Page 87 of What You left in Me
Chapter 28 – Ariane – Bound to Him
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling like it has answers.
Spoiler: it does not.
It does, however, have a faint water stain shaped like Arkansas and a hairline crack that’s probably been there since before I was born. In my daze, I can’t help but trace it with my eyes the way people trace constellations and pretend the sky is talking to them.
My heartbeat is too loud. That’s new.
It takes a while before I finally get the courage to lift the sheet and look at my new accessory. The band is matte and slim, warm where my skin warmed it. It’s neat, minimal, expensive in a quiet way: like a secret only he gets to read. I flex my foot. To my surprise, the anklet doesn’t bite; it cocoons. My stomach flips.
I did not expect that. Not from him. Definitely not from me.
My wrists were tied, the blindfold betraying nothing but darkness and anticipating. He kissed my shoulder, which was almost sweet, making me shiver.
“Don’t move,” he’d said. Not cruel, not command for the sake of it—just… Finn. That rough, steady gravity in his voice. Then I heard the drawer open and then close. My pulse tripping over itself because logic and breath were no longer friends. I felt him shift around, making my anxious and excited at the same time. He kissed my calf, so slow it felt like he was worshipping me and said, low, “You trust me?”
I remember saying something. Maybe agreeing or disagreeing, I hardly remember. What I do remember isthe click around my ankle. And I definitely remember the ridiculous thing my heart did when he whispered against my skin, “you’re mine.”
If a different man said that, I’d have thrown the entire bedside table at his head. With Finn, it felt like a wire pulled taut between us finally found its anchor. That should probably concern me. It doesn’t. Not right now.
What kind of woman am I that I like this? That my step-brother fucks me senseless and puts an anklet on me to track my every movement? Honest answer: the kind who has spent most of her life being told to be palatable and quiet and now finds herself addicted to the sensation of being wanted—claimed—in a way that isn’t polite at all. It’s dizzying. It’s terrifying. It’s… God help me, it’s good.
I let the sheet fall to my lap and force out a heavy, fortifying exhale. Okay. Time to pretend to be normal. That’s always gone well, right? Totally achievable!
I roll out of bed and wince at the mirror. My reflection is… ravaged. Lips swollen, cheeks flushed, hair doing its best impression of a gothic heroine mid-storm. I smooth, pat, and arrange, like there’s a button I can press to look like a Before shot of myself. Before… last night? Before Finn? I don’t even know. I find some concealer and dab until my skin tone looks even. I line my lips to make their pouty pucker look purposeful, smudging the lines a little and adding a layer of lip balm on top.
The anklet disappears under the cuff of the jeans I pull on, albeit only if I stand just so, which is not exactly useful in real life where legs bend.
The hallway is cool and too full of doors that know things. I walk it like a normal person, which is to say, too carefully. Every shadow is suddenly an audience. Every floorboard has anopinion. I pass Finn’s door and feel heat lick up my spine. The room’s empty since we were in the guest suite, which was the first door we could find. I pass Mom’s door and feel my soul attempt to egress through my mouth. The guilt is threatening to eat me alive.
By the time I reach my room, I’ve convinced myself I deserve a small medal for not sprinting like a cartoon character with its head on fire.
I close my door quietly and lean against it, palms flat. My ankle and body throbbing. I climb into bed and pray for sleep that doesn’t bring a full Broadway revival of last hour’s highlights.
Sleep shows up slowly, reluctantly. It’s patchy. I wake up twice sure the anklet is a neon sign, once sure I left fingerprints on the hallway, and once because my brain thought it would be funny to dream I was in math class again and failed to divide fractions. (Screw you, fractions.)
Once morning approaches, I tug on jeans and a soft sweater and stand in front of my closet for a full minute debating flats versus sneakers like my shoes will distract from the security accessory I’m sporting.
In the kitchen, the world is aggressively normal. Janice is scribbling in her chart, coffee steams, sunlight pools on the butcher block like honey.
“Morning,” she says without looking up. “He slept. Blood pressure steady. Pain manageable. Busier than he pretends to be.”
“That’s his baseline,” I say, reaching for mugs. “Charm people to his end.”
She snorts. “He tried to tip me again.”
“He loves rebellion,” I sigh. I pour coffee, fill a bigger mug than my usual go-to because there are things you don’t skimp on in wartime. “I’d say he’ll get better about it, but I doubt it. It’s just who he is. It’s really hard for him to not feel like he’s taking advantage of, just letting you take care of him, even if it’s your job.”
“Noted.” Janice lifts a brow without lifting her head. “You look… rested.”
“Do I?” I blink, trying to calculate how much makeup equals wholesome. “I feel very… coffee-ish? Ready to take on the world.”
“That’s not an adjective.” She chuckles.
“It is now.”
Her mouth quirks. “Give him ten minutes. He’ll be ready to talk your ear off about the oatmeal I made him eat.”