Seven
The feeling in my gut as I laid in the bed was something close to elation. I’d gotten my message out. I wasn’t expecting anyone to wait for me at that point. Or maybe they would continue to wait. It wasn’t my problem any more, though. They didn’t have to grieve. If they chose to, then that would be their problem. Nothing of my doing.
I laid in bed and closed my eyes. The time that passed after that passed quickly. I didn’t think too hard about anything. I didn’t spend my time doing much of anything at all. Instead, I just waited. And eventually, I was going to have everything go just right.
The footsteps on the floorboards outside started up. They had a gait that wasn’t peculiar in any way. But somehow, I knew in my gut that Baron Euler was going to come through the door any moment. And I knew that it didn’t matter what happened after that.
If anything had happened, I’d freed myself from the guilt of abandoning my family. And that wasn’t going to be that bad at all. So when he abandoned me, at least I’d set myself up with an excuse for not going back.
The key entered the lock. I could feel the warm tingle in my belly get warmer and more present. The door opened. I didn’t look over. It was more interesting to let him think that I was asleep.
He closed the door again. I could hear his boots on the floor. They got closer. Step. Step. Step. He closed the distance easily. I felt the bed sag under the added weight.
“Get up,” he growled.
I opened my eyes. He looked angry.
“What?”
“Up,” he said again.
“What’s wrong?”
He looked at me with a fury I could neither explain nor respond to. There was a vague fear in my gut. A fear that had nothing to do with ravishing.
“Up.”
I did what I was told and stood up. His hand clapped around my upper arm, as rough as it had been when he first took me out of that bank. And then he pulled.
I stumbled as he pulled, and fell. He didn’t react with any surprise. As far as I could tell I had done precisely what he wanted. My weight hung precariously forward, teetering on the edge of throwing me completely off-balance. He pulled again.
That time I did fall, forward, across his knees. My bottom was up high in the air. My father had paddled me, once. When I was a very little girl. But he had been gone since fifteen years hence. Somehow, I still knew what was coming.
“You little girl,” he said. His hand came down hard on my bottom. It exploded in pain.
“I don’t know what I did.”
“You sent a message.” He brought his hand down again. It made a loud clapping sound that exploded through the room, and red-hot pain shot up my spine.
“I’m sorry,” I cried out.
“Do you even understand what you did?”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. He pulled on my shoulder and sent me to the ground. To my knees. I was in too much pain to realize the lewdness of position that it put me in.
“You put me at direct threat. They’re going to know now, any minute, where you are. Where I am. And they’re going to send somebody. Not your fat oaf Sheriff, either. No, they’re going to send someone who knows what he’s doing. You little fool.”
“I’m sorry,” I said a third time.
He grit his teeth together and looked at me. He was angry. I was afraid. Worst of all, the fluttering in my stomach, the vague desire to please him in a way that was decidedly improper, hadn’t gone away in the least. If anything it was stronger than ever.
“I know,” he said. “Come here.”
He patted a spot on his thigh. I laid my head down on it.
“You didn’t think at all, did you?”
“No,” I said. Tears were in my eyes. They threatened to fall, and I fought to stop them from doing it. “I just, I didn’t want anyone to worry.”
He let out a breath. “You’re very thoughtful,” he said. “But you need to use your head.”
“I promise,” I said. “Are you angry?”
He closed his eyes. “You didn’t know any better. I brought you along. My problem.”
“I’m sorry that I’m a problem.”
“Whatever you do is my responsibility. You can just make it up to me.”
My heart stopped in my chest. “What?”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me up to my feet.
“Bend over,” he said.
My hands shook. Was he implying… maybe. I wanted to tell myself that he couldn’t mean that. But I wanted to believe that he did, too. I wasn’t ready to unpack what that was supposed to mean.
I did. His hands found my hips. His fingers gripped tight. My own fingers dug into the bedsheets and I grit my teeth to keep from having a reaction. I hated the idea of encouraging him. Almost as much as I hated the thought of him stopping.
Euler hitched my skirt up. I felt his hands trace my skin. I felt the goosebumps that it raised after it. I felt my body reacting in other ways. Readying itself for what was going to come next. I forced myself not to tell him that I wanted it.
And then, in spite of the reactions my body was having, in spite of the fact that I was like putty in his hands…
He stopped. He let my skirt fall back down.
“Consider yourself lucky this time,” he said.
I didn’t. Lucky would have been an entirely different outcome, I told myself. But I didn’t tell him. Because I was a good Christian woman. And I wasn’t going to admit that there might have been some part of me that wasn’t.