Page 207 of Endgame
“Shut up.” He drops me, and there’s no kindness in the gesture. His grip clamps both my wrists together, and I know it’ll only get worse from here.
“No! Don’t!” I thrash, kick, snarl. I’m fucking useless. “Talk to me, please!”
“I can’t…” Looking past me, he reaches into the drawer where he keeps his ties. “Can’t fucking take it. Goddammit.”
“Let me go.” My mind is fucked. Has to be. It’s why my nipples are pulled tight. Why I moan at the feel of his tie around my wrists. I’ve just learned what happened to my mom, and I ache to be fucked by him. “Don’t lock me up.”
His eyes tell me that he won’t. That he doesn’t hate me.
This isn’t about punishing me or about pushing me away.
He needs this release.
He wants to break me to feel better? He wants me to bear the brunt of his anguish?
I can do it.
As long as he doesn’t lock me up here, I can take anything.
At the first change in me, he raises an eyebrow. “You’ve stopped fighting.”
“Yes.” Tears brim in the corners of my eyes. “I-I’m your wife. I’m yours. And you?—”
I shriek when he drags me across the walk-in closet.
With one hand on his tie, Everett wrenches all of his suit jackets off the clothing rack. One by one, they’re discarded onto a pile on the floor.
I don’t run. Don’t grimace.
I bite down a gasp when each hanger clatters on top of the rest.
He terrifies me. He always has, on some level.
It won’t make me back down. Nothing will.
“I’m what?” he snaps.
The rack is bare of clothes. In its place, Everett loops the other end of his tie around it, his expression hardening. And I let him. I let him hang me there by my wrists.
“I’m what, Aurora?”
“You’re my husband.” My toes barely touch the ground, swiping over the warm wood.
It’s okay. It’s okay. For him, my shoulders will burn. My arms will stretch. It’ll get worse before it gets better; that much is obvious.
I won’t have it any other way.
He hurt me and wronged me and stole from me.
And through it all, he managed to save me.
From my life. From my abusers. From myself.
“So?” He spits out the word, sounding bored. His concentrated face as he examines my naked body tells a different story. “I was a son once too. A brother. I’ve been your step-uncle for years. A lot of good it did to you. A lot of fucking help I’ve been to the four of you.”
I can tell him, from experience, that it’s impossible to manipulate life.
When the world decides to fuck you over, it will. It’ll show you just how small you are. How ridiculous it is to have hopes, plans, and dreams.
