I'm eighteen years old, married to a man who despises me, and I've never felt more alone in my life.
The tears come harder, ugly sobs that shake my whole body. I curl up on the bed, still in the stupid white silk nightgown that was supposed to make him want me, and cry into the expensive pillows. Humiliation washes over me in hot waves, and I wish, more than anything, that I had a mother or a sister to talk to.A best friend. Siobhan was a bitch—I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, but it’s true—but she’d have ripped Sean apart for treating me like this. Maybe she or my mother could have told me what to do. How I’m supposed to act, what’s really supposed to happen, what I should expect.
I’m alone and going into this blind, unsure, and lost, and afraid, and the one person in the world who is tied to me for the rest of my life abandoned me as fast as he could. Before he even did thedutythat he talked about in our marriage counseling session.
I don’t know how much time passes. I sit there crying until my tears dry up, wiping at my cheeks and seeing the mascara stain the back of my hands. A few tears fall onto the white silk, leaving greyish splotches that ruin the pristine fabric. I’m a mess now, but I don’t care any longer. If he didn’t want me when I tried to look perfect, mascara stains and red eyes aren’t going to make the situation even worse.
I look at the clock, feeling hollow and exhausted. He’s been gone for nearly an hour. I wonder if he’s coming back at all.
Maybe he won't. Maybe he'll just leave me here, still a virgin and humiliated, and tomorrow the Council will annul the marriage and find some other solution to the problem of what to do with me.
Maybe that would be better.
Then the door opens, making me jump at the sound.
I sit up quickly, wiping at my face, trying to compose myself. But I know my eyes are red and swollen, and my face is blotchy and tear-stained. There's no hiding what I've been doing.
Sean steps into the room and closes the door behind him. He looks… different. More controlled, somehow. Like he's locked whatever he was feeling behind an impenetrable wall. His eyes are cold again, empty, showing nothing. I stand up quickly, smoothing down my nightgown and hoping he doesn’t noticewhere the tears fell on it, dabbing at my cheeks in hopes that he won’t be angry at me all over again for crying.
He doesn't apologize for leaving. Doesn't acknowledge my tears or my distress. He just looks at me with those empty eyes and says, "Get on the bed."
The words are flat, emotionless. It’s not a request.
I swallow hard, taking a shaky step back, but suddenly I can’t force myself to obey. My heart is racing so fast I feel dizzy. "Sean, I?—"
"Just do it, Maeve." His voice is harder now, impatient. "We need to get this done."
Get this done. Like it's a chore. Like I'm a task on a to-do list that needs to be checked off. I feel tears well up in my eyes again, but he’s right, isn’t he? This has to get done. No matter whether we want it or not, how unpleasant it might be, it has to happen. At least he came back.
I’m trembling all over again as I sit on the edge of the bed and scoot myself backward, lying back against the pillows. The white silk rides up my thighs, and I resist the urge to pull it down. What does it matter? He's about to see everything anyway.
He's about todoeverything. And I don’t even entirely understand what that everything entails.
Sean approaches the bed slowly, his movements controlled and deliberate. He kicks off his shoes near the door, leans down to take off his socks. He unbuckles his belt, and I tense at the clink of metal against metal, frozen in place on the white duvet. Sean looks up at me as he slides the leather loose from the loops. “Pull the comforter down,” he instructs harshly. “So you’re lying on the sheet. The Council will want to see it tomorrow.”
I stare at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Then, it clicks in my head. I’m supposed to bleed. They’ll want proof I was a virgin. As if I was ever going to be anything else, with how sheltered I’ve been all my life.
Still, I know better than to argue. I push myself up, awkwardly maneuvering the soft, expensive duvet down until it’s wadded at the foot of the bed and there’s only the crisp, cool white sheet beneath me. I lie back against the pillows again, shivering from cold and fear.
Sean’s belt is lying on the chair. He hasn’t moved to take any other piece of clothing off. He walks to the edge of the bed and sits down on it, just next to where my legs are stretched out and pressed tightly together, and I can see the tension in every line of his body. His jaw is clenched so tight I'm surprised his teeth don't crack.
"I'm going to touch you," he says, his voice rough. "I need to… prepare you. So it won't hurt as much."
Fear ripples through me, but I nod. What else can I do? I don’t want him to hurt me. I want to ask him what he means byprepare me, exactly, what he’s going to do, but I can’t force the words out. My teeth are almost chattering, and I clench them together to avoid Sean noticing.
He reaches out slowly, as if he’s having to force himself to do so. His hand settles on my knee, and I jump at the contact. His skin is warm, calloused, his touch firm but not rough. He slides his hand up my thigh, slowly, until he reaches the edge of the lace hem, and I can feel myself trembling under his palm.
"Try to relax," he says, though his tone suggests he knows how impossible that is.
His hand pushes my thigh to one side, then reaches over and quickly does the same with my other leg, pushing the hem of my nightgown further up my legs, almost exposing the intimate flesh beneath. But he doesn’t notice; he’s barely looking at me. Staring down at the bed as he unceremoniously brings his hand between my legs, and I feel a man’s fingers touch my most private, inner flesh for the first time.
A few times, in the privacy of my room, I’ve tried touching myself. It felt good, a shock of pleasure every time I stroked my damp, warm inner folds or toyed with the small, hard nub at the top. But that’s as far as I got. I never finished, never found that height of pleasure I’ve read about. But I do know if I’m aroused, I’m supposed to be wet. And I’m most certainly not, not right now.
When his fingers touch my bare flesh, I feel a jolt up my spine, a strange, overwhelming, shuddering sensation that’s not like anything I’ve felt before. Sean jerks his hand back, cursing aloud in Gaelic again, and glares at me.
“You’re not wearing anything under…” he breaks off, seemingly realizing the question is redundant. His eyes blaze at me. “Are you a virgin?” he demands. “Because if you’re not, the Council will annul this whole mess.”
Tears blur my vision as I smash my legs back together, bringing them up to my chest as I sit up and squirm away from him. “Of course I am,” I snap, biting back a sob. “No one has ever touched me. I’ve never even been kissed. I’ve never—” I stop abruptly, refusing to tell this cold, hateful man that I’ve never even given myself pleasure. He doesn’t deserve that information, not even if he is my husband.
