1
Arianette
The days passin glimpses of sunlight and shadows, the nights in darkness and solitude. Iron walls, hard floors, and the tight, stretched feeling in my chest.
No one speaks to me.
No one touches me.
Wait.Dark panic rises up my spine.Am I even here?
Yes.I pinch my skin, digging my broken nails into my thighs.I’m here. I’m alive.
Just locked in another cage.
The solitude is interrupted by the quiet clink of keys, with gestures of silent instruction. I’m required to be clean. To eat. To swallow the capsules set in front of me. I put my face in the sunlight for ten minutes a day and stretch my aching, cramping muscles. The requirements are civilized–just like my captor. Myhusband. There is nobarbarism here.
Just contrition.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
The words echo in my mind, never uttered. Do I believe them? Am I sorry? Do I feel bad for setting the Manor on fire and killing my uncle?
I know the truth. I feel it deep in my gut.
No, I do not.
Even in the confined, small space, I’m not idle. I was raised better. I was raised to serve, to attend. I use the time to learn about the man I’m bound to.
I study his habits and routines. His tendencies and quirks. There’s a particular towel he likes to use after shaving and a well-worn pair of slippers placed next to the bed, the suede molded to the shape of his feet. There’s the ring on his finger. The one given to him when he became King.
He never takes it off.
From dawn to darkness, the days pass. Three? Four? I’ve lost count. I watch, peering out from behind the iron scrollwork, quietly absorbing everything about the man I married as he prepares for each day. Graves wakes him early, rousing him from a restless sleep. He rises, stretching out the corded muscles in his arms and back, running his fingers through the dark hair on his chest. He sleeps naked, in nothing but the soft fabric of a mask, his features hidden. When he rises, I get a view of his hard erection jutting from between his thighs as he walks to the patio just outside his suite. I can’t see what he does there, but I hear it, the slosh of water and muttered curses. Some kind of ice bath, I’ve come to realize, timed by Graves, his soothing voice carried in from the outside. A punishment? Self-inflicted torture? I’m not sure. When he reemerges, his skin is pink from the cold, his body dripping and wet, a black towel slung around his slim, firm hips.
His routine, like mine, is set. Like the smoothie prepared by Graves, or the mug he drinks his coffee from. The pottery looks handcrafted, mottled blues and greens, with a small brownish chip alongthe rim. The coffee inside is black, other than a dose of oil blended into a froth. My husband reads the paper and studies a rolled-up sheath of paper, stored securely in a tube with a seal on the side, embossed with silver initials, SM.
Strong Manor.
He never looks at me. Not once. But he’s aware. I can sense it. Smell it, low and cloying in the air. The night we shared meant something. I know it did. I felt it, and he did too. In my mind, I plead with him to release me from the cage, to throw me on the bed and fuck me until there’s nothing left but me and him.
It never happens.
He leaves. For hours on end, but I still absorb him. His scent. His secrets.
From my cage, I can see that the photograph of his wife and son has been removed from the dresser. Out of guilt? Maybe. He’d spoken of them in harsh, regretful terms. Yet still…
Yet still, he had no hesitation in taking me as his bride. Giving me his vow. Claiming me in his bed.
Makingme his own.
The photograph has been replaced by something new, someone new–me–living and breathing. Locked up tight.
Running a finger over the brass charm affixed to the collar around my neck, I feel the ridges of the pentagram, and I swallow, the band tightening. It’s a reminder of who I belong to and who is in control. He acts as if I’m not here, but there’s no mistaking that he keeps me close. That he wants me near. That his collar around my throat signals to the world that I belong to him.
The King,my husband, can pretend all he wants, but I’m still here.
And that’s all that matters.
