My gaze drifts to a quieter corner, to where Devin holds a plate and with a tenderness that seems almost grotesque in this company, he carefully feeds his blind wife a morsel of cake. It’s a display of devotion, but I see it for what it is: another form of ownership.
He controls her entire world, her very sustenance, just like I do my woman. It is just that he does it softer.
His brother, Conrad is near me, standing behind his wife’s wheelchair. His grip on the handles is possessive, anchoring. Brynn is slumped in the seat, a crooked, almost drunken smile plastered on her face as one hand rests on the vast, taut globe of her belly. Her fifth child? Sixth maybe? I’ve lost count. Conrad catches my eye and mutters his congratulations with a smirk playing on his lips.
I know what that smirk is for. I know he thinks he’s won a little mark in the scorecard we keep but the reality is his attempt to fuck with me only forged me into something harder, sharper. He gave me the excuse I didn’t know I needed to shed the last of my leniency. He handed me the key to the final lock on my own brutal nature.
My eyes leave his confused face and find the centrepiece of the room. My darling wife.
She is propped up in a high-backed chair, like a doll on display. The white dress she wore for our ceremony, the one I tore off her, has been draped over her limbs in some pitiful attempt at decorum.
The fabric gapes, and through it, I can see all that delicious pale skin of her thighs, the curve of her flesh. Most notably, I can make out the dark peaks of her nipples, pressing against the thin material. Only one of her nipples is pierced now, but the diamond twinkles brightly for everyone to see.
The sight sends a familiar, possessive thrill through me.
Her face is still a mess, but it’s healing. The bruising has faded from violent purple to a sickly yellow-green, and the swelling has gone down. The patchwork of stitched back flesh is now just pink, raised scars. I study them now, not with the disgust or pity I might have felt weeks ago, but with a sense of pride.
These marks are a testament.
They are proof of her weakness, yes but also of mine, now conquered.
They are the evidence of the world’s cruelty, a cruelty I have now harnessed and surpassed.
I will be crueller, so the world cannot hurt what is mine ever again. I will be the only source of her pain, and thus, the only source of her solace.
Around her throat, gleaming under the soft lights is the massive diamond collar I bought her back in Rome. It was a gift then. Now, it is a permanent fixture. I’ve had it amended, improved, had it adjusted to elicit a certain shock if she chooses to misbehave. I also had the clasp replaced with a solid, unbreakable band of platinum, sealed by a jeweller.
It cannot be removed.
It is as permanent as my grip on her fucking soul.
It winks and sparkles, like a blindingly beautiful shackle, and how it suits her.
I take a slow sip of champagne, the bubbles sharp on my tongue. The murmurs of the party are a dull roar in my ears, but I can pick out the specific sounds from behind me. The low, gruff laughter of the men I’ve invited for later. The clink of their glasses. They are here under the pretext of celebrating my union, but they know. They know what the real celebration entails. Anticipation hangs in the air, a predatory scent.
It is time.
I set my glass down on a passing tray and cross the room. My footsteps are silent on the thick rug. All eyes follow me, but I have eyes only for her.
As I approach, she stirs. Her head, which was lolling slightly, lifts. The doped, hazy look in her visible eye sharpens into a flicker of alarm. She tries to speak, but only a faint, whimpering murmur escapes her bruised lips.
I lean down, my body blocking her from the view of the others. My lips brush against the delicate emptiness of where her ears once existed, and I feel her shudder.
“Shhh, Dumpling,” I whisper, my voice a tender caress that belies the words. “Don’t worry. Don’t make a sound.”
I slide one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. Despite her weight she feels so fragile, like a bundle of broken bird bones and fear. I lift her effortlessly from the chair and she instinctively clutches at the front of my shirt, her fingers trembling.
“We have hours of celebrating ahead of us,” I continue, my tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. I hold her close against my chest, feeling the frantic rabbit-thump of her heart against mine. “And I have a very special evening planned for us. For all of us.”
I turn, cradling her, and face the room. The conversations have died down.
I incline my head to a few of them, silently signalling our exit.
From this vantage point, I can see the double doors to the adjoining room, the space I have prepared. And I can see the men, all five of them, standing by those doors.
They are not smiling.
They are waiting.
