Chapter Five

Jasmine

 

 

 

 

The door slams and I jump, my hands immediately finding each other, squeezing together, my grip tightening with each passing second because I know a slammed door means a shitty mood. When Dylan appears in the doorway, the entire left side of his face is red, his body tight with what I assume is rage. I want to run. I want to get away from here as fast as I can, but I’m stuck. At his mercy.

He walks over to the chair next to me and sits down without a word. Picking up his fork, set to the right of his plate, he stabs at the steak and places it in his mouth. I hold my breath. There is a moment of peace; a quiet that to some might seem like bliss.

I know better.

Dylan lets out a loud growl and then my face is burning, the hot food, only minutes off the stove, clinging to my skin, scorching it. I gasp taking a few steps back from my place. I clutch at my face, wincing as my fingers brush the scalded flesh. I want to scream, but I know that will only make him angrier. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound. Whatever pissed him off, it’s huge.

“Can you not do one fucking thing right?”

He stares up at me from the chair, fists clenched on the table, teeth bared, spittle gathering in his mouth like a rabid dog. I don’t dare speak.

“This is why I tell you no one could ever love you. You are fucking worthless. I don’t know why I stay with your sorry ass. Pity, that must be it. I can’t even come home and have dinner without you screwing it up!”

He pushes his chair away from the table, the feet screeching against the linoleum floor. Before I can react, he yanks me forward so that I fall across his lap, one arm presses down between my shoulder blades, preventing me from moving. His other hand grabs the steak knife I laid out on the table. I close my eyes.

This is it.

He’s going to kill me.

And it will all be my fault.

The cool metal glides up my spine, then my dress falls away from my body. My skin flushes with goose bumps as the cool air from the ceiling fan beats against me. The knife falls to the floor and Dylan’s hand tangles in my hair, forcing me to look up at him. “You’re lucky I need someone around here to get shit done. I’m sick of you being such a fuck up.”

He releases my hair and my head lolls forward, the muscles too sore to keep it steady, and his hand comes down hard on my ass, making me squeal.

Dylan laughs. “A fitting noise, considering you choose to keep my house like a pig sty.” His hand comes down again and the crack reverberates all around me. He’s relentless, doling out strike after strike. My ears start to ring and my entire body feels as if it’s on fire.

Dylan pushes me to the floor and I catch my head on the edge of the table as I fall. "You have five minutes to get your pathetic ass upstairs. I expect to enjoy myself. If I don't, I'll throw you out. No clothes, no food, nowhere to go. Nothing. You don't have anyone, Jasmine, because no one wants you."

I breathe in through my nose, fighting back the tears. Crying is weak. Tears will only piss him off more and make him treat me worse. I wish I were better at being a wife—at being a woman.

“You’re down to four minutes.” He hovers over me, not offering me a hand up. His face is tight, his smile menacing.

I try to push myself up, but my arms are like jelly. My fingers grip the wood and I haul myself up, using a chair to steady myself when I wobble in the heels I’m wearing. With each step my lower body fights me. It’s been beaten down and protests even the smallest of movements. The skin on the back of my thighs pulls tight when I lift my foot to climb the stairs and I pray I make it up.

“You better hurry up.” His voice follows me, twisting through the hallway and up the stairs like a snake. If I could move any faster I would, but between the heels and the pain I might as well be crawling.

“Two minutes.”

My heart begins to race. I need to get up there and I need to do it now. Gritting my teeth, I run the last few steps, whimpering when the skin burns, feeling like it’s going to tear right off my body. I drop to my knees. Maybe I’ll be able to move faster that way. As I crawl along the carpet, I feel something run down the backs of my thighs, drying as it comes to settle in the crevice behind my knees. When I catch sight of my bed, I breathe a sigh of relief. I made it.

I use the bedpost as leverage and stand up, barely having time to straighten my posture before Dylan walks in, belt loose in the loops of his jeans, his top button undone. He heads straight to the bedroom closet.

Please no.

Please don’t let him get the box.

Despite my inner pleas, Dylan returns with what I know to be the little box of horrors. It contains sex toys, toys that people would normally use for pleasure.

Dylan uses them for punishment.

He’s told me before that if I please him, he could make them feel good. That they are for my enjoyments as much as his if I can just do one simple thing right.

I never please him, though.

I can never get it right.

“Now like I said, I plan to enjoy myself.” The smile on his face makes me want to collapse to the floor and as he pulls the long black leather strap out of the box, my eyes close.

I hate my very existence.

I want to die.