Page 61 of Bloody Vows
16
SIMONE
Ican still taste him in my mouth.
The thought makes my stomach lurch long minutes after Tristan storms out, sending me to the bathroom to brush my teeth and gargle with mouthwash. I sink back against the cool marble counter afterwards, gripping the edge of it as I close my eyes. My eyes and mouth feel swollen, my jaw sore. I can still hear his voice in my head.
Show me what a good wife you can be.
His words echo in my head, mocking and cruel, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block them out. But I can't. Just like I can't block out the memory of kneeling in front of him, of the way he held my hair while he used my mouth, of the satisfaction in his voice when he commanded me to swallow.
I've never felt so small, so powerless, so completely owned by another person.
And Ihatethat the entire time—while he commanded me to open my mouth, while I tasted a cock for the first time, while he choked me with it and fucked my face—I was getting wetter and wetter with every passing moment.
If I slipped my hand between my legs now, I know I’d be dripping. I can feel the ache there, the need to be filled. To be given some relief. I’m half-tempted to touch myself right here, to finally give myself an orgasm—the first since Tristan made me come up against my bedroom door—despite his orders.
Fuck him. Fuck his orders. His commands. I grit my teeth, seething as I push my skirt out of the way and slip my fingers underneath my panties, gasping as my fingertips graze my swollen clit.
I’m just as slick and wet as I knew I would be. My hips arch into my hand as I start to rub, the motion fast and sharp, urging my body toward a quick, messy orgasm. I don’t want to draw it out—I want to come. I want to reclaim this one thing, even if Tristan is the reason that my fingers are soaked right now.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
I want him so fucking badly.
His face looms in front of me, his chiseled body, his infuriatingly perfect cock. His voice echoes in my ear, trilling with that accent that makes my stomach turn over. He’s everything I should hate, everything that should disgust me—and that hasn’t stopped me from wanting him from the moment I laid eyes on him.
The orgasm hits me, crashing through my body with the force of a tidal wave, my knees nearly buckling as I come hard, thinking about my husband. The husband that, only a short while ago, I was discussing a plot to murder.
A husband that I want desperately to escape, even as my body craves more of what he gives me. A lust I don’t understand, and a contention that is nothing like the peaceful marriage I was promised.
This is what my life is now. This is what I've become—a thing to be used whenever he's displeased, a body to be commandedand controlled. Not a wife, not a partner, not even a person. Just his property, his possession, his plaything.
I grit my teeth, turning to wash my hands as a desperate plan forms in my mind.
I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend that this marriage will get better, that we'll find some kind of middle ground, that the man who just degraded me in the most intimate way possible is capable of the respect I deserve.
Enzo was right. This isn't a marriage—it's imprisonment. And the only way to escape a prison is to run.
The decision crystallizes in my mind with startling clarity. I'm leaving. Tonight. Before Tristan comes back, before he decides to "discuss what happens next," before he finds new ways to break me down piece by piece.
Before he can make me crave him any more than I already do. If I’m free of him, I’ll be free of this feeling, eventually. I just need to get away.
I turn the faucet to cold, splashing the icy water on my face and trying to think rationally. I can't just walk out the front door—Tristan has guards posted throughout the house, and they'll stop me the moment they see me with a suitcase. But I've lived in this mansion my entire life. I know it like the back of my hand, and I know ways to slip out of it. Tristan doesn’t, and he won’t have known every place to post a guard.
Moving quickly, I grab a medium-sized travel bag from my closet and stuff it with essentials—clothes, toiletries, my credit card. I’ll have to pull as much cash off of it as I can, quickly, because I know Tristan will freeze it the moment he realizes I’m gone. A bolt of fear jolts through me; I have no idea what I’m going to do on my own. I could go to Enzo, but I don’t truly believe he’ll shelter me if I make decisions outside of his plans. If I jump the gun now rather than waiting for things to play out as he sees fit.
But I can’t stay. I can’t. I can’t do this even long enough to let Enzo’s plan go forward. I’m desperate to escape, and even though I know in the back of my mind that means that I’m being stupid, I can’t stop myself. My hands shake as I pack, but I drag the zipper closed, changing into a pair of black jeans, designer sneakers, and a tight black T-shirt, my hair pulled back into a sensible ponytail. Then I sit on my bed and wait, listening to the sounds of the house around me. Footsteps in the hallway, the low murmur of voices, the turning of a doorknob. Tristan doesn’t make another appearance.
At ten o'clock, the house begins to settle into its nighttime routine, and I still haven’t heard Tristan anywhere in the hall or within earshot. I have no idea if he left or what he might be doing. The thought that he might have gone to fuck some other woman occurs to me—he’d be far from the first mafia husband to do so—and an absolutely ridiculous flash of jealousy shoots through me.
I shouldn’t fucking care. I should be glad if he’s forcing some other woman to endure his attentions instead of me. But all I see is a green haze at the thought of Tristan touching someone else, saying those filthy things that he growls at me to another woman, coming for another woman the way he does for me.
I hate him, but he’s mine.
The thought is nonsensical, and I shove it out of my head as I sling my bag over my shoulder and step quietly toward the door, nudging it open as I look out into the hall.
The mansion is quiet. This is my chance.
