Page 12

Alexander

T he machines beep. The room stinks of some sort of antiseptic that makes my nose itch.

I’m sitting here, in this same uncomfortable, poor excuse for a damned chair, feeling my back protest while every movement makes the nasty plastic cushion squeak against the fabric of my pants.

But none of that matters.

Not a damned thing.

I know I have slept, and yet I haven’t intentionally taken my eyes from the figure lying immobile in the bed. I haven’t dared too.

Scarlett.

Only, she looks too broken, too bruised to be her.

A tube comes out of her mouth. Her leg is in a cast with pins sticking out to keep the bone in place.

There’s a drip going into her arm. Her face is a mass of purple and black.

Both her eyes are swollen shut. Her hair is a mess of dirt and congealed blood, though thankfully that wound was superficial and only needed a handful of stitches.

I get up, forcing my stiff limbs to move, and I stalk over to where she is. Her chest is rising slowly. On the monitor her heart rate is there, nice and steady.

They had to sedate her at the scene. Her body was too damaged, the situation too critical to deal with her frantic state of mind.

Thank god I was able to arrive shortly after the crash. To ensure she was cared for. That she was safe.

I take her hand, feeling the unusual coolness. She was always so warm, so full of life, so completely different to what she is in this moment.

“Any word on when she’ll wake?”

I don’t turn at the sound of my father’s voice. I just shake my head.

We almost lost her when she was in the OR. We almost lost her in the ambulance on the way here.

If she wakes up it’ll be a miracle.

But she can’t die. I won’t let that happen.

I clench my fists, clench my jaw, feeling fury and helplessness at this entire situation. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to end with us here. We had such good plans. Such hope.

“She has to live.”

It’s all I can say. All I keep saying. Like some stupid broken record. Like some mantra. The desperate plea’s of a desperate man.

But she can’t die. All my dreams, all my hopes, everything was built around her.

I can’t lose her. I just can’t.

I jerk awake as my father gently nudges me.

“How, how long was I out for?” I splutter. It feels like forever and no time all at once.

I never considered how exhausting this would be. How all-consuming this situation would become. I thought bringing her here, bringing her to my home was the right call, the logical call.

Afterall, this was my childhood home, the great Forster Mansion. Where our dreams and successes were forged. Why would I not bring her here? When she is all my dreams, all my chances, in one perfect package.

“You need to rest.” My father says, not answering my question. “The stress of this is starting to show on your face.”

I hear the words he doesn’t say. That appearances matter. We can’t look like we’re losing control. To the outside world we have to present that strong, successful front. There’s already been enough talk about Scarlett in the press. Enough murmurings when I fucked up in front of the other directors.

“It doesn’t matter.” I state. “It will be worth it.”

When this situation is resolved, when Scarlett is at peace and all of this is sorted, then we will all know that this fight was worth the effort.

He doesn’t argue with me, which tells me well enough that I’m right.

Besides, what else can we do at this point? We have no other options. We have to see this through, ensure Scarlett is taken care of properly.

“Well, the doctor is done.” He replies. “You might as well go up.”

There’s a glint in his eye, a look I don’t have the energy to explore this evening. Without another word, I walk out of the smoking room.

This house has always had its own particular brand of silence.

It’s haunting, stern, and yet I find it reassuring.

There’s a peace in the hostility, a reassurance. I know these walls have stood for hundreds of years, and they’ll be standing long after I’m gone. Long after my children are born and have died.

It’s a monument. A cenotaph. A testament to the will and determination of my ancestors. It’s proof that we will always prosper, we will always succeed.

It may be bleak now, it may feel like these very walls are caving in on us, but soon, soon this entire situation will resolve itself. The pressures will ease and we can all relax in the knowledge that our good name has not been besmirched. That our good name will continue on.

The door creaks just a little as I open it. I make a mental note to tell the staff to oil the damned hinges. I don’t need my arrival to be announced in any way that might set my wife off again.

As I step inside, I can hear that same, haunting silence. Like the house is bracing itself for something.

She’s asleep. Completely unconscious.

The sheets have been placed back over her, but I can see they’re ruffled, not neatly done.

Her hair is now sprawled out instead of carefully placed on the pillows.

I let out a sigh, reminding myself that our dear doctor does his best despite his obvious lack of manners and good breeding.

I unbutton my shirt, kick my shoes off then unbuckle my belt.

She looks so beautiful right now. So peaceful, that it makes my chest ache.

I know I shouldn’t. I know this moment here is not for her, but I deserve a little something considering all I’m sacrificing, considering all I’m giving up. I used to live the high life, I could fuck any woman I wanted. I drank, I partied, I fucking lived.

And look at me now. Just look at me.

I let out a snarl, feeling that frustration rising.

Being with Scarlett was meant to be the dream. It was meant to be everything, and it’s turned into an absolute nightmare.

As I approach the bed, I can see the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. The covers have slipped enough to reveal the curve of her shoulder, the smooth expanse of her perfect skin. I reach out, my fingers tracing the line of her collarbone.

She shifts slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips, but she doesn’t wake. No, the sedative is far too strong for that.

Carefully, I pull back the covers, revealing her incredible body inch by inch. The silk nightie has shifted right up, leaving those inviting legs of hers completely exposed.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. I know every curve of her body. I know the way she tastes, the way she feels beneath my hands. And yet, even now, every time I look at her, it’s like the first time all over again.

I slide into the bed beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under my weight.

Her skin is so warm, so soft. I brush my thumb over her lips, and they part slightly, her breath hitching in her throat as if she too knows what’s about to happen.

As if she knows how much her husband wants her in this moment.

I can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong beneath my fingertips. I want to kiss her, to taste her, to lose myself in her. But I don’t. Not yet. I technically have all night to savour this, to savour her.

Instead, I let my hand drift down, tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck. I can feel her pulse quicken, her body responding to my touch despite the heavy medication. I let my fingers linger on her collarbone, then trail them down, over the swell of her breast.

She arches into my touch, seeking more while a soft moan escapes her lips.

Yeah, the little slut wants this. She wants me.

I can’t wait any longer. I need to feel her, to be inside her. To claim her the only way I really can now.

I move my hand to ease her legs apart enough and she’s already doing it, already giving me all the signs that she’s as desperate for this as I am.

When I push into her body, she’s warm. Wet. So fucking welcoming.

I swear my eyes roll back with the pure ecstasy of that feeling.

My sweet little wife.

My sweet little whore.

She’s so beautiful. So perfect. She’s so tight. So fucking incredible. It feels too good.

She moans softly, her hips lifting to meet mine, her body welcoming me in as if she’s actually consenting to this.

“Little slut.” I chuckle as I pinch her nipples. They harden instantly and I do it again, pinching harder, knowing that that’s what gets the conscious Scarlett off. That she enjoys being used. She enjoys being hurt.

Maybe that’s why I do it.

The thought hits me out of nowhere, and I shove it back down. I don’t need to justify myself. I don’t need to explain myself. I’m her husband. And she’s put me through enough bullshit to be able to use her as I see fit. However I see fit.

I start to move faster, deeper. Seeking more from her body, more from her cunt.

My hands grab at her waist, gripping her tight enough that I can truly fuck her the way I need to. And Christ, do I need to. I need it to hurt, not just for her, but for me. I need it to be a punishment for the both of us.

I’ve let this get out of hand, I’ve let this situation become almost untenable.

It’s my fucking fault that I couldn’t control my wife better, couldn’t manage her illness better.

If the world were to realise what was going on. If the world were to realise what was happening to Scarlett… no, that won’t happen. I’ve made sure of that. No one will know. My beautiful wife will be protected at all costs.

I snarl, feeling the way her insides clench, the way they grip me. She’s had a good seeing to already, so I guess it isn’t surprising she’s responding like this, but this shouldn’t be about her. Not in this moment. This was about me. About my needs.

“Fucking whore.” I gasp. “Fucking whore.”

I could pretend. I could close my eyes and convince myself that we’re back in the early days, when everything was perfect. That she’s still just a struggling artist and I’m still trying to charm her, to win her over. It was fun then. It was easy.

Neither of us would have imagined we’d end up here. Neither of us would have imagined we’d both be trapped in this nightmare.

I shake my head, shut my eyes, pretending that this isn’t my broken little wife beneath me but the sparkling, vivacious woman I fell in love with.

And we’re not here, not in this mansion, but we’re in that fancy hotel, having spent an evening laughing and flirting, and she’s drunk off her head, begging for it, begging me, desperate for my cock, desperate for my touch.

My poor sweet little Scarlett. I can see it, her slipping her slutty little dress off, revealing that she had nothing on underneath. And then she’s climbing onto those white silk sheets, spreading herself, touching herself, teasing herself while I’m devouring every inch of her with my eyes.

Oh, I knew that by constantly keeping her glass topped up that night she’d finally give in. But had I not done enough? Had I not charmed her enough? We’d been dating for three fucking months by then, I deserved to see the goods. I’d more than earned that right.

Besides, she wasn’t upset the next day. Embarrassed sure, confused, absolutely, but I soon fucked that out of her.

I groan, hearing the way she’d screamed my name, the way she pronounced those syllables. She made me feel like a god, made me feel like I was worth more than even my father, my family, more than anything.

“Alex, Alex…”

It’s too much, too good. I can’t hold back any longer. With a final thrust, I come undone, my body shuddering with my release as I pour into her.

But as that haze of pleasure fades, reality sets in again. Where we are. What’s really going on here.

She isn’t that carefree woman, and I’m not that kind, contented man.

Carefully, I slip out of the bed, pulling the covers down enough to leer at her as the evidence of what I’ve just done begins to leak between her thighs.

If I were a better man, I’d clean her up. I’d go to the bathroom, grab a cloth, wipe all the evidence away and pretend that this moment never happened.

But I’m not.

And I don’t want to.

I want her to wake sore, I want her to wake and feel between her thighs and know that it was me. That I fucked her, that I used her, that I took what I wanted because she is my wife. And because ultimately, I have total control over her.

I can still feel her, still taste her, still smell her on my skin. I can still hear her soft moans, her ragged breaths, her cries of pleasure even if all of that was just in my head.

She doesn’t look so beautiful anymore. She looks exactly like what she is.

I turn on my heels, scoop my clothes up, not bothering to cover her up and I leave her to the night chill.

Let that be another lesson; without my say so she’ll have no comfort, no kindness. She owes everything to me, it’s about time she remembered that fact.