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CHAPTER FIVE
"Did you enjoy your meal, My Lady?"
April smiles, moving a strand of hair behind her ear and folding her hands in her lap, "It was lovely, thank you."
Jo nods, tucking a cloth beneath her arm and picking up the redhead's plates, "I'm glad."
She waltzes off then, heading back into the kitchen and leaving the slightly older girl to herself.
She doesn't normally eat alone in the evening.
Her husband usually joins her, sits at the opposite end of the long table and raises a brow every time she opens her mouth to talk.
It's a routine already.
But this time is different.
Tonight, she had sat at the table with nobody around her, nobody to talk to, and she had eaten rather hurriedly, faster than usual so she could escape back to her bedroom.
She was starting to notice that she didn't do much within a day's time.
She wakes up, bathes, has her breakfast. She chats with the other women of the House, shares a few short stories, has her afternoon piano session. She eats her supper, bathes, seduces, sleeps.
There isn't much for her to do really.
And she's not sure just how long she can last without going crazy.
She makes sure that her goblet is empty and neatly folds her napkin before she stands. Why should she wait for someone to come and tell her when she can move?
With a half-full stomach because she refuses to eat the kitchen's pudding, she heads upstairs.
It's a routine almost.
Supper, then bed, though her husband usually arrives sometime between the two and she's come to expect him.
She grasps her flowing red hair in one hand to pull it aside as she reaches the top of the staircase, feet stopping suddenly when she sees the man in question down the corridor.
Who in God's name was he talking to?
With his hands on another woman's shoulders, stood as close to the stranger as he stands by April, gaze unmoving as he looks at her.
April licks her lips, carrying on down the hall until she nears them.
Granted, he wasn't the most charming person, and she probably should not give a damn if he was frolicking with other women, but she wasn't like that.
He was hers, and she did not agree with the idea of him laying with another.
"You are going to be fine. I'll make sure of it."
She knows that it's not good to eavesdrop, it never has been, but she's never been able to control her needs either.
And just what exactly did he plan on taking care of?
Was she in trouble? Was she carrying his child?
April didn't want to think of the latter. She couldn't handle her husband fathering some whore's child.
Or was she just in need of help?
When she spots Jackson's hands running up and down the brunette's arms, she turns her gaze. The woman, girl even, was beautiful. Of course he'd be tempted, of course he'd sway. He would never pass up the opportunity of having his way with someone who had her brown locks, and bright eyes, and tender features. She was beautiful, and April was... herself.
She had never thought that she was anything special, quite the contrary.
Her mother had told her that she was a pretty girl, that she had a nice smile and big eyes. She hadn't listened.
Her father had told that she would one day make a man cave with her eyes, that she could kill a man. She hadn't paid much attention to his words.
Her sisters were different however. They had been more frank in her opinion, more honest. You'll never find a man to love you. The best you will ever find is a farmer with bloody pigs and no money. Nobody will ever want you, April, you aren't worthy.
And she had listened.
She had believed them, still did.
And her father marrying her off to a handsome future king didn't make much sense in their eyes. They were better suited for the role. They were prettier, and she had agreed with them.
So, of course, there was a high chance that said husband and heir would never be satisfied with her, would never be happy. How could he be? She wasn't worthy, wasn't who he needed or wanted. She wasn't enough.
She slams the large door of her bed chamber once she enters, back sliding against the metal and knees rising up to her chest.
She isn't going to cry about it, she won't shed a tear because she's feeling insecure. It happens everyday, it's not enough to sob over. Her head just drops to her hands and she sighs, mumbles words beneath her breath.
But the loud banging on the door rattles her, shakes her, and she quickly stands.
"Yes?"
She backs away towards the bed, hands cupping her jaw and she glances up at the painted ceiling to rid herself of the tears behind her eyes.
"Are you alright?"
"Do you care?" She swallows a breath, turning to face him after a moment, catching him as he shuts the door locked.
She ignores him when he steps closer to her, when his hands find her waist, when his fingers mess with the strings down the front of her dress.
She ignores him when he closing his eyes, breathing heavily and taking a step back.
"What is wrong with you?"
"With me?" She almost laughs, eyes wide and shoulders shaky, "Do not tell me you're serious."
"I am."
"Okay. If we're being honest, then who was that?" Her hand waves out back toward the door, index finger sticking out. She grimaces at him, a small frown covering her forehead and her lips dry. She gulps, glancing at the floor for a second, "Who is she?"
"She," He begins, walking closer again and taking a hold of her outstretched arm. He pins it down, wrapping his own arms around her torso and keeping her held tight against him, chest to chest and head to neck, "is nothing you need to concern yourself with."
"Is she your whore?"
He doesn't miss the way her voice breaks, the small hiccup that escapes passed her lips.
"No."
"Is she-"
He silences her, hands pressed against the sides of her face, lips crushing hers.
He needs to stop doing that.
She wants to pull away, wants to stop him and talk about things, but he makes it too hard when he slips his hands down the sides of her breasts until they rest on her hips. She shifts when he pulls on the string of her gown, tugging it open and pulling it from her shoulders, and she turns her back to him.
She slips her underwear down her legs and the small white dress over her head, dropping them down on the ground before she glances back at him over her shoulder.
"Get undressed."
"I'm sorry?" He perks a brow, clearly a little taken back by her order. He's supposed to be the one who controls her.
"I'm not going to let you fuck me again until you take a second to understand me."
He holds his arms up, clearly throwing in the towel, watching as she moves to grab the top of his loose trousers. She shoves them down his legs and tugs his shirt over his head, ridding him of his clothes.
"Now what?"
He won't lie, won't fib and say that he isn't enjoying her sudden take of charge.
"Now you're going to stand there."
"My L-"
"Quiet."
He smirks across at her, green eyes blinking and teeth digging into his bottom lip.
He's not too sure what she is getting out of this, other than taking in the sight of his nudity and admiring him in all his glory.
"Are you going to keep staring?"
She glances back up at his face, shyly smiling with a faint blush as she shrugs. She steps closer to him this time, fragile fingertips reaching out to touch his skin, to burn her own flesh.
She aims to please, wants to satisfy, craves to pleasure him.
So, she breathes, and she lowers herself down onto her knees, fingers holding his hips. She finds him, takes him, between teeth and tongue and she is sort of proud.
Because she's supposed to, and she wants to, and by the sounds she hears she's guessing that she may be good at it.
"Fuck."
And she does it harder, with more confidence and need, and her small fingers apply pressure into him, press him.
His hands find her hair, threading and running through her locks and tugging her nearer.
It's a little strange, and unfamiliar, but she thinks, hopes, that he enjoys it, enjoys her.
"April-"
She rises when he grips her forearms, pulling her up to stand and cupping his hands around the base of her neck, thumbs sweeping the skin of her flushed cheeks.
He knows that she's insecure, that she may feel inferior, smaller, afraid even.
And he might not treat her as tenderly as he should, but he knows that she isn't his worst enemy. She isn't the devil. She won't break him, hurt him. She won't stab him when he turns around. She won't run away.
She will stay, and she will force herself into this, even though he wouldn't make her.
"She was my sister."
He knows that she's insecure, but he's not sure why or how she came to be that way, but he wishes that would stop worrying for two whole seconds and just live. He wouldn't disobey her and lay with another woman.
She kisses him back, hands clawing at his naked chest and letting a soft purr slip past her bruised lips when he smacks her bare bottom, lifting her up with his hands tucked under her ass and walking her toward their bed.
She dips into the comfortable sheets, red hair spreading around her shoulders and letting her arms lie wide.
She is bare, and vulnerable, and his. She is his, just as much as he is hers. Her pale legs, pink lips, long eyelashes are his. She is his.
The noises she makes when she reaches ecstasy are his; they're his doing, his pride. The way she arches the small of her back into him, the way she knits her brows, the way she parts her lips before softly biting into them; they're all his. He does it to her, makes her like that. He owns her, possesses her. She is his.
His fingers trace up her spine as she leans into him, head pushed into his neck and teeth into his collarbone as he enters her, her legs pulled up beneath his arms.
He does not want another man to ever picture her like this. It's a sight for him alone. She is for him alone. Timid, and uneasy, and still somewhat innocent. She is fragile, but she's tough.
And he enjoys her like that, the way she is. He likes the banter, and the fake hatred between them. He likes her moans and sobs and cries for God when she climaxes, when she drags her nails down his back and pants. He likes the way her chest is heavy, likes the way she is unable to form words for a few moments afterwards. He likes the way she messes with him, messes him up, and spreads her legs, and uses him the way he wants her to. He likes that he can make her different.
Even though she doesn't need changing.
Because she is perfect.
When he collapses on top of her over the side of the bed, she rubs a hand over her face, hazel eyes drifting shut.
"April?"
She nods to answer him, turning to face him with a shy expression and a faint smile when he leans up on his elbow and caresses her chin.
"You are beautiful."
And she believes him.