Page 38 of Ensnared

Itmakes me feel strange.Overtlyfemale.Everyexample of their hard discipline makes me hyperaware of my softness.Theheight at which they keep the showerhead reminds me how smallIam.Eventhe size and weight of the heavy doors makes me feel fragile.Thisis a man’s house, and it is aggressively obvious that men own this space.

Iwas raised by my grandmother, and lived barely more than a full year in total over my marriage with a man who didn’t have an ounce of this virile presence.I’venever felt anything like it.Andafter years of fending for myself, of the unending responsibility, and dirt, andtoil, it’s so lovely to allow myself tobesoft.Justa little.Justfor a while.

Asthe days pass andI’mable to think, to relax,Ireach the uncomfortable realization that, despite the tremendous onslaught ofnew,Idon’t feel threatened here.OrifIdo, it’s in a secret, delicious way thatIstruggle to admit even to myself.Ifeel protected.Pliant.Iwant to yield to the strength around me.Itmakes me want to temper some of the harshness, to balance it somehow, thoughI’mnot sure where to begin.

OrifI’mallowed to make that kind of impression here under the strict, subservient terms of our deal.

Beingconstrained by their rules bothers me, butIcan’t put my finger on why.Betweenmy strict grandmother and my perfectionist husband,Ishould be used to living by the whims of others.Whydoes it feel so strange to me now?PerhapsI’mjust out of practice.I’vespent a long time making decisions for myself, after all.

It’slikeI’vegrown a new skin over these last few years—one thicker and steelier thanIhad before.Perhapsthat old skin of mine is just too thin, too soft, to contain me now.

CanIforce myself back into the personIwas before?

DoIwantto?

Thethoughts are uncomfortable, but ultimately useless to me.Iknow whatIsigned up for, and my feelings don’t matter.Survivaldoes.Andmaybe, ifI’mvery lucky,Iwill have the chance to not be alone.Ican give up my independence for that,Ithink.

Ihave to.

Ican’t take another year by myself.

Eventually,Ifind a gentle rhythm to my days.Ithrow myself into the huge vegetable garden, enjoying the familiar task amid the upheaval of the last few weeks.Itend my now almost-healed wounds and play in the ridiculous kitchen.Thedecadence of my room hasn’t worn off, andIsoak myself in scalding water each night, luxuriating in the soft soaps and scented oils.

AndIsuffer through my least favorite self-allocated task—washing and mending clothes.TodayIdecided to move a large tub near the apple tree soIcould work outside.It’sa messy job, andI’mtired of cleaning suds from the laundry floor.

Instead,I’moutside and up to my elbows in soapy water as dusk descends into magenta and moonlight.Hazystars tease twinkle-bright over the towering trees, and the temperature has dropped enough to lend a nip to the apple-scented breeze.

I’mhopefulJaykobmight be able to fix the broken washing machineLuckymentioned soon—though the wayJaykobscowled when he saw me scrubbing clothes the other day didn’t exactly inspire hope that he’ll help me out.Thememory of my awkward little wave and the abrupt way he stalked past me still makes me cringe.

Witha stifled sigh,Ipull the final item from the hamper—and blush whenIrealize it’s a pair of black boxer briefs.

Ireally need to stop doing that.

ButthoughItry to lose myself in the task before me, unfamiliar tension is coiling tighter and tighter.

Today, my reprieve is over.

DomandBeauarrived back about an hour ago.Luckyis cooking up a big venison dinner.Noone has said so explicitly, butIknow it’s time to work out the schedule.

I’llhave to sleep with one of them tonight.

God.HaveIever been so nervous?Ican’t tell ifI’mexcited or terrified.Orboth.Orif maybe, somehow,I’mexcitedbecauseI’mterrified.ThatthoughtIbury quickly because it’s too scandalous for me to contemplate.

Andif the moreIdwell on my nervousness and shame about whatI’mabout to do, the wetter and needierIbecome, well,Ican ignore that too.

Pressingmy hand to my stomach,IdecideIneed to put on my big girl panties—and while that might be easier ifIcurrently owned any panties,Ican’t procrastinate any longer.

I’vealready spent a frankly creepy amount of time on these boxer briefs.

Pilingup the washing,Imake my way inside quietly and try to convince myself thatI’mnot sneaking.ButwhenIround the corner,Icollide withDom.

Hecatches my basket quickly, steadying me.Isilently curse myself as my eyes fly to his, andI’msurprised that he looks as caught off guard asIam.He’sfreshly showered, still damp and rosy from the heat.Thenhis gaze flickers over my wet shirt and muddy knees and whatever momentary boost of confidenceIfelt shrivels.

ThenInotice the bruise shadowing his jaw, angry and a touch swollen.

“Areyou okay?Howdid that—?”

“Dinner’sready in ten minutes,” he says, cutting me off. “Getdressed.”

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