Page 7 of Poisoning Ivy
A sound from outside the window makes my eyes pop open, and I squint to see through the dark. It’s not uncommon for the deer to trod right through the yard, though they tend to stay away from the lights, so I can’t imagine one out the window. Then again, the privacy film on the windows means that they can’t see in. It was always my favorite feature of this bathroom, not that I got to use it very often. The view looking out over the mountainside is unparalleled, and there’s something about enjoying it from this vast, lavishly accommodated bathroom that makes it even better. I feel small here, in a good way, as if my problems aren’t so catastrophic after all.
It’s the bears I’m worried about, though it’s a somewhat irrational fear, given that my husband is probably the cruelest of any creature I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a few cruel men in my life, not the least of which was my own father. A classic fuckup with daddy issues, I married a man just like him, right down to the fact they’re both doctors who care more about the power they have over other people than they do about the altruistic benefits of saving lives.
I ease back again, deciding that the bear may be a better fate than whatever Cody or I can come up with, and let my eyes flutter closed, feeling the beads of sweat rolling down my neck.The water is hot enough that it burns my skin, but I force myself to sit in it, liking the way the bite on my flesh takes the ache out of the rest of my injuries.
When the doctors at the hospital said I was lucky to be alive, they meant ‘It could have been so much worse’. I lost a fair amount of blood, apparently, but that came down to the cut across my right cheek—facial wounds bleed a lot, I’ve heard. Three stitches there, the surgeon had said, just to prevent scarring, as if I give a fuck about another scar. I suppose he didn’t see the others, though, so it was nice of him to care.
Other than some more minor scratches, the broken wrist that can conveniently be attributed to the accident, and the potential for a concussion, I was spared any other damage.
The creak of the floorboard behind me only gives me half a second of warning.
It’s not enough.
The hand is around my throat, sinking me underwater before I’ve even had a chance to open my eyes. The scream that bubbles out of my throat pushes bubbles to the surface of the water, which immediately floods my lungs in the absence of air as instinct guides me to fight for my breath. The face is distorted from the bottom of the tub, the light behind him casting his face entirely in shadows.
I kick desperately, my legs searching for purchase to try and sit up, twist out of his grip, anything. But it’s all futile, only serving to make my limbs grow heavier and the panic grips me tighter. The sudden realization that I couldn’t have done this to myself makes me want to sob, but I can’t draw more water into my lungs. I claw at his arm, hoping that this isn’t the end, that he can’t try and turn this around on me and make me a victim of myself in death.
When he draws me to the surface, I gasp for air before clearing the water from my lungs, launching myself into a coughing fit.Cody lifts me out of the tub entirely by my throat, displaying strength I’ve never seen from him, and pulls me against him. I’m sopping wet, water pouring down around our feet as I struggle to breathe, to cough, to replace the water with air. My vision is blurred with panic, and my toes don’t touch the ground as he stands before me.
Stay awake,I tell myself, just like I did last time. If I pass out, I might not wake up.
Last time, I was either lucky or unfortunate enough to wake up a few moments later. If I fade out now, how long will he strangle me still? Will he bury me out here, in my favorite place, and pretend it never happened? There would be some solace in that, at least. To rest in the ground here forever, to turn into dust that flowers will rise from, I suppose it will finally give my life some beauty.
I’m just on the verge of darkness when the hand comes off my neck, dropping me to the ground to catch my breath. I roll onto my good hand and knees, choking on all the air and water, and the deepest fucking regret I’ve ever had from marrying this fucker who has never loved me a day in his life.
His boots move over either side of me, boxing me in as I heave a giant breath, tears streaming down my face to mix with the streams of water from my hair. When he sinks down over my hips, knocking me to the ground, I expect the bite of a blade in my back or his hands to gravitate back to my throat, but he does neither, wrapping an arm around my waist and dragging me into the spot he wants me.
The feel of his erection through his jeans shouldn’t terrify me—we’ve fucked before, no matter how rare or uninspired it is. But it’s been months without any contact beyond the physical abuse, and when he’s this violent, I can’t imagine anything enjoyable is about to unfold.
“Stop,” I gasp, trying to claw away from him as his arm anchors me to him and the shape of his cock nudges against my center. “Please, I’m sorry!”
I don’t know what I am apologizing for, but my apologies are often the only way to appease him.
The laugh that comes out of him isn’t amused. It’s cold, dark, and hollow.
“You aren’t sorry yet,” he growls.
My stomach drops. If he wasn’t holding me still, it may have dropped right onto the ground because the voice takes my newly found breath away. “But you will be.”
It’s not my husband.
No.
Panic bursts through me, and I do my best to kick away from him, bucking like a wild horse. It gets a laugh out of him, particularly as he settles his hips against my ass and I begin to scream, scrabbling for anything I can use to get out of his grip.
But he doesn’t let me loose—he walks me forward, toward the windows, and presses me against the glass so that my body flattens against it, the cold panel making everything in me tighten. I think, for a minute, he’s going to slam my head against it, but then I catch his reflection.
The fencing mask on his face sends a jolt of terror through me, straight down to my core.
No, it’sdefinitelynot my husband.
In the fight for my life, I hadn’t realized just how huge this man is—broad shoulders, thick muscles, and well over a foot taller than me. He could have snapped my neck the minute he pushed me under the water, but something tells me that’s not the objective.
“Cody!” I scream for the man who’s supposed to honor and cherish me, my only possible chance at getting out of this. “Help!”
The chuckle behind me sinks dread into my toes, and the breath on my neck chases chills after it. He’s pinned me to the glass with his body, his rough jeans on my skin, and a hand on the back of my neck, making sure I don’t look away as he reaches up with his other hand. I’m not sure what he’s doing, at first, and then I see the window film peeling away and realization hits. I struggle to get away from him, to get away from the window and whoever is on the other side of it, but he holds me still as he rips the film away.
The night isn’t as dark as I expected it to be, lit up with little pinpricks of starlight. The moon is hiding somewhere beyond the trees, wanting no part in whatever depravity is about to unfold. But it’s the light from inside, from behind me that lets me see them.
