Page 18 of Hupotasso
“So, you do know my name,” I snap. “You rapist bastard!”
His face blanches, and Caroline’s sharp intake of breath is the only sound in the room for a full five seconds as he stares at me, his eyes furious.
“Get out!” He hisses.
There’s no mistaking he’s not talking to me, and Caroline doesn’t hang around. To be fair, I don’t blame her. He looks angrier than I’ve ever seen him.
I move to follow her out, to spare myself whatever’s coming, but he steps towards me and grips my forearms painfully, his face centimetres from mine, my nose suddenly filled with his cologne. It brings up memories, painful memories — my sheets had smelled just the same this morning. His scent had been all over my dress, all over me.
Wrenching free of him I walk briskly away, putting a row of clothes racks between myself and him.
He stands still, making no move to pursue me until Caroline has left.
“Rapist?” He snarls as the doors close. “Last I looked, you were enjoying yourself immensely,wife. I don’t recall any struggles.”
I clench my teeth and flick dresses along the rack one after the other; click, click, click.
“Maybe if you’d paid more attention,” I hiss.
“Oh, I paid plenty of attention,” he sneers as he strides to stare at me over the rack, “I heard every moan, every sigh, every scream.”
“Stop it!” I shout, pushing the metal rack over towards him.
The dresses fall in a long, slow arc of chignon, silk and satin, and he steps over them towards me, his jaw clenched and eyes flashing as he grips my left arm. My eyes blazing, I swing with all my strength with my right and slap him across the face. The sound in the empty ballroom is like a crack of lightning, and he drops my arm in shock.
Wide-eyed, I bolt, but instantly regret my action as he snarls and lunges.
Dodging and shrieking, I run from rack to rack, pushing them over between us. But I know I don’t have a chance as he catches me and, cursing, throws me over his shoulder.
I scream, raining blows upon his back.
“Put me down, you vampire bastard!”
I struggle and bite his ass, shoulder and back, just as I’d done when he’d carried me fraught and screaming in The Games the night I’d thought he’d murdered Tamara. But if he feels my silver fillings this time, he makes no show of it.
“Oh, I’ll let you down alright,” he says through gritted teeth as he stalks to the chair I’d used while trying on shoes, sits down, and pulls me across his knees.
I know what’s coming, and I scream loudly in protest as he pulls my velveteen pants down to expose my bare ass and spanks me, loud and hard. Tears of pain and humiliation spill unchecked as I shriek his name and for him to stop as his hand rains downupon my skin. But he gives no quarter, and I give up screaming and bite my lip as his strikes continue one after the other, each one as hard as the last and hurting more each time.
I know I shouldn’t have said what I did. It wasn’t true. He’s many things, but a rapist is not one of them. And I know I shouldn’t have run — he’s a predator. It had only made matters worse. Deep down, I know I was trying to hurt him, trying to make him feel what I was feeling and elicit a response that would draw him out and make him talk to me. Yes, I want to escape, but some part of me wants him back. I want him to trust me, to stop thinking I’m a spy, to think me worthy of him and the title bestowed upon me when we married. And I definitely don’t want him to get me pregnant and kill me.
But I’d gone about it in wholly the wrong way. I’d insulted his honour. And I’d done it in front of another royal. I can almost hear my mother’s voice in my head, telling me, ‘you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.’ Hadn’t I told angry students that hundreds of times as they raged over perceived injustices?
I count twelve strikes before, breathing heavily, his hand finally stills.
The room acts like an echo chamber as I quietly weep, still dangling face down over his knee and making no further move to try and escape, no further struggle for dignity or retaliation. All I can do is cry and be thankful there are no cameras around to witness my humiliation.
“Why do you do this to me?” He groans. “Why? Why do you torture me like this? Isn’t it enough? Haven’t you done enough?”
His words trail off, and I say nothing as he turns me over and gathers me to his chest. I feel weak, washed-out and ruined. Thestress of the wedding, my incarceration, the sex, Caroline, Jag, everything,everythingoverwhelms me to the point where I’m completely unable to speak.
My whole body is trembling from his assault.
Sighing, and with a gentleness completely juxtaposed to the violence he’d just unleashed, he pushes my newly washed hair out of my face and kisses away my tears, frowning as he leans back and studies me.
I continue to cry as he winds one of my curls around his finger, just as he once did, and leans his forehead against mine with another heavy sigh.
“Falcon,” I gulp, my words barely audible. I’m poised to say, ‘I promise you I’m not a spy,’ but I don’t get the chance.
