by R. J. Lewis
My breath escaped in a whoosh, surprised. “All for clothing?”
“Clothing is an expression of one’s self. It may seem small to you, but it has tangible meaning for others.”
I felt hot with shame. “I didn’t mean to downplay that, I’m sorry. I just had no idea.”
Her smile was soft. “No offense taken.”
“You’re right, though,” I expressed, nodding at her as I looked over the dress. “I feel happy in this. I feel…like it’s me. It’s what I would have wanted. You nailed it, and I’m grateful to be wearing it.”
She looked genuinely happy about that. “Let’s match that through your hair and make-up.”
Sofia called in the other ladies and together they began their work on me. I had to remove the dress and wear a tea length slip that helped to accentuate my form. It was so comfortable. Even the lacey underwear they’d given me didn’t make me squirm. I wasn’t used to this. I’d expected to be squeezed like a sausage again – not wear fabrics that actually fit me. My hair was up in a nice updo. There was no camera in my face as they worked on my make up. They didn’t cake my skin up with layers of bullshit. All the colours were natural. My face still felt light when they finished. My nails were cleaned, shaped, and cut short; the nail polish was a light cotton candy pink.
By the time they were done, I was staring at myself in the mirror and feeling the strangest things happening in my chest.
“Do you like it?” Sofia asked, standing alongside me while the ladies began tidying up.
“I don’t look like a two-bit hooker squeezed into a ballroom dress with a bow the size of Pluto on my hip,” I said. She laughed, and I tried to laugh too, but for some stupid reason I felt tears prick my eyes. I had to turn away so she wouldn’t see.
“Are you alright?” she asked, concerned, her laughter dying immediately.
I cleared my throat. “Uh, yeah, I’m fine.”
How could I explain to her that if I would have chosen, it would have been this exact look I would have gone for? She would tell me to be happy about that. She wouldn’t understand the gravity of what that meant for me: someone who wasn’t allowed to make decisions, or pick their own fucking dress, or even groom for that matter.
“Now come wear your bridal shoes,” she said, excited. “The best part of it all.”
She opened a box on the dresser and removed white, flat ballerina shaped patent leather shoes. They were each fitted with lace to wrap around the ankle with stitched flower designs along the front of the shoe. It was simple and elegant. Exactly what I liked.
“Let me guess,” I whispered, “he picked this too.”
“Yes.”
And, of course, exactly my size.
An hour had past from start to finish and we were completely done and ready. She gave me a stunning bouquet of pink roses that I clasped so tight my hands hurt. I followed her out of the room, and she led me down long spiral stairs to the bottom. She explained the ceremony was taking place outside under a pavilion and that I could go straight to my honeymoon lodge after we said out vows. I was half-listening. At some point, I’d gone pretty much deaf, listening as my heart beats thudded in my ears.
This was happening, wasn’t it?
I was walking toward the inevitable and still fighting to believe it. For so long, I knew it was going to happen, but it always felt like it was around the corner.
My feet moved silently on the marble floor. The opulence of the home was staggering. With the classical furniture, glittering chandelier and rich light colours, it felt like a palace. But I was hardly taking it in. I moved like a robot as Sofia led the way. I didn’t hyperventilate like I did with Tony. This was different. This felt…realer than that phony arrangement. Maybe because I kissed my would-be husband. Maybe because he got to me like no one else had. Maybe because I never communicated so personally to another human being like I did with him, and most of our language had been silent to start with.
“Follow the trail,” she told me as we got to the opened glass door to the backyard. “It was a romantic little touch I added in.”
I nodded at her, unable to form words. She gave me a light hug and wished me good luck. I stepped out in the humid air. It was gently spitting out, with the sky mostly overcast. I followed a trail of stones and rose petals to the pavilion. She was right. It was a very nice touch. It felt romantic. Which was laughable. Reaper – fuck, the name Reaper screamed it all – did not seem the romantic type.
I kept my eyes downcast, focusing intently on the petals. At some point I knew I had to look up. It took everything in me to, and when I did, I paused mid-step for a beat or two, looking at the tall, white wooden pavilion, bordered with red and white roses.
There were only two people standing there.
One was the clergyman. The other…was Reaper, and he looked totally different. He was wearing a deep blue suit, open at the jacket, revealing a very much tailored blue vest, white dress shirt, and stunning white tie. His face was clean shaven, and his hair was tied back nicely. It suited him, this gentleman sort of look. Even though I knew the savage body that lay beneath the clean-cut exterior was far from gentlemanly.
He watched me intently as I practically inched to them. For the first time, I noticed a different expression adorn his face. He looked genuinely awestruck. It filled me with confidence to move forward a little faster. My blood was rushing through my body. Butterflies danced fitfully in my stomach. I stepped under the pavilion and stopped in front of him, looking him over with equal wonderment.
“You look good,” I stuttered out.
I swear he looked nervous for a splitting second, but he buried it away with that self-assured cocky ass smile. “I ain’t in my element right now.”
“And you think I am?” I asked, laughing lightly.
“You’re used to playing dress up.”
“I’m not used to wearing something this comfortable.”
“You like it?” He was genuinely asking.
I gave him a strange look. “You really just went for what you wanted when you put me in this dress?”
He looked me over. “You don’t like my taste?”
“On the contrary,” I said. “I just expected more tits coming from you.”
“The tits are supposed to be for my eyes only.”
“It’s just you and me. There’s no one else here.”
“Who the fuck would we want here anyway?”
“All my friends,” I replied, sarcastically.
“I think we can count on one hand how many of those you have.”
“Okay. Then all of yours.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Feisty, my guys are thunderous fucks who drink like booze is water and fuck anything within two feet of ‘em. Not the kind of guys you’d want here in the middle of the fucking jungle.”
“Yeah, we’d need too many jungle prostitutes for that.”
“Then it wouldn’t be a wedding, would it?”
“It’d be an orgy.”
“Exactly. See, I thought ahead.”
I laughed, my cheeks warming as his heated eyes took me in. “You’re…exactly right.”
He was. Who the hell would I have invited to this make-belief wedding? Only…it didn’t feel all that make-belief.
The clergyman looked deeply disturbed as he stood there, overhearing our conversation while uncomfortably looking down at the words he’d have to say to us.
“You’re beautiful,” Reaper suddenly said, cutting the humour and looking deadly serious.
My heart squeezed painfully. I tried to smile. I couldn’t. Instead, I forced a small nod and muttered shyly, “I don’t know your name, Reaper.”
The smile he gave me then was larger than life. “Remy.” He put a hand to his chest. “Remy Martinez at your service.”
I didn’t get the “at your service” part, but he seemed to be triggered by a memory saying that. A good memory judging by that smile. I’d have to get to the bottom of that story.
I’d have to get to the bottom of Remy Martinez in general to survive a whole lifetime with him.
“Alright, Remy,” I whispered, tasting his name on my tongue for the first time. “Let’s get this bullshit done with.”
Nodding, his face turned dark as he barked at the clergyman to, “Hurry the fuck up.”
Twenty-six
Liv
He took me to a wooden lodge on stilts with a palm-woven roof not far from the pavilion we said our vows in. We took a stone path there leading straight to its worn, wooden staircase. I was breathing heavy the entire walk there, completely aware we had eyes on us everywhere. His men were never far, and there seemed to be a manor worker lurking close-by every time I built the courage to look up and glance.
How he had men here confirmed what I had suspected upon arriving here. This had been planned meticulously. He had never intended on marrying me in that nasty room.
I’d been played again.
He’d thought about this a lot.
Reaper didn’t seem to mind I was trailing behind him, and it made it easier not to have to look him in the face. It’d been hard enough saying “I do” with his deep, burning brown eyes staring into my own. His hair had loosened from the back. Tendrils of it fell over his crisp, white button-up. The man was so broad, so much larger than me, I could fit in his shadow. The scent of him wafted to me every step of the way, bringing me closer to the memory of him over top of me in that disgusting room, knowing soon enough he’d be on top of me again and in me for the first time.
The thought alone made me want to hunch over, but I resisted. Instead, I wrapped an arm around my stomach and told myself to breathe.
He got to the door of the lodge, pulled out a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Then he pushed it open and waited for me to go in first. I moved past him quickly, stepping through and creating as much distance as possible from him.
My heart hadn’t slowed down once. I felt shaky all the way to the tips of my fingers. Aware of what was to come, a powerful force of resistance moved within me. He didn’t follow straight away. I reached five or so feet before my body turned sideways to sneak a look at him. He slowly came in, staring right at me, seeming to already read my hostility.
Looking away, I quickly took in my surroundings. The entrance was wide and open, leading to a rustic kitchen on my right and an open living room straight ahead. There were large windows in the living room, and I could see the view from here, of a curved river and endless jungle. This was the total opposite of the barred hovel I was in.
He shut the door and I heard the click of the lock in place, alerting me back to him. He remained rooted beside the door, watching me.
I wasn’t going to break the silence. What was there to be said? We were here for one reason and one reason only. I moved away, treading backwards into the kitchen. I felt like a cornered prey, because he advanced with one slow step, his eyes now roaming me.
He wouldn’t force himself on me just like that, right? He’d resisted before. Plus, he’d been cheeky in the pavilion. He wasn’t a rapist. He said so himself. Yet…why did I feel suddenly so cold and afraid?
I was off-limits to him before. Forbidden fruit, he’d said. Now I wasn’t. Now…none of our challenges meant a thing anymore. No more push and pull.
No more fight.
My mind raced. I didn’t realize I’d let go of the bouquet until it hit the floor, touching my foot. I looked down at it, feeling out of sorts. Then I looked at him. He was standing still, watching my entire reaction. He was finally seeing the headcase that I was. The way I morphed back and forth into two different people; the first person was a defiant smart mouth; the second was a frightened child locked inside a grown ass woman.
“Olivia,” he said, solemnly, “take it easy. You’re freaking out.”
I hadn’t freaked out like this since the night I’d held the blade to his throat. I was feeling those exact fears, only infinitely worse. And just thinking about that night had me scanning the counters quickly, taking sight of the knife block beside the sink. I reached for it quickly, pulling a knife out. My heart sank when I realized how small it was. A fucking steak knife. But I didn’t have time to replace it because he’d taken another step, and I was moving backwards again. There was a weary look in his eye.
“Really,” he said in that deep voice of his, his brows shooting up in mock surprise. “This again?”
I frowned, almost tempted to acknowledge how stupid this was. “You didn’t think I would try?” Even I sounded disappointed. “Haven’t I defied you enough?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking amused now. “I thought you would be more creative the next time. I didn’t take you to recycle the same lame attempts as before.”
“Lame?” I scoffed, not moving now because he had stopped, and we were a good four feet from each other. “I could have killed you.”
His amusement didn’t lessen. “Jesus, this again? You really thought I put it there by mistake.”
“It doesn’t matter. That was then. This is different now.”
“Put the knife down,” he then demanded. “You’ll just hurt yourself.”
I gripped it tighter. “No.”
“It’s a cheap fucking steak knife. I doubt you could cut bread with it.”
“I can try.”
His eyes dug into mine, and I could see the patience bleeding out of him now. “So, what happens next then, little rebel? You going to provoke me? Going to spring at me with that knife until I have no choice but to rip it out of your hand and possibly hurt you in the process?”
“I’ll stab you,” I spat out.
“You think I’m frightened of a little stab?” he returned, wryly. “Didn’t get a good look at my skin before? I’m surprised, since you couldn’t seem to look anywhere else.”
As if to prove a point, he began unbuttoning his vest and shirt, splaying it open in front of me. My eyes dropped to his defined chest, the tattoos, the muscles cutting into his stomach, and to the gashes and thick scars decorating him in the most painful places. My mouth fell open. I’d seen him shirtless, but never in this lighting. Never so vividly.
“You’ve been hurt,” I murmured, disturbed.
His eyes came alive. “You should see what happened to the others.”
A chill went down my spine. He took another step to me, and I backed up, until my back was against the corner where the fridge was. He was cautious now, taking measured, slow steps, his eyes moving from me to the steak knife. I felt skittish, angered by his relaxed nature. It wasn’t fair he was so composed, and I was a nervous wreck.
“Olivia,” he said in warning, snapping my attention to him. “Let go of the knife.”
I still didn’t. I feared what followed. Of how painful the next hour was going to be with him inside me. I wasn’t prepared. No matter how many times I ran through the mental exercise of losing my virginity, it never dulled the fear. I thought of Tony. Of knives inside me.
“You’ve been in my bed every night,” he said. “Nothing’s different.”
He was right. I knew that. I just couldn’t seem to get my body to cooperate.
Reaper lunged at me suddenly, grabbing at my arm quicker than I could blink. He pressed it against the wall above my head, and I squirmed, seething beneath him. He forced his hand up my arm, all the while trapping me with his body, leaving not one part of me untouched. His eyes drilled into mine, the coldness present as ever, glaring into me, into my soul. I felt his anger inside me, a coldness that trumped mine.
“I said it before when you had the chance,” he growled down at me, lowering his face so his mouth was practically touching mine. “I told you to do it, didn’t I? Why didn’t you?”
His hand wrapped painfully around mine, and he forced it down, so it was in between us, the steak knife literally inches from my eyes. Then he brought it to his throat, exactly where his pulse was. There was a monstrous look about him as he did it. He was positively animalistic, and I felt fri
ghtened for him. For the crazed side that he seemed to have no control over.
“Do it,” he whispered. “Here’s your second opportunity. Gut me, little rebel. Go on.”
Tears sprang to my eyes, shocked at how frighteningly serious he was. There was a dead look about him. His eyes went distant, like he accepted it.
Soulless.
I understood that more than ever. I felt it. I felt the death in him.
“No,” I panted out, quaking. “Let go. Now! Let go because I can’t.”
But he wouldn’t let go. He kept it there, kept the space suffocated between us. I felt his heat against me. His body was draped around me, and I had nowhere to look but at his face and eyes. Haunted dark eyes. Lips that were pursed and determined. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, transferring it to him because that’s how fucking close he was.
“Remy,” I whispered, pleadingly, using his real name. “Let go. I want the other you back. Please. I want the other you, Remy. This was stupid. Come back.”
Just like that, his face went flat, and he let go of my hand, and I let go of the steak knife, desperate to get rid of it. It fell and shuddered on the floor beside our feet. I was shaking, and confused because he was still pressed against me, still staring down at me.
“Let’s not play with knives anymore, Olivia,” he said, vacantly. “But keep defying me. It keeps my interest piqued just enough to stretch this out.”
My head shot up to look at him. “Keep what stretched out?”
His smirk returned. “You know what.”
The consummation. “I’m fucking batshit scared, Remy. I wish you would have just taken it from me the moment you met me.”
“I’m a monster, not a rapist. We established that already.” With that, he pulled away, replacing his body with air. It made me feel cold.