Page 12 of Downfall

“I’m not.”

He narrows his eyes. “You better not be. There’s shit going down. I don’t need you muddying the water.”

“What shit?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes. “Like I’d tell you that, you’ll go running to daddy dearest the first opportunity you get.”

“I wouldn’t. You can trust me.” I half whisper it though I’m not sure why. I know Paris doesn’t trust me and I sure as hell don’t trust him. Not for a second. We’re two vipers sleeping in the same bed waiting for the other to strike.

His lips curl with amusement as though I’ve said a joke. “You’re only good for one thing Rose and sometimes I wonder if you’re even worth that.”

I look away but don’t reply. He’s said worse in the past. Much worse. I’ve learnt not to retaliate because doing so only ends in one thing. Pain. My pain.

“There’s a lot going on above your head.” He mumbles.

“I don’t want to know.” I reply. It’s true, I don’t. I’m sick of it. All the fighting. All the power games. It’s exhausting. And more often than not it feels like it’s us women who bear the brunt of it.

“We have to keep the Montagues sweet.” He says.

“Why?” I ask, curious despite myself. The Montagues have been losing power for years. Why now do they suddenly matter?

He smirks. “Like I said, it’s all above your head. Just for once do as I ask and don’t cause trouble.”

“I don’t cause trouble.” I snap asthatword sets me on edge. I’m the most amenable out of all of us. I’ve been brought up to be just that and let’s face it, my family know exactly what weapons to wield anytime I get any desire to be otherwise.

His fingers graze my cheek. He’s always softer in the mornings but that doesn’t mean I welcome it any more.

“My head hurts.” He mutters.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have drunk so much.” I reply.

He tilts his head. “How about you put that mouth to better use?”

I wince shaking my head. “How about I get you some paracetamol instead?”

He laughs, grabbing my hair manhandling me enough to show his intent. “Paracetamol isn’t the kind of relief I’m looking for.” He states giving me one final push which is enough to jolt my neck and make me yelp.

His cock is hard, just as I knew it would be. I end up face to face with it beneath the stuffiness of the duvet. Paris rolls flat on his back, one hand twisting in my hair and I can practically feel the expectation coming off of him.

I bite my tongue, weighing my options. I’m not in the mood. Truth be told I’m never in the mood when it comes to sex. At least not sex with another person because I can get myself off alright when it’s just me but with Paris there’s nothing. Not even when I close my eyes and desperately pretend I’m with someone else, desperately pretend it’shishands on me, I can feel the difference.

In my very soul I know the difference.

But if I don’t do this there will be consequences. Maybe not right now. Maybe Paris right now is too hungover but as soon as his headache dulls and his anger grows then I’ll pay. And it’ll be much worse than simply having his cock in my mouth.

He clears his throat, clearly getting annoyed with the inaction on my part.

I shake my head, resigning myself to once again playing the whore and, after wetting my lips, I suck him in.

He groans. His body stretches. He’s not unattractive. In fact, he’s anything but. Paris Blumenfeld is undeniably beautiful. Every muscle honed by hours of dedication. His sun kissed skin is soft, unblemished, because he’s never had a hard day’s work in his life. It’s just a shame that under it all the man is a monster.

And worse than that, he’s my husband.

He starts jerking his hips, his cock hitting the back of my throat. As always he likes me to initiate and then he takes over, chasing his own pleasure while hate fucking me in the process. On some level I don’t mind because this way I don’t have to over-pretend. I just have to go through the motions, keeping him happy as he groans and all the while fighting the bitter resentment that festers at the notion that this is my life, my reality, what my parents wanted when they forced me into this.

Everyone else has gotten what they wanted. Everyone else has ticked their boxes, achieved their goals, and I, as always, am merely an object to be used.

When he finally comes I swallow it quickly, wanting the taste to be gone. I wipe my mouth, clamber out of the bed and he doesn’t stop me. In the bathroom I’m quick to rinse with mouthwash, to rinse away the taste of him.

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