I feel his hips move, feel him trying to push inside. But I'm too tense, too tight, too scared, and it hurts. It hurts, and he's not even really in yet, and I can't breathe?—
"Stop." My voice comes out high and panicked. "Stop, please, it hurts?—"
He freezes. For a long moment, he doesn't move, doesn't breathe. Then he pulls back, rolling off me so quickly I feel cold where his body was.
"Fuck," he says again, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to me. His hands are in his hair, his shoulders rising and falling with harsh breaths. "Fuck."
I lie there, my nightgown rucked up around my waist, my legs still spread, feeling exposed and humiliated and utterly worthless.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm sorry, I can try again, I just need?—"
"No." His voice is hard. Final. "That's not happening."
“I can try?—”
“I can’t,” he bites out. He turns slightly, motioning to his lap, and I catch sight of what was thick and hard a moment ago, now soft and much smaller. “I barely fucking got it up the first time, what with you shaking and crying. I can’t do it now.Fuck. I can’t fucking do this. This isn’t fucking happening.”
The reality of what he’s saying hits me. He can't consummate the marriage. Can't go through with it.
Because I'm that repulsive. That undesirable. Too naïve and stupid.
The shame is overwhelming, crushing, suffocating. I feel the tears starting up again, and I wonder how many more times I’m going to cry before the night is over. Sean shoves himself up from the bed, muttering something under his breath that I don’t hear, except for a few words about thebloody fucking Councilas he walks to the minibar.
Great. I clench my teeth. He’s going to drink more. Maybe he thinks he can do it if he’s completely drunk. Although I thought I heard Siobhan say something once about how men can’t get it up—I wasn’t sure whatitwas, then—if they’re drunk, so maybe…
He reaches down to his overnight bag lying next to it, and unzips the top. Then he grabs a small glass shot bottle of whiskey, twists the top off, downs half of it, and pours the other half over his exposed forearm as I stare at him, so completely confused that I can’t even form a thought right now.
He strides back toward the bed, and I see a glint of something in his hand. A blade, I realize, through my fog of confusion. He’s holding a knife.
Fear rattles through me.Is he going to kill me? Is that how he’s going to get out of this? By killing his wife on his wedding night?Blaming it on someone else?
And then, as I’m lying there on the bed, frozen with fear, Sean drags the knife over the middle of his forearm, his jaw clenched.
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look like it hurts. I stare at him, horrified as blood wells up, dark and thick, running down his arm.
"What are you doing?" I scramble to sit up, horror replacing my shame. "Sean, what?—"
“Spread your legs,” he growls, and I obey without thinking, my brain completely locked up. He tilts his arm and lets a few drops of the blood drip onto the white sheets between my legs, then smears it across the fabric, making it look like?—
It clicks in that moment what he’s doing. He's faking it. Faking the consummation.
He wipes the knife on his pants, clicks it shut, and shoves it into his pocket, then strides to the bathroom without a word. A few minutes later, he comes out with a hand towel wrapped around his forearm, his expression just as cold and hard as ever.
"If anyone asks," he says, finally meeting my gaze, "I took your virginity tonight. You understand?"
I nod mutely, unable to form words.
"Good." He grabs his jacket from where he discarded it. "Get some sleep."
Then he's walking toward the door again—leaving me again—and I find my voice.
"Where are you going?" I manage, the words cracking. I feel like my head is spinning.
He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn't turn around. "Away from here. I'll be back in the morning."
"But—"
He walks out, and the door closes behind him, cutting off my protest.
