” I draw in a ragged breath. The affirmation still hurts all this time later, although I always suspected it. The sudden meetings. The subtle scent of perfume on his clothes. And even in my oxygen-deprived state of mind, I know that my marriage wasn’t a marriage by any real standards, and yet hearing the truth still stings. “Yeah.” He laughs. Taunts me. “I’d leave you with your listless legs spread in our bed and go straight to another’s. A real woman who could pleasure a man.”
“I doubt you pleasured her.” The comment surprises me, coming out of nowhere, and my own voice sounds unrecognizable. Calm. Mocking. Confident. Something I’m sure I’ve never sounded like when responding to one of Ethan’s verbal blows.
My chuckle follows the remark and it’s audibly laced with a taunting tone. And I swear I must be going mad, because when he orders me to shut up, I just laugh harder. Yes, he’s in complete dominance over my body, but my mind remains crystal clear and I’m so fed up with everything about him and this absurd situation.
Why come to take me back if you need others to get you off?
But before I can voice it, my face meets the mattress again and what I thought humorous moments before now becomes a struggle to draw in air. To feed my body. And my mind.
I tell myself to calm down as the panic returns. Tell myself that if I struggle, I’ll need more air, and I can’t get more air, so I’ll pass out sooner and he’ll do who knows what with me.
Then as the seconds drag on . . .
. . . and on . . .
. . . and on . . .
My thoughts align one last time as the edges of my mind start to turn fuzzy.
With a clarity I’ve never known before, a new thought crosses my mind: He’s going to kill me.
My vision turns white. Head feels light.
Before, I was needed in his life. I was Damon Caster’s daughter. A symbol of their union. Of his future.
Did I fear him? Absolutely. Did I worry if he’d kill me? Never. He was too greedy to risk ruining that relationship with my father.
I was the glue in their business dealings. The flag raised in victory. The mascot for their world domination.
And now that I’ve walked away, I single-handedly proved to them that their relationship is solid without me. That I’m not needed.
My limbs are heavy. My chest has a wildfire blazing inside it. My thoughts fade. . . .
The sharp pull on my hair as he yanks my head up means oxygen. It means another chance. Tears sting my eyes as I gasp like a fish out of water. And when he hauls my body up to a standing position, the removal of his knee from my back opens up more space for my lungs to expand.
My legs are rubbery. My head still woozy. Was this his plan? Make me weak. Find the submission I refused to give him by starving my lungs and forcing me into our old roles.
When I open my eyes, he’s face-to-face with me. His hazel eyes hold the fraudulent apology he’s given me so many times over the years. The one I believed in at the beginning of our marriage. How I owned the guilt he placed on me when he said my disobedience made him do it. There was a cycle of my acceptance, his apology, then his promise never to do it again.
All the while there was also shame that would eat me whole, gnaw at and erode my self-esteem, because I knew I was never at fault. That he didn’t really mean his apologies. That he was to blame. He was always to blame.
The apologetic look went hand in hand with his actions that broke me. As a human. As a woman. From feeling worthwhile. It was the catalyst that stole so much from me. The me that I’m trying to get back now.
So I find strength in the memory. Find myself clinging there, holding on tight to her, and meeting him stare for stare.
“Why, Ethan?” My voice is hoarse but steady. “If I’m such a horrible wife . . . then why do you want me back?”
His jaw pulses as he tries to wither my resolve with his stare. “Because image is everything, Gertrude,” he says, running the back of his hand down my cheek. “And the Caster name is the ticket to getting it.”
As prepared as I am for his kiss when he leans forward, I can’t choke back the disgust. I thrash my head, but the unforgiving twist of my hair makes me freeze as his lips bruise mine. Revulsion ripples through me. The bile returns.
“Do you believe the lies he tells you?” he whispers against my ear.
He holds my hair hostage so I can’t look to see what he’s doing.
“Does he tell you you’re beautiful? And smart? And funny?”
I close my eyes momentarily. Shutting out his words. Not wanting Zander anywhere near Ethan in my mind.
“All lies, Gertrude.” He singsongs the words in a hauntingly childlike tone that creates goose bumps all over my skin.
His free hand haphazardly hits against my lower belly. Then I hear the telltale sound of a belt buckle jingling as the end goes through the loop, the metal clasp hitting against itself.
No.
“Does he promise you things only I can give you?”
The sound of a zipper being unzipped.
My mind shutting down.
I choke on the rising bile. Knowing what comes next. Panic returns. Hatred so strong the thought of having to touch him makes me physically ill.
“I deserve a proper apology, Gertrude.”
My mind disassociating from this reality.
“No.” I swallow over the lump in my throat. Fight back my fear. Prevent the tears from welling in my eyes. Try to hold on to Getty Caster as he attempts to strip her away, layer by layer, until she becomes Gertrude Caster-Adams again.
Weak. Compliant. Fearful.
“No. Is. Not. An. Option.”
Our eyes war. His telling me now. Mine telling him to fuck off.
He yanks on my ponytail again. Trying to force me to drop to my knees like I would have done before. Take his punishment by giving him a proper apology without a fight, because a fight just made the repercussions that much worse. In my old life, giving in was the only way to survive.
But not now. Not here. Not the new me.
“Now!” His demand eats up the air in the room, but I remain standing tall, jaw clenched, hands fisted, resolve unwavering.
“No.” It’s the only thing I can say without betraying my courageous facade with the fear and panic and desperation overwhelming me internally.
Pain radiates as he tugs harder than before on my hair; I yelp automatically. But this time he steps up against me. “Yes. You remember how to do this. You’ll get on your knees. You’ll suck my dick. You’ll take it all the way to the back of your throat. You will not gag. You will not move.”
He uses my silence to his advantage. To emphasize what he expects. To draw out my fear. To unnerve me. To let me think long and hard about what I know from experience will happen next.
“It’s not my problem if you can’t breathe, Gertrude. You just proved to me you can hold your breath an awfully long time . . . so no excuses. But be warned.” He chuckles maniacally, letting me know he’s really getting off on this. “The next punishment hurts a helluva lot more than my dick blocking your thro—”
Chapter 26
ZANDER
Your head’s in la-la land, Donavan. Better get it the fuck outta there quick or you’re gonna forget a helluva lot more than just your cell phone next time.
You ask a woman what her point-of-no-return spot is and the answer is supposed to be simple. My neck. My ear. My nipples. My clit. Hell, even her G-spot if she’s blunt.
But then there’s Getty. Answering me with a sweet expression and innocent body language casual as can be . . . but her words? Fuck, they were a seduction all their own. A verbal striptease. Giving me an answer but then telling me so much more than a simple location on her body. Instead she told me how it made her feel.
Fucking feelings, man. They’ll get you into trouble every damn time.
No exceptions.
Good thing I like a little trouble.
My mood’s pretty damn great with my mind full of ideas of exactly how I want to touch her when she gets off work. The exact spots where I’ll tempt and test. The decision I’ll force her to make after I tease her mercilessly. Maybe edge her out, withhold her climax until she decides on her p
oint of no return.
Damn. The options are endless. Lucky fucking me.
I glance at my watch as I jog up the front steps. Eight minutes. Not bad time. The mechanic can’t be too pissed for the short delay. After all it’s his fault he doesn’t remember the replacement engine parts Smitty is already having delivered so he’d know which ones he needs to order. But I do. On an e-mail, on my phone.
The phone I left on the kitchen counter.
So he can bitch all he wants about the twenty-minute round-trip for me to go back and get it. It’s a helluva lot more convenient to wait the twenty minutes rather than eat the cost of shipping for duplicate parts he’s supposed to remember.
“Just where I left it,” I murmur as I grab the phone and head back to the door, surprised Getty’s not home getting ready for work. Maybe she’s already come and gone. There are flowers on the counter, but there’s no perfume. No barely there scent like after she usually sprays it. The thought lingers, bugs the shit out of me as I start to close the front door.
“It’s not my problem if you can’t breathe, Gertrude.”
The words ring loud and clear right before the door shuts. Instinct takes over at the sound of the unfamiliar voice down the hall. I’ve never heard it before but know instantly whom it belongs to.
“. . . hold your breath . . .”
I need to get to her. Getty.
“. . . be warned . . .” His laughter.
“. . . The next punishment . . .”
There’s a split second after I come through her doorway to assess the situation. My brain takes snapshots of the scene. Getty: eyes wide, lip trembling, fear on her face. Fear. Fear. All I see is fear. Ethan: pants pushed down, muscles tense, his hands on Getty.
His. Hands. On. Getty.
My only coherent thought. Then rage. Bloodred.
“Let. Her. Go.” My voice, but I don’t recognize it. Don’t care, because my only focus is getting him away from Getty. His hands off her.