Page 37 of Depravity

The bruises are already forming where they grabbed me. More marks to add to my collection, more evidence of my husband's "love."

I don't know how long I stand there, but eventually I snap out of my despair long enough to turn the shower off. I wrap myself in one of the thick towels, trying to stop shaking. When I step back into the bedroom, I know what's coming next.

The waiting is almost worse than the punishment itself.

Conrad will return, and he'll remind me once again that I am his, that there is no escape. That my only choice now is to accept my fate or break myself trying to fight it.

In this moment, soaked and shivering and utterly defeated, I'm no longer sure which option I'll choose.

The drive home gives me time to calm my rage, though not enough. My knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel too hard, and my jaw aches from clenching it for the past hour.

I knew she’d try it, I bloody knew it. It’s why I laid the trap, I needed to show her how useless her fight is, how futile it all is. But deep down, there was a part of me that hoped she wouldn’t dare, hoped that perhaps she was accepting her situation.

Every mile closer to home just reminds me of her betrayal, of her stupidity, of her utter lack of gratitude for everything I've given her.

The guards nod as I pass, and I know from their reports exactly what happened. How she tried to slip past them, how shefought like a wildcat when they caught her. Good. Let her learn the hard way that there is no escape.

When I get to our bedroom, she's curled up in the window seat, staring out at the grounds below like a prisoner counting the bars of her cage. Which, I suppose, she is.

"Did you really think you could just walk out?" I ask, letting the door slam behind me.

She jumps at my voice, spinning around with those big doe eyes that usually make my cock hard. Right now, they just fuel my anger.

"I want to go home," she whispers, and it's the wrong fucking thing to say.

"This is your home." I snarl, crossing the room in three strides, grabbing her by the throat as I force her to face me. "Or have you forgotten that you're my wife now?"

"Please, I jer-jer-just want…"

"What you want doesn't matter." I snarl, closing the distance between our faces. "What matters is what I want, and what I want is my wife to show some fucking gratitude for everything I've given her."

A tear slides down her cheek. It’s soft, delicate, just like the rest of her but that doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy. "Give, give, given me? You've imprisoned me." She gasps.

"I've saved you." The words explode out of me. "I’ve fucking saved you. Your family never gave a shit about you. Your grandfather would happily have shipped you off to Oblivion the second you stepped out of line. Your aunt actively tried to destroy you. I'm the only one who's ever protected you."

"Pro-protected me?" She tries to wrench free, but I hold her tighter. "You raped me."

"I claimed what was mine." I state. I'm not a rapist, at least not hers. I'm her husband. She was born to be mine, destined for it. I have every right to touch her, to take her, to teach her.She needs to understand that her body, her life, her everything belongs to me now. This was God’s path, his intention. He created her for me and me alone.

But she's not ready to hear that. Not yet.

No, she wants to push me. To test me. To see if I’ll just give in to her pretty face and sad tears.

I guess she’s about to learn another lesson.

I push her back, push her hard and she lands half on the bed, half off it. A squeal escapes her and she tries to scramble free but I pin her down, holding her in place with one hand.

She’s so fragile, so easy to overpower. I don’t know why she even bothers fighting when she knows she doesn’t stand a chance against me.

Her legs kick out as she tries to wrangle free but I’m on top of her, in her, consuming her.

I know they say makeup sex is meant to be good, but hate fucking - that’s just as satisfying.

And right now, I do hate her, I hate that she makes me hurt her, that she makes me force her. If she just behaved the way a wife should, I’d treat her like a queen.

I can feel her insides protesting, refusing to give way and I force myself harder inside her. If I have to tear every inch of her apart, if I have to make her bleed, then by god I will.

She screams more, scratching at the sheets like a wild animal.

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