Page 79 of Hostile Vows
I’m alone, just like I’d asked of him. He granted me privacy even after I had pushed him to speak to me in his office. Letterman had warned me, yet I thought I knew better. If the consumption of alcohol and drugs in his body wasn’t a red flag, the discord in his eyes should have been.
Alone time is instant respite, if not to recover from André’s outburst, but to seek a degree of modesty in a male dominant zone. For some reason, the swell of loneliness doesn't please me as much as I thought it would.
Since throwing away the fake contraceptives, my menstrual cycle has kicked off—which is both a bittersweet relief and a setback. He doesn’t love me and in hindsight; we don’t have a stable relationship. Yet it still means Mammy and André are in danger—and Acer is still lingering on the sidelines of my marriage, waiting for Frankie’s patience to snap.
Queasiness gives me cause to groan. Sitting in the quiet, a strange sadness works its way over me like heavy rainfall after glorious sunshine. Emptiness creeps through me. I had opened myself up to him—to the idea of commitment—and the possibility of becoming a mother.
All the silly notions that my husband was kind, generous, and devoted were just that—whimsical wishes. I blow out a long puff of air and scrub my tired eyes.
I relive the moment he’d shot the cushion after I’d viciously jerked him off, as per his command. He’s not equipped to nurture, let alone offer security. It was wishful thinking to assume we could salvage happiness from this unusual tragedy. That somehow, we could make our marriage work and have our own family one day.
But now—now I feel like an island where the sun never rises, and the tide drags boats away from its shore. I’m lonely and isolated.
Frankie was right. André’s mercurial disposition can never be tamed and I’m simply his next victim.
After I blot up clotted blood, I move to the vanity to wash between my thighs. I let the water flow until it's tepid, all the while aware of how my hands are trembling and my teeth chattering. I’ve never been in this position before—disjointed in my emotions and off-balance by weakness.
My limbs are stiff and sore, whereas my stomach has run on empty for too many hours, and to add to the mix, an ache spears my skull in the aftermath of a concussion and I’m bone-tired from a brutal menstruation.
Soothing liquid combined with zesty soap is a godsend. Droplets roll down the inside of my legs and puddle at my feet as I wash. Afterward, I take a few moments to rinse my hands and cleanse my flushed cheeks, staring at the ugly bruising on my jawline before burying my face in a soft hand towel.
I’m too tired to consider how long I’ve sought solace. So, when he reappears, my skin prickles, and I lean into the countertop for support. I sense my husband before he joins me.
Our eyes lock, our exhausted reflections silently greeting one another as he strides into the bathroom. I notice his soaking wet hair first, then tiny beads of water clinging to his broad shoulders as if he’s showered again to sober up. He wears a pair of fitted boxer briefs and carries a paper bag.
His gaze wanders from my face, skating over my nipples, bloated stomach, and clamped thighs. He saunters to my hip and places the crinkled bag next to the basin. His expression is soft and thoughtful.
“I got these from India.” He catches my eye again. “She’ll buy more later today, after school, unless they don’t suit you?”
His tongue wets his bottom lip as he stands there, his damp skin scented from soap.
I peer inside the bag to find a collection of tampons. “They’re fine,” I reply with a nonchalant shrug.
“Good.” He reaches out and picks one, extracting a plastic wrapped tampon, and rips it open with his teeth.
He studies it as if he’s never seen one before or cared to acknowledge their existence. Beneath his assessment, I witness something far more perplexing. Flashes of whatever it is appear and linger there as he fiddles with the plastic.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Helping you.”
I frown at his inspection of the blue casing and white string. “I don’t need any help. You can go.”
His lashes flick up to immobilize me with carbon-black eyes, sincere and bold. “It’s not up for debate. I’m going to help you.”
“I’ve used those things since I was twelve. I can take it from here.”
Something odd passes over his expression. Keeping eye contact, he sinks to his knees before me and wedges them between the insides of my ankles. He doesn’t bark orders or dig rough fingertips into my flesh. Instead, he rests there and intimately strokes a tattooed hand across my belly, his compassionate inspection catapulting a hedonistic shiver all over me. When he witnesses the goosebumps, a slow smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
“This pussy belongs to me, Wifey, and I intend to look after it. Don’t fight with me on this. You won’t win.”
“Dré…” I protest. “Some things are best left a mystery. I’d rather sort it out myself.” I swallow hard when his pupils flare. It would have been undetectable had I not studied the exact hue of his eyes since the first day we met. “What makes you think this is appropriate after what you did?”
He leans in and kisses my hip bone, looking up at me as if I’m the ruler of his lawless kingdom. My core clenches despite myself. He’s a man who holds so much power. Yet he’s the one kneeling before me, extending the plastic applicator and carefully inserting it inside of me.
“My pussy. My rules,” he mutters.
I should argue and fight against his authority. But the tenderness he oozes is a white flag. A truce within a perplexing war of ironclad wills and domineering control. I resist the impulse to lovingly weave my fingers through his hair, entranced by the utmost care and attention he uses.
