I brush my teeth three times, trying to get rid of the taste. Then I climb into bed, my side, not his, and pull the covers up to my chin.
When Saint comes back twenty minutes later, I pretend to be asleep.
He doesn't wake me, allowing me at least a little bit of dignity.
Just climbs into his side of the bed and turns off the light.
In the darkness, I count my breaths.
One. Two. Three.
Anything to not think. Not feel. Not exist.
The pattern continues for weeks.
We’ve gone back to the clinical nature of our forced copulation.
Days blur together. Saint comes at eleven. I lie down. He fucks me. I do everything I can to stay still and motionless. He comes. He leaves.
Sometimes he's detached.
Sometimes he's rougher, as though he needs to lose himself in my body.
I hate those nights. Because I too want to get lost. But I’ve already forgotten myself once, and I refuse to allow it to happen again.
I spend my days bored as hell. I no longer lock myself in the room. Instead, I go outside. Take walks in the garden, go shopping at Bergdorf's. I try to appear normal. I even go and see Sera once, but it's too hard.
On day twenty-one, I wake up to cramping. When I go to the bathroom, I see it—blood.
My period.
I'm not pregnant.
Relief and dread wash over me in equal measure.
Relief because I have one more month of not being tied to Saint permanently. No baby feels like there’s a possibility of freedom, of escape.
But also dread because it means we need to continue this nightly routine that is slowly eroding me.
I think I might break after all.
I tell Saint that night when he comes in.
"My period started."
He pauses, belt half-unbuckled. "You're sure?"
I roll my eyes. Is he serious?
He stares at me, waiting for an answer.
"Very."
Something flickers across his face. Disappointment? Frustration? Hard to tell with him.
"Alright. We'll start again when it's over."
"It'll be about a week."
