Page 43

He glances at Scarlett, then at me, fidgeting like he’s itching to leave but can’t muster the courage without officially closing this sorry excuse of a ceremony.

“Congratulations, then,” he mumbles weakly, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his watery little eyes.

I don’t bother replying, not really. There’s a grunt that escapes my throat, an acknowledgment at best, before I usher both him and the lawyer to the door. They’ve done their part; there’s nothing left for them here.

The lawyer folds the documents neatly into his briefcase, casting one small glance back at Scarlett as if he’s weighing something, maybe even pity, but then catches my gaze and quickly averts his attention.

He knows better than to linger too long on her.

What she looks like now is temporary. As soon as she recovers enough, I’ll make sure she’s moulded into something that is softer, quieter.

She’ll be an obedient blur of whatever useful function I assign to her going forward, until her final inheritance lands in my lap and I’m done with her for good.

I watch them disappear down the hall, waiting until their forms disappear around a corner and I know they’re gone.

I then shut the door, turning the lock quietly to ensure we are not disturbed. There’s a glass window onto the ward beyond and I pull the vertical blinds enough to ensure we are fully concealed.

When I turn back to the bed, I know I’m finally alone with my new wife.

I sit down in that same, plastic, cheap chair, not in any sort of hurry now that the deed is done.

I lean back, rest my elbows on the armrests, and steeple my fingers together.

From here, I can watch her closely, observe the slight rise and fall of her chest, the slackness in her jaw.

I let the silence envelop us both, feeling the weight of the moment without rushing it.

Everything is settled now. And soon, she will be settled too.

She stirs slightly, her body attempting to break through the fog of sedation, her face contorting into something faintly resembling awareness, her lips parting as if to speak.

“Scarlett?” My voice is deliberately soft, almost... kind, though the words taste foreign on my tongue.

Her eyelids barely flutter in response. I can almost hear the gears grinding sluggishly in her brain, trying to comprehend her situation but failing tragically. She doesn’t answer, of course. Her consciousness is a fractured thing, fragmented like the bones of her leg, weak and unreliable.

I reach out, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger there for a moment, cool against her too-warm skin. “Don’t worry,” I murmur, “I’ll take care of everything.”

And I will.

With a sharp jerk I pull the blanket from her torso. The flimsy hospital gown she has on has gathered up enough to show most of her pale legs.

Her eyelids flutter again, a weak groan slipping from her throat as if she’s trying to form some sort of a protest. I know there’s a part of her, buried somewhere deep beneath the cocktail of drugs, that senses something is wrong.

“Come on now, wife,” I murmur as I undo my belt. “What sort of a husband would I be if I didn’t fuck my bride on our wedding day?”

There’s no response. Not that I expected one.

I clamber onto the bed, noting the way the metal creaks and protests. I’ll need to be careful then, and not fuck her too roughly, otherwise the nurses will hear the commotion and I’ll have some explaining to do.

I shove her left leg out the way. With the cast on, it’s a damned nuisance. I yank her right leg up, positioning it at an angle so that her cunt is wide open and exposed for me.

There’s a tube in her, a catheter so she doesn’t piss herself. It’s not sexy to look at. Nothing about this is traditionally sexy, and yet, the power I know I have right now, the fact that I have total control over her, yeah that’s a turn on. A fucking big one.

“Mrs Forster,” I murmur as I push myself into her. She’s dry. Not that I expected anything else.

Maybe I should have given her a shot of GHB for old times’ sake.

She certainly reacted well to it the last few times I dosed her.

My lips curl as I start thrusting into her, remembering her behaviour, remembering her at the party, how she tried to fight it before the drugs took her completely, and she became the slut I knew she truly was.

I’d stood back that night, watched as the board had their fun.

Of course we’d needed to do it, offer them a little piece of the pie, because our situation was precarious back then.

We needed something to keep them onside, something to ensure they behaved.

A dirty little sexy tape was enough to buy their loyalty in the short term.

But today, today I secured our future. I secured my family’s future.

Once this woman is gone and it’s all nicely dealt with, then I’ll see to them.

The witnesses. I’ll have them all quietly removed, taken out, eliminated.

I won’t have any whispers, any gossip, any chance that this can come back and bite me in the arse.

A whimper escapes my wife’s mouth. It sounds pitiful. Pathetic. Just as I’ve made her.

Maybe it’s my weight, maybe it’s my body as I slam into her. Either way, I don’t give a fuck if I’m hurting her, and I certainly don’t stop. She’s my wife now, I can use her as I see fit.

“Don’t try to fight it, Scarlett,” I say more to amuse myself than anything else. She’s not in any position to fight anymore. I’ve made sure of that. She’ll take what I give, and she’ll be helpless to stop me.

Once she’s recovered enough to be moveable, I’ll have her sent to my family’s estate. I’ll give her the space she needs to breathe, to heal, to remember just enough of what her life used to be to see how drastically it’s changed.

Afterall, a cage is only effective if the bird knows it’s caged.

Right now, amidst the haze of her drugged sleep, she has no concept of the bars I’ve already drawn around her.

But she will.

I can keep an eye on her there, I can make sure her every movement is filtered through my decisions.

She’ll be kept comfortable... docile.

I’ll let her believe that this is all in service of her recovery. That everything I do is for her own good. She won’t question it because, well, why should she? By the time she regains even a semblance of her former self, if she regains that, it will already be too late.

I’ll have systematically stripped away whatever autonomy she thought she had, piece by piece, until compliance is the only path left for her.

And that thought, that concept of her, trapped and isolated is enough to send me right over the edge. I growl out my release, forgetting that I should be quiet. Forgetting that I should be careful.

And then I get up, readjust my clothes and leave her for the nurses to clean up. They can think what they want, I pay them enough to keep their mouths shut anyway.

He’s there.

With her.

And that thought alone pisses me off more than I can put into words.

I know that’s what’s happened. I know that he’s found her, despite my best attempts to keep her concealed.

I clench my fists, staring across the distance even though the island is completely obscured by the clouds, the storm, and the sheet rain pouring down like it’s the end of the world.

He’s with her.

My wife. My god damn wife.

In the grand scheme of things it shouldn’t matter, they can’t escape, they can’t get off the island and by the time they’re able to, I’ll be back and both of them will be answering for what they’ve done.

But I can’t get it out of my head, the idea of her willingly choosing him, probably fucking him as we speak.

I can see her body, her beautiful, delicious, goddess like curves that she had when we first started dating. I can see her, practically born again, rejuvenated, writhing in ecstasy as my brother tarnishes her with his hands.

She’s mine. My fucking wife. Mine.

It doesn’t matter that I shared her, it doesn’t matter that I whored her out. Not really. Those decisions were mine to make, mine to choose. And I got to be there, to witness it, to partake.

What she’s doing right now is a betrayal. It’s a fucking insult.

I snarl, tossing the crystal glass in my hand. I watch as it disappears over the balcony and into the darkness of the swirling, angry water far below me.

I want her back, I want her in my arms where I can hurt her, where I can make that bitch pay.

“Alex?”

I don’t turn at the sound of my father’s voice. I just narrow my eyes and continue to glare.

He’s also responsible for this. He allowed Rafferty to come back, to be welcomed into the fold. Even though we knew what he was.

“The doctor just called.” He says, coming to stand beside me.

I raise an eyebrow, wondering why the fuck the doctor is calling him and not me. He raises his hand, holding out my phone and I guess that answers it. I must have left the damned thing in the room.

“Rafferty was in touch with him.” He continues.

“And?”

Did my brother really think the doctor would give a fuck what state my wife was in? Like he’s not been in on this, like he’s not been enjoying the process as much as I have.

“Apparently your wife has had a miscarriage.”

What?

What the fuck?

I turn, shaking my head. “How the fuck is that possible?” I snarl. She was on meds. Contraceptives. We made sure of it.

My father shrugs like it’s not a big deal.

“They’re not 100% effective. We all know that.

” He mutters, like he’s been caught out by that little fact in the past. “Good news is, it’s dealt with.

Doctor says it was an early term one so assuming there are no complications, it’s nothing to worry about. ”

“Nothing to worry about?” I repeat, like those words make no sense.

“…Besides, even if there are complications, it’s not like she’s going to be around long enough to concern ourselves with it…” He continues, but I’m not listening to a word he says.

Scarlett was pregnant? Was it mine? Was she carrying my child?

I don’t know why that should matter. I never wanted that, I never wanted to have children with her.

But the image of her pregnant, smiling, holding out her hand for me hits like a ton of bricks and I have to grab the rail to steady myself.

“Come inside,” My father says, misjudging my movements for being some response to the howling wind.

I shake my head again, throwing off his touch and storming into the suite.

We always stay here. In these rooms. This hotel is the finest in the area, and the fact that they built a heli-pad just for us ensures its usefulness.

I cast my eyes around the modern, polished furnishings. It’s a stark contrast from the heritage and legacy of our mansion, but I’ve always found it a nice reprieve.

That is, until today.

Today, it feels like purgatory. Like I’m trapped here, stuck, while everything I want is just the other side of that water. Is this how she feels? Is this her headspace? It’s almost ironic to be here, to be living her nightmare, if only for a few hours.

“Whose do you think it was?” My father says. He’s wandered over to the drinks cabinet, pulled out a nice vintage and has apparently already popped the cork like this is some sort of a celebration.

“Excuse me?” I snap.

“The baby. Do you think it was yours? Or perhaps it was mine.” His lips curl into a half-sneer, half-smile. “Imagine a child with that parentage, mine and hers.” He chuckles. “God would hope it wouldn’t have her hair colour, or her freckles.”

I can’t think.

I can’t fucking stand it.

He tips the glass back, practically gurgling the contents. “Maybe we should have thought this through better, had something more effective, an IUD, or we could even have had her tubes tied while she was out. Yeah, that would have been smarter. Then we would have known for sure…”

“Are you done?” I ask. Why the fuck is he rabbiting on about such bullshit like I give a fuck?

He pours out another drink and then knocks it back in one. “I always liked your mother when she was pregnant.” He states. “She was always so needy, and that glow she got…”

I walk away. I clench my fists, pretending that the old fucker isn’t there.

S he was pregnant.

She was carrying my child.

I know it. I know it was mine. I fucked her more than anyone, it had to be mine.

Maybe I should have bred her first.

But I didn’t want a child, I remind myself. And I certainly didn’t want a damned child with that bitch of all people.

So why the fuck am I acting like this? Why the fuck does it matter?

But it does matter. It does. She was carrying my child, and now she’s lost it. She stole that from me, stole another thing from my family.

That fucking bitch.

Before I can think, I’ve sent half the bottles on the side of the bar flying. They crash to the floor, shattering on impact and their contents spill out in a myriad of different colours.

“Alexander?”

Christ, even the way he’s saying my name is pissing me off.

He’s drunk, slurring his words, and I can barely stand to look at him.

I stalk back out, back into the storm, leaving the French doors to slam behind me.

She is there, practically within touching distance and yet I cannot reach her. Is she upset? Is she heartbroken? Is my brother even now comforting her, holding her, telling her that it’s okay, that he’ll make it better?

I bet he’s got his filthy hands all over her.

And I bet she isn’t even bothered, if anything I bet she’s rejoicing. She’s probably dancing for joy the way she did when she was off her head on the drugs and was dancing on the cliffs.

She’s probably having a celebratory fuck at the fact that she destroyed this new piece of me.

That fucking bitch.

I yell out, scream out my rage into the wind.

When I get my hands on her, I’m going to make her pay. I’m going to make her truly suffer. She killed my child, she murdered it. I know it wasn’t an accident; I know she did it on purpose.

That conniving, evil bitch.

By the time I’m done I’ll make her wish she was the one who died, I’ll make her regret every moment of oxygen that’s entered her lungs.