Throne of Truth

It was awkward, heavy, and I positively hated the clinking as I shuffled toward the pantry and grabbed ingredients for a simple tagliatelle with basil pesto and parmesan.

I had to hand it to my prison guard—he’d brought flavorful things that were easy to turn from separate food groups into a main course.

Normally, I wouldn’t obey him out of principal—no matter he kept twirling the knife with a gleam in his eyes as if daring me to speak out. But normally, I wasn’t starving. My stomach constantly grumbled, empty and ready to eat.

I told myself this meal was for me, and my unfortunate companion would have the leftovers.

Greg sat on the counter, occasionally kicking his leg out to prevent me from moving past, stroking my shoulder and tucking a blonde strand behind my ear.

“You ever think of giving up the corporate world and becoming a stay-at-home mom?” His touch dropped to my breast, squeezing it before I could swat him and continued to the sink to drop the cooked pasta into a colander to drain.

His touch made my heart quake, but I had to remind myself he was just a man. My flesh was just a body; it was repairable. Yes, he’d violate every commandment by taking me forcibly, but I couldn’t focus on that yet.

Only when it happens.

I hated that my mind had accepted when not if.

“No. I’ve been too busy with Belle Elle.” The hot water splashed from the pan down the drain.

Besides, I’m still young. I want to see the world first. I want to explore and be reckless and fall in love.

My insides knotted.

Penn.

Could I have fallen in love with him if he hadn’t lied?

Could I have given up the idea of Nameless to find happiness?

Now, I would never know because I’d never see either Penn or Nameless again.

“You should. Domestic chores suit you.”

“That’s such a sexist thing to say.”

“No, sexist would be that house chores suit all women.” He smirked. “I just said you.”

I rolled my eyes and returned the now drained pasta to the pot where I added sautéed mushrooms, parmesan, and pesto to stir through and warm.

I found comfort in cooking. The method hadn’t changed even if my circumstances had. The recipe still worked even if I was chained in a nightgown waiting to be raped and my business stolen.

“Fuck, watching you cook for me makes me hard.” Greg grabbed his erection. “See what you do to me?”

I had no desire to look. “It makes me sick.”

“That’s because you’re still brain-washed by that bastard, Everett.”

Goosebumps erupted on my skin.

I didn’t know if it was Penn’s domination over my body and the lust I still felt (no matter I wanted to murder him) or the belief that, in some strange way, he would save me even if he was a criminal.

Don’t be so ridiculous.

I didn’t reply, focusing intently on folding in the pesto sauce.

Greg huffed, pushing off from the counter to grab the chain around my wrists and pull me forward. “Come with me.”

“What? But I’m not finished.”

“Doesn’t matter. Two minutes won’t hurt it.”

I had no choice as he pulled me from the kitchen and down the small hallway to the bedroom we’d shared. The bed clothes were tangled; my underwear still on the floor from where he’d kicked them from the bathroom.

He let me go, stepping over the chain wrapped around my ankle (that now snaked down the hallway back the way we’d traveled) to open the wardrobe door. Hanging inside were an array of lingerie and negligées—all completely impractical for making an escape. No shoes, only stockings. No jackets, only bras.

I sighed heavily, fighting depression and tiredness.

This strange role-play helped delete some of the immediate worry I had about my situation. Cooking in chains? It was odd, but at least I wasn’t being hurt. Being washed and cuddled in bed? Awful on many levels but still not pushing the boundaries into horror.

What is he doing?

Why is he dragging this out?

Not knowing was the worst part. I didn’t know when he’d pounce; when he’d demand me to open my legs and let him have me. I didn’t know how much longer I could stay alert and constantly ready to fight.

Eventually, I would tire. I would sleep. And then I’d be at his mercy.

Greg pulled out a small turquoise bag with Tiffany’s logo.

Oh, no.

My heart scrambled into my throat as he placed the bag into my hands. “Open it.”

I backed away, tossing the offending gift onto the bed. I didn’t need to open it to know what was in there. “I don’t want it.”

His jaw clenched as he scooped up the bag, tossed the ring box into his palm, and cracked it open. “Yes, you fucking do, Elle.” Plucking the one carat diamond from the plush box, he grabbed my left hand and jammed the ring onto my engagement finger.

It fit perfectly.

Of course.

Instantly, I wanted to get it off. I’d cut off my own finger to be free of it.

“You’re going to marry me, Elle. You’re going to change your last name to Hobson. Belle Elle will be mine.”

He slithered his arms around my waist, tucking me tight against him. “You’re going to give me a daughter or son, so our families will forever be joined, and Belle Elle will always be mine by right, and then, once you’ve given me everything I want, I’ll let you divorce me.”

His teeth flashed as he chuckled. “But only with a hefty settlement for being the best husband ever. We’ll spread a rumor that you cheated and the sympathy vote will ensure everyone will be on my side while you fade into obscurity.”