This morning I was a bachelor. Now I have a wife who doesn’t know what a pub is, who thinks separate bedrooms are divine punishment, and who looked at my phone as though I’d handed her a window to heaven. Not to mention, I married her in a cult ceremony that has zero legal standing in the state of Illinois.
Ma is going to have a stroke.
I scrub both hands down my face, sigh, and flop down, stretching out on one side of the bed.
This bed has been mine and mine alone for seven years. I bought the mattress during a bout of insomnia—top of the line, custom firmness, sheets imported from Portugal. I am particular about who enters my space. Meticulous about it. I’ve dated and enjoyed women’s company, but I’ve always been proprietorial about my space. I’ve never spent the night with a woman, and I’ve never allowed a woman here in my bed. Ever. My space has always been mine. No exceptions.
Now I’m waiting for my wife, whom I barely know, to finish showering so she can sleep beside me, and if I’m honest—brutally, uncomfortably honest—I like the idea.
I won’t touch her. Not that I’m not tempted, but I’ll keep my hands to myself. I know in her mind we’re married, and I’m her husband, but I doubt she’ll be too keen on being pawed by a man a few hours after meeting him. I’ll be sure to keep all my body parts on my side, even if it kills me—and it might.
The bathroom door opens.
Prudence pads into the bedroom on bare feet, her dark hair wet and falling past her shoulders. She’s wearing the bathrobe, cinched at the waist, the hem trailing past her ankles.
She crosses to the far side of the bed—her side now, I guess—and stops at the edge of the mattress.
Her fingers find the belt of the robe and, without hesitation, she pulls the sash loose, shrugs the robe off her shoulders, lets it fall to the floor, and…stands there stark naked.
Every curve, every inch of flushed pink skin is bare before me.
Oh shit. I’m dead.
Chapter 7
Prudence
My skin prickles in the cool air. Goosebumps travel up my arms and across my chest as I stand beside the marital bed with a garment pooled at my feet.
Housemother Ruth’s instruction floods my brain—every word branded into me.
“You will memorize what I am about to tell you,” she commanded in a flat voice, stripped of tenderness. “Present yourself unclothed. Clothing is a barrier between a wife and her duty. You will lie on your back. You will part your legs. You will remain still and silent while he takes what is his by covenant. There will be pain. You will not cry out. You will not flinch. And you will never, under any circumstance, derive pleasure.”
Housemother Ruth then pressed her thumb against the back of my hand—hard, the way she does when a lesson matters.
“Pleasure is damnation, Prudence. The flesh craves what the spirit must deny. If you feel anything other than submission, you pray. You pray until it passes. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Housemother.”
“Good. When he is finished, you will thank him. Then you will rise, dress, and resume your duties. That is the whole of it.”
I rehearsed the steps in my head for weeks—undress, lie down, be still, be silent, endure.
I rehearse them now.
Ronan is propped on one elbow, and his mouth has fallen open.
I do not look at his face for more than a heartbeat. A good wife does not meet her husband’s eyes, even during the marital act.
I pull back the covers and slide in beside him.
The sheets are impossibly soft. They move against my bare skin and the sensation is startling—cool and smooth, nothing resembling the rough woolen blanket on my dormitory mat. I lie on my back, my arms straight at my sides, my legs parted slightly, and stare at the ceiling.
My heart pounds so hard I am sure it can be heard aloud. I am grateful God delivered me from Father’s cruelty, grateful this stranger pulled me from the whipping post. If this new husband hurts me, I will endure. Suffering purifies. Pain brings a soul nearer to God. Whatever he does to me tonight cannot be worse than what Father would have done—Father, whose wives limp and weep and suffer black eyes and lost teeth.
Ronan has not moved.
I wait. Three breaths. Five. Ten.
