Chapter Three

Jasmine

 

 

 

 

I don’t know what’s going on.

Every time he tells me what to do I have this urge to listen. A compulsion to act. When he speaks, his voice seeps into my skin and seems to invade every inch of me, until all I can focus on is him.

As I sift through the mess, from time to time I catch him glancing at me. It isn’t a normal look. It is a dark gaze behind hooded eyes, eyes that feel like they can see into the depths of my soul. It scares me. I don’t like drawing attention to myself. I spend most of my time actively working to avoid it. And I certainly don’t need or want Cutter’s attention. Dylan would kill me for not only working here, but for ever acknowledging that someone else might find me attractive.

Maybe he can see how broken I am? Scrap that, I’m sure he can. Dylan has told me before that a man can spot a weak woman right away. That’s what I am: weak.

I lose my grip on the stack of papers in my hand and they scatter all over the floor. Heart racing in my chest, I look up to see if he is watching. Thankfully, his back is turned to me, his attention on the phone grasped in his large hand.

I drop to the floor, trying to scoop up the papers before he can notice my mistake. When I reach under the coffee table to get the few there, I hit my head on the edge and have to bite my lip to keep from crying out, my ears ringing and a sore patch already forming on my crown.

I can feel his eyes on me before I even look up. I choose not to make eye contact but to just keep picking up the papers, trying to not screw up more than I already have. My fingers dig into the papers, causing small dents and creases where they were once unmarred. I don’t care how tight I have to hold them. I can’t lose this job.

That’s when he appears in front of me. He crouches down and tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear. I jump at the unexpected contact. “Are you okay?”

God, now he’s going to think that I’m some damn freak. I knew Dylan was right, but the realization still causes an ache in my chest. Anywhere I go, they’ll see me for what I am, what I always have been: an idiot who can never accomplish anything.

I need to get out of here. I stand and shove the papers in my hand at him, almost tripping over my own feet as I begin to walk toward the door. When I feel a strong hand close upon my wrist, tugging gently to spin me around to face him, I freeze in fear.

"Where are you going?"

I train my eyes on the floor. “I just . . . I need to leave. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.”

He doesn’t let go of my wrist and the familiar panic starts to rise up inside of me. We stand there in silence before he speaks again. “Look at me.”

My body reacts to his command instantaneously, and when I meet his gaze, I await his next instruction.

“What happened to you?”

He’s not talking about my head. I just know it. My chest feels tight and a cold sweat breaks out all over my body. My shirt sticks to my skin and I feel the flush creep up my neck and into my cheeks. I can’t tell him. I can’t tell anyone. Then they would all know how pathetic I am. How I can’t even do the one thing a woman is meant for and keep the man in her life happy.

He leads me back to the couch. “I don’t want you to leave. Stay.”

A knock at the door makes me jump and Cutter releases my wrist. I immediately pull it to me, my fingers searching for the pain that should be there, but that is noticeably absent. I look down. There isn’t even a red mark.

“Come in.” Cutter’s voice is clipped and a part of me knows I caused it.

The door opens slowly and a man stands in the frame. He doesn’t introduce himself or say anything, just glances over at me, then back at Cutter. He is wearing a vest that is exactly like Cutter’s except for a couple patches on it. Cutter exhales and walks over, leaving me alone on the couch.

The stranger’s voice is low and I can't hear what he's saying, but by the way Cutter's body stiffens I know it can't be anything good. The man walks away and Cutter turns to me. "I need to go handle some stuff, but I'll be back. For now, just organize things into piles and then we can go through them later."

I nod at him and he walks out the door.

My stomach rumbles and I look at the clock before retrieving a sandwich and a bottle of water from my bag and eat over the bin, careful not to get crumbs anywhere. I’m left alone by everyone, but the day goes quickly. As I sort through the papers I keep glancing at the door, waiting for him to come back. There’s no doubt I’m more comfortable being in here by myself. Moving around the office with his watchful eyes on me. I don’t know what it is that he’s looking for, but it makes me nervous.

Day moves swiftly into evening and Cutter still isn’t back. I have to get home to get Dylan’s dinner ready and if I don’t leave soon I’ll hit traffic. Unsure of the protocol, I take the notepad from his desk and write Cutter a note, letting him know I’ll see him tomorrow. I step back and look at the note before adding the time I left. I wouldn’t want him to think I’d taken advantage of his absence.

As I drive home, I think about the club, the people there, and Cutter. We’ve barely spoken to each other and his mere presence puts me on edge, but I have this pull toward him that I know I can’t give into. He makes me want to tell him things I’ve never told anyone. I want to confide in him. It almost feels like he might help me—save me.

A shiver runs up my back and my fingers tighten on the wheel. This is wrong. I need to try to keep as much distance between ma and Cutter as possible. He touched me and I can’t let him think that’s okay, I need to make sure I keep a safe distance between us. I don’t want him to see how damaged and broken I am.

I pull into the driveway and cut the engine. If I hurry, I can get everything done on time. Making sure not to slam the door—push closed, bump with hip—because that’ll upset Dylan, if he’s even home, I remove my shoes and head straight for the kitchen, pulling out what I need for dinner.

While that is cooking I move to the living room. Every surface needs to be dusted daily. Dust is the sign of a dirty home. I remember to lift the coasters and dust under there. I’d forgotten once and Dylan was livid. He threatened to kick me out if I decided I wanted to live like a slob. It was my own fault for letting time get away from me. I chance a look into the living room.

It’s empty.

I’m not really sure where he is right now, and I likely won’t ever know where he goes during the day, or who he spends his time with. I run my tongue over the chip in my eye tooth. I’ve learned to not question.

The smell of steak fills the air and I run in to check on it, making sure it doesn't cook past medium. Dylan is very particular about his food and hates anything tasting burned. I stir the veggies and clean down all the kitchen counters to make sure there aren't any dirty or sticky spots. I stand back and look from three different angles.

Nothing.

I glance at the clock: 5:45. I have fifteen minutes.

I run upstairs, changing out of my conservative work attire and putting on the dress Dylan has laid out for me. I steal a look in the mirror, ignoring the way the straps hang off my bony shoulders, and the sagging material where my full breasts used to be. I want to pull on a sweater to cover up, but he picks out what he wants to see me in each day and there isn’t one here. I tug at the shoulders of the dress. I don't have the best body so I need to make sure that I am always able to look appealing to him.

It took me a while to be able to work out this schedule and make sure that all of his needs are met. There were times when I messed up completely and Dylan made me see where I’d gone wrong. He’s always trying to make sure I’m the best wife I can be. But I have this routine down now. I’ve been doing it for so long now that it’s almost robotic.

The soles of my feet burn as I race back downstairs. They scream at me to sit down and relax but I need to show my appreciation for everything that he has done for me. I need to keep him happy so that he doesn't get mad. It would be so disappointing to slip back into my old ways; back when I didn’t pay close enough attention.

“You stupid fucking bitch!” My back slams into the wall and I slide down it, sinking to the floor. My arms come up to cover my face, bracing myself for the next.

Dylan stomps over to where I lie in the fetal position. I can smell the polish on his boots, see my reflection in their shine. His foot connects with my ribs and the sound of bones breaking fills my ears.

"This is all your fucking fault!"

His boot comes down again. More cracking. I rock forward and grab my bare foot, pain shooting up my shin bone. I don't know what he is referring to, but by the look in his eyes, he just might kill me over it.

I look around for something to shield myself with but there isn’t anything within reach.

“Please st—” The air is knocked from my lungs and my body goes rigid. I have endured plenty of abuse from Dylan, but it has never been as bad as this.

His hand fists in my hair and he bends down and pulls my head toward him. My scalp burns where the hair is torn from my head as he brings his face closer to me, smashing our noses together. His breath is stale and sour. My stomach lurches.

“You have ruined every fucking day of my life since I met you. I’ve lost my job over your stupid ass, and you’re going to pay.” His voice is low, controlled, and scarier than if he was screaming.

I don’t know how I could have caused him to lose his job. I open my mouth to question him, but the words are knocked from my mouth when his fist connects with my jaw and the metallic taste of blood rushes over my tongue. I barely have time to take a breath before my head slams into the hardwood floor.

“You fucking owe me some relief after this shit.”

Dylan grabs my legs, one in each hand, and begins to pull me. When we reach the stairs he doesn’t stop but continues to drag me, not paying attention to the sickening sound as my head crashes against each step on the way up. He’s talking to me but I can’t hear him over the ringing in my ears.

I groan when we reach the hallway and feel the soft carpet under me, the friction between the fibers and my skin rubbing me raw. The break is short. Dylan drags me into the bedroom, dropping my legs and grabbing me once again by my hair. I’m so lightheaded that when he forces me to my feet, I can’t balance and fall to the side, sobbing as I spy long dark hair dangling from his fingers, no longer attached to my head.

Dylan swings me so I land on the bed face down, and as my chest hits the edge of the mattress, jabbing my ribs, I cry out, blood spattering over the white sheets. "You’re going to give me what I always fucking wanted. I am going to fuck you every way possible, then, if you're lucky, I'll leave your worthless ass alone."

He grabs the back of my sundress and tears it from my body, the fabric biting into my chafed skin. Next, he shreds my panties and his hand comes down on my ass, the force reverberating up my spine, my jaw snapping together, making me see stars. I lose track of how many times he smacks me, but my entire lower body is burning by the time he’s done.

He backs off and goes silent. His loud pants fill the room. He’s exhausted. I hold a sliver of hope that he is done; that he has grown bored of me. That's when I feel both his fingers dig into my ass cheeks, cutting into the raw skin as his nails dig in.

“Dylan, please, no.” I don’t even care that I’m begging. I taste the salt of my tears as it mixes with the blood and I try to stop him. “Please don’t do this to me.”

His face is suddenly right in front of mine, and I gasp. His eyes are bulging. Sweat pours from his hairline and down his cheeks. His teeth are clenched as he bites out, “Jasmine, you belong to me. I want this ass and I’m gonna take it. So fucking deal with it.”

I feel the bed shift as he moves behind me and I bite down on the comforter to stop myself from vomiting. Then he thrusts forward and the breath is stolen from my lungs. My body feels like it is being ripped in half. His hands are so rough, his pace so fast, and at one point he leans up to drag his nails down my back. I can feel the blood running over my skin, see it as it drips off my back and onto the sheets, and when I hear him groan from his release, I have to hold back the bile threatening to spill out.

There is no reprieve as he forces me to my knees on the bed and makes me suck his dick until he’s hard and ready again. The whole thing feels like a dream—no, nightmare. I’m going through the motions. It’s almost like I’m watching the scene from above. Because I’m no longer inside my body. I’m elsewhere. It’s the only way I will be able to endure the horrific scene unfolding.

Dylan pulls out of my mouth and disappears for a second, coming back in with a set of handcuffs. He tosses me onto the center of the bed. The air is thick with the smell of sex and sweat and despair. I pull in air through my nose; small, shallow breaths that won’t hurt my ribs too much.

Once he secures each of my hands to the bedposts, he situates himself in between my legs, which are too weak for me to even try to close them in protest. He fucks me raw, using my hips as leverage to drive into me. Each time he pulls on them, the metal of the handcuffs bites into my skin. Everything I feel is swelling inside of me, the pressure to release with a cry or a groan almost intolerable. But my throat is so sore and his threat looms over me so I hold back the impending screams. His hand closes tight around my throat and my breathing becomes erratic.

“I own you. Always remember this.”

He forces himself into me with a groan and I bite the inside of my cheek, praying that it will be over quick. Once he finishes inside me again, he climbs off. My hands hang limp in their shackles, pins and needles gnawing at my fingertips. As he walks out of the room, he calls over his shoulder, “You can stay there and think about how to fix this shit storm you fucking created.”

I would do that if it had not been for two things:

I still have no idea what I did.

I’m starting to lose consciousness . . .

He told me later that my constant mistakes and shortcomings had distracted him at work. That’s why they’d had to let him go.

I slip on the heels that I’d left by the door and return to the kitchen, my feet aching with each step. Placing the food on the plate and arranging it so it doesn’t look messy, I place everything on the table—one plate, a knife, and a fork, his water at two o’clock to his plate.

I look at the clock. I only have five minutes to get the dishes washed and put away. I scrub at the pans as fast as I can, cleaning and drying them before placing them back in the cabinet. When I hear the screen door open, I quickly shut the cabinet door and hurry to stand next to Dylan’s chair at the table.

The food smells delicious. My stomach grumbles from just standing close to it, and I run my tongue over my lower lip as I remember what I think steak tastes like. My mouth waters as I imagine being able to eat it, but I know what my dinner will be. It's the same as always: peanut butter and jelly.

When the door slams, all hope I had of this night being peaceful and quiet are gone.