Page 39 of Tricked By Jack
Then a thick leather gag is pressed against my mouth, shoved between my lips before I can twist away. It silences my cries as I try to pull back, but Jack doesn’t let me move. The straps are drawn tight, buckled with swift precision behind my head.
I scream into it anyway, muffled and broken. No one reacts. Their silence is reverent. As if this, too, was scripted.
Chapter 13
The Trickster
The ferry cuts through black water, carrying us away from the island where I’ve taken what’s mine. Her weight against my side is an anchor, something solid in the surreal aftermath of our marriage.
Eve’s hair whips across her face in the night wind, obscuring her eyes, but not the leather gag still fixed between her teeth. Blood—hers and mine—has dried on our palms, crusted and flaking like a promise turning to dust. But the bond remains. Unbreakable now.
I want to reach over, crack her hand open, and taste it. Just to see if I bleed differently than her. Just to confirm we aren’t the same and never will be.
When the ferry docks, I guide Eve up the gangplank with a firm hand against her lower back. She stumbles once, her legs still unsteady. Whether from the ceremony or what came after, I don’t know. Don’t particularly care either.
My car is waiting where I left it. I open the front passenger door, but she stands rigid, refusing to get in. I lean close, my mouth against her ear. “Look around you, wife. Do you want all these people waiting for the ferry to see me rip your dress off and fuck you on the hood of my car?”
She frantically shakes her head.
“Then getin the fucking car. Now.”
Her eyes flash with hatred, but she obediently slides onto the seat. She hisses something that sounds like, “Fuck you, Jack,” just as I shut the door after her. But with the gag in her mouth, I can’t be sure.
Rounding the hood, I get into the driver’s seat and start the car. “Is that you begging for my cock again?” I ask, smirking when she vehemently shakes her head.
The drive to Riverdale passes in silence, and it doesn’t take long until my mansion looms dark against the night sky as we pull into the driveway. Eve’s eyes widen slightly, taking in the gothic architecture that watches her arrival like a sentient thing.
Ivy coils like veins across its face, and the turret windows glow faintly, as if something inside already knows she’s here. A bride for a house that eats its wives.
“Home sweet home,” I say, killing the engine.
I unlock her door, then circle around to help her out. When she doesn’t move, I unbuckle her seatbelt and simply lift her from the seat. She makes a muffled sound of protest behind the gag, but I’ve already set her on her feet and am steering her toward the front door.
Inside, I flick on minimal lights—just enough to navigate the space without revealing too much at once. The air is warmer here, heavy with the faint scent of cedar and smoke. Her head turns, trying to take it in without giving away her curiosity.
The heavy oak door closes behind us with a sound like finality.
While she looks around, I shrug out of the leather jacket. Then I reach behind her head and unbuckle the gag. It comes away with a wet sound, leaving red marks at the corners of her mouth. She works her jaw, wincing.
“If you need to use the bathroom, I suggest you do it now.” I point toward the hallway. “It’s that way.”
“Fuck you,” she manages, her voice hoarse.
Smirking, I grab my junk. “Not right now,” I rasp. “You look like shit.” That’s a lie.
Even with her makeup smeared into a chaotic mess, her hair twisted into wild tangles, and her dress irreparably destroyed, she exudes a breathtaking beauty that defies her disheveled state.
Ironically, she’s more breathtaking now than when I saw her moments before urging her to run. The fabricated perfection has vanished, replaced by the fierce, desperate woman who is now my wife.
I wrap my fingers around her upper arm and pull her down the hall to the bathroom. She tries to twist away once, testing my grip. I tighten it just enough to make her wince.
The bathroom light casts harsh shadows when I flip the switch. Eve blinks in the sudden brightness. “I don’t need to use the bathroom.” Her tone makes it sound as though the thought is ridiculous.
Shrugging, I murmur, “Suit yourself.”
“I need clothes,” she says, voice steady despite everything. Trying to sound confident.
“No, you don’t.” I switch the light off again. It’s a relic now—her wedding veil and burial shroud all in one. “It’s time to get you settled into your new home.”
