I'm not big on trigger warnings, but you know...some people are sensitive, and that's totally okay!
As with any chapter that has Alistair: Verbal assault, s3xual assault, domestic abuse...
It's a hard part to write/read but it's part of the story.
Thank you Lara, Nicki & Sam for silencing the doubts in my head!
Chapter 5.
Masen's door slams shut when I open my own, his heavy footsteps echoing in my head from focusing too hard on them. He stops in his tracks, grasping the handle and opening my door all the way, holding it for me.
There's an impatient look on his face, the mirrored sunglasses tucked into the front of his black shirt. It tugs down the V-neckline of the thick cotton longsleeve he's wearing, revealing swirls of black inked into his skin.
Leaving my car unlocked, he motions to the door that leads to the main house.
"After you, Mrs. Anderson."
"I—," I start. I'm stalling, eyes trained on the seams that hold together the hem of my T-shirt.
When I look up at Masen's face, he has one brow raised while he frowns, a questioning look on his face.
I fumble with my hands. Every second I spend here is one moment less with him.
"M—my suitcase," I stutter, glancing at the trunk of the car.
"I'll make sure someone brings it up to the master bedroom," he says.
My heart thunders in my head, loud—obnoxiously loud and threatening.
"No," I blurt out loudly. "N—not there."
Masen looks confused, and I press my fingers into the bruise on my bicep, reminding myself that the master bedroom only brings me more pain. More heartache.
"That's not my room," I state quietly. God, this feels humiliating. Heat kisses my face with violent lips, embarrassment over this stranger knowing I don't share a bed with my husband.
"Look," Masen starts, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I really don't care about your marital arrangement, or about who's sleeping where. It was just an expression, okay? I'm sure your housekeeper knows where to put your stuff." He sighs again. It's like his way of telling me how annoying I am. For someone with a security job, he sure as fuck can't really handle people all too well.
"Sorry." I blink against hot tears, feeling like a basket case. An emotional wreck, fear and dread seeping through the cracks of the mask I wear daily.
"Now, if you please want to go inside. The Mayor wants to see you."
"Please," I mumble, acting on survival instinct. "Don't make me go into his office alone."
"What is it that you're so scared of?" He shakes his head, green eyes trailing over my features, down to where I'm clasping my arm tightly against my body. The crease between his eyebrows grows deeper.
I ignore the question, the metallic taste of blood on my tongue after I bit the inside of my cheek too hard. He's saying something else but Masen's words are all diffusing into nothingness, into a mangled mess that rings into my ears.
Breathe.
"It's my first day, don't have to fucking bully me into a bad first impression on my new boss," Masen mutters, one hand at the back of his neck.
He walks over to the heavy, carved, oak door and opens it. The handle has the faintest of squeaks when you move it, but it's as loud as a megaphone to me right now.
I can't tell him. He works for Alistair. There's no way I can trust him since he's on his payroll. He's probably here to spy on me and make sure I don't run again.
"He's in the study," Masen says.
"I thought you weren't supposed to let me out of your sight?" I ask. It comes out as if I'm a spoiled brat. I get defensive when I don't really know what to do. When I'm scared.
"I'm not supposed to do that in public," he shoots back. "But I'm not here to hold your hand and whatever twenty-four-seven."
I open my mouth to speak but Masen, the emotionless tool, beats me to it.
"I'll be downstairs settling in. I'll come to find you to drive you to your appointment later."
Just like that, he's gone. The protector, leaving me as prey, as bait out in the open.
The dark, hardwood, ancient floors gleam perfectly, the scent of Murphy Oil Soap lingering in the air. My white sneakers look dirty and not worthy of even walking here. I know Al thinks so too. I should be wearing the Louboutins that are gathering dust in the back of my closet instead of white, leather Nikes.
Maybe I should go change so I look the way he wants me to. So he's not ashamed, appalled, or annoyed with my style. Or lack thereof.
I gasp when the door to the downstairs office swings open, my time to run up to my room and change vanished.
Riley walks out, Alistair's secretary, carrying folders and his laptop, a big canvas satchel over his shoulder.
"Morning, Mrs. Mayor," he greets me. He insists on the nickname, thinking it's funny or something. I hate everything about it.
"Morning," I shoot back, conjuring a polite smile on my face. I quickly untie my hair, weaving my fingers through locks of dark hair so it's untangled and draping around my face, my upper arms. It hides the frayed neckline of my T-shirt this way.
"He's all yours," Riley says. I smile, bile rising up my throat.
I knock, twice, and step back a little, putting my weight on my back leg. I fiddle with my wedding set, the white gold heavy and ridiculously flashy. I used to love my engagement ring, the big blue stone surrounded by baby diamonds. Now it's just an eyesore.
"Thank fucking god," Alistair mutters.
He drags me into the office by the wrist until his hand slides down, grasping my hand and entwining his fingers with mine. He hasn't done this in months. It's the softest he's been with me in ages.
The next second, Alistair wraps his arms around me, head buried in the crook of my neck. His breath is hot, scorching against my skin, and I freeze up.
"Honey…" he starts. "Fuck, I've been so worried about you." Stepping back, he looks down at me. His blue eyes are kind, like the sky at twilight, and warm.
I'm confused.
"I—" I don't know what to say, how to start.
I can't move, my face in between Alistair's hands before his thumbs force my chin up. He presses one hard, cold and alarming kiss to my lips. When he pulls away, my mouth feels bruised, and a strangled noise escapes me when he wraps a hand around my throat, pushing my back against the wall so hard it knocks the wind out of me.
"Never, ever pull that shit on me again, Isabella," he whispers, tone laced with danger, the glare in his eyes like a dark omen. "Or, I swear to fucking all that's holy…"
"You're gonna kill me?" I blurt out, feeling his hand press against my throat harder, my words strained and even my soul constricted.
Al's eyes narrow, harden like ice.
"No," he says overly sweetly. "You'd like that too much. Too fucking easy."
I try to swallow but his hand is in the way and I can't breathe, my heartbeat loud and erratic.
"See, I think you need to be on a tighter leash until the election," he starts. "You're getting a little too comfortable, running off, driving around town by yourself, and staying in seedy motels…who was he?" Alistair barks.
"Wh—"
Slap.
"Don't fucking deny it, sweetheart. You're a fucking whore and I want to know whose golden dick was allowed entrance to your overhyped cunt," he whispered. "You give yourself too much credit, Bella. You're a lousy lay, anyway."
My cheek burns from the strike of his palm.
"Takes one to know one."
I know better than to talk back but I can't control it. The next hit makes my lip throb, and I realize I'm bleeding when I swipe my tongue over my upper lip.
"Want to play it that way, huh?"
Alistair reaches for my shirt, the sound of cotton ripping filling my ears as he tears the lace bra I'm wearing through my T-shirt. I'm sobbing, crumbling on the inside. Before I can yell, or do anything else, one of Al's hands clasps over my mouth.