Chapter Eighteen: The Two Wolves

The flickering light of a classic noir film dances across the walls of the private cinema room. It’s supposed to be a relaxing family evening. Arthur sits in the center of the oversized sofa, looking content, while I am tucked into his side.

Ethan is seated in the leather armchair to our left, half-shrouded in shadow. He isn't watching the screen. He’s watching us.

"You’re so tense, Zola," Arthur murmurs, his voice full of a gentle, husbandly concern. "You need to relax, my love. Let the world go and let me show you how much I care."

Before I can respond, Arthur reaches over. He takes my legs, lifting them with a slow, deliberate motion, and drapes them across his own lap. He begins to stroke my thigh, his palm moving in a rhythmic, soothing pattern. 

To anyone else, it’s a gesture of affection. To me, it’s a countdown to an explosion.

I can feel Ethan’s gaze boring into the side of my head. In the dim glow of the movie, I see his jaw set so hard the bone looks like it might snap. His fingers are curled into the arms of his chair, his knuckles white, his entire body vibrating with a silent, murderous rage.

Arthur’s hand moves higher, his thumb brushing the hem of my silk dress, dangerously close to the sensitive skin Ethan marked only hours ago.

"Such soft skin," Arthur whispers.

Crr-ack.

The sound is sharp, echoing over the movie’s dialogue. Ethan hasn't just dropped the glass; he has crushed it in his bare hand.

"Ethan!" Arthur sits up, my legs sliding off him. "My goodness, son, are you alright?"

Ethan doesn't flinch. He stands up slowly, his hand dripping a trail of dark, crimson blood onto the white marble floor. 

He looks down at his palm, where a jagged shard of crystal is still embedded in the meat of his hand. He doesn't look like he's in pain; he looks satisfied.

"It slipped," Ethan says, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. He turns his gaze to me, his eyes pinning me to the sofa. 

"Mother. The first aid kit. It’s in the kitchen pantry. Please fetch it."

"I’ll go," Arthur says, starting to rise.

"No," Ethan snaps, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. "Stay with your movie, Father. I don't need a fuss. Mrs Reynolds knows where the supplies are."

The look he gives me is a command I can't ignore. I scramble to my feet, my chest tight with panic. I flee the room, my heels clicking rapidly toward the kitchen.

I find the white plastic box in the pantry, my hands shaking so hard I can barely grip the handle. I turn around to head back, but Ethan is already there.

He’s standing in the doorway of the darkened kitchen, his tall frame silhouetted by the hallway light. He’s holding his bleeding hand out, the red drops hitting the linoleum with a steady drip, drip, drip.

"Ethan, you're bleeding everywhere—"

He doesn't let me finish. He slams the pantry door shut and pins me against the shelves, his uninjured hand gripping my waist while the bloody one hovers near my face.

"Did you enjoy it?" he hisses, his breath hot against my lips. "Did you like the way he was touching you? Feeling the skin that I spent all night marking?"

"He’s my husband, Ethan! What was I supposed to do? Kick him?" I whisper-shout, tears of frustration pricking my eyes.

"You find a way," he growls, his blooded hand moving to my throat, forcing my head back. "You spill a drink. You fake a cramp. You do anything except let his hands stay on skin that belongs to me. If I see that again - if I see him even look at your legs that way - I will take you right there on that sofa and let him watch the truth come out of your mouth."

He leans in closer, his lips grazing my ear, his voice dropping to a terrifying, lethal promise. He’s breathing hard, the metallic scent of blood filling my senses.

"I told you. No one touches you. If I have to bleed to get you away from him, I will. If I have to burn this whole house down to keep his hands off you, I’ll do it."

I look at the blood on his hand, then at the terrifying obsession in his eyes. He is completely unhinged, driven by a possessiveness that borders on insanity.

“Do you understand?” he asks his gaze firmly on me.

"Yes," I whisper, my voice trembling. "I understand."

"Good." He pulls back, his face returning to that cold, dead mask. "Now, fix my hand. And try not to look so terrified when we walk back in there. My father thinks you’re an angel. It would be a shame to ruin the illusion so soon."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The master suite feels smaller tonight after the evening movie which ended thanks to Ethan’s bleeding.

I am sitting at the vanity, brushing my hair with mechanical strokes. My body is a map of hidden secrets; my thighs are still tender from Ethan’s touch, and the skin of my neck is painted with concealer to hide the ghost of his teeth.

Arthur’s reflection appears behind mine. He’s already in his silk pajamas, his expression soft, his eyes reflecting the warm glow of the bedside lamps. He places his hands on my shoulders, and I have to fight the urge to flinch. 

His touch is soft but possessive in a way that feels different from Ethan’s fire. It feels like a lid closing on a box.

"We haven’t consummated our wedding, Zola," he whispers, his lips grazing the top of my head. "I feel like I’m living with a beautiful ghost."

"I'm just tired, Arthur. The gala planning, the house..."

"No more excuses," he murmurs. He turns me around in the chair, his hands sliding down to my waist. He pulls me up until I am pressed against him.

He leads me to the bed, and the silk of my nightgown rustles against his legs. He pushes me back onto the mattress, and I feel the plush headboard against my skull.

Arthur climbs over me. For a moment, the "kind old man" is gone. His weight is surprising, his grip on my wrists firm as he pins them to the pillow.

"Tonight, I want my wife," he says. His voice has lost its gentle lilt. It’s flat. Cold.

He begins to kiss my neck, his beard scratching my sensitized skin. My stomach lurches. I think of Ethan’s mouth, Ethan’s heat, and the fact that I am currently filled with his son’s evidence. The guilt and the physical Revulsion rise up in my throat like bile.

"Arthur, please... not tonight. I really don't feel well," I say, my voice trembling. I try to pull my hands free, but his grip tightens.

"You said that yesterday. And the day before," he mutters, his face buried in my shoulder. His movements become frantic, his hand fumbling with the hem of my gown, tugging at it with a sudden, violent jerk that makes the delicate silk rip.

Rrrrip.

The sound echoes in the quiet room. My heart hammers. He’s not listening. 

He’s pushing my legs apart with his knee, his breath coming in hot, ragged hitches. 

For a split second, I see it: a flash of raw, ugly entitlement in his eyes. A monster that looks exactly like Ethan. He leans down, his teeth baring, his hand reaching for my throat to still my protests…

I let out a small, broken sob, turning my face away.

The tension in the air snaps.

The pressure on my wrists vanishes instantly. Arthur pulls back as if he’s been burned. In the blink of an eye, the mask is back. The darkness is sucked back into the shadows, replaced by the mask of the doting husband.

"Oh, my darling," he says, his voice dripping with instant, honeyed concern. He sits up, reaching out to stroke my hair with a hand that was bruising me seconds ago. "I am so sorry. I didn't realize... I’ve been so selfish."

He looks at the torn silk of my gown and his face falls into an expression of deep, performative shame. "Look what I’ve done. I’m an old fool, Zola. My passion for you simply got the better of me. Please, can you forgive me?"

He smiles; a soft, sad, perfectly practiced smile that makes my skin crawl more than his anger did. The transition is so smooth, so seamless, that I almost wonder if I imagined the violence.

"It's... it's okay, Arthur," I whisper, pulling the torn fabric over my chest.

"You’re just so beautiful, I lose my senses," he murmurs, leaning down to press a chaste, lingering kiss to my forehead. "Sleep now. I’ll go to the guest room so you can have the bed to yourself. I wouldn't want to distress you further."

He stands, smoothing his pajamas, looking every bit the perfect gentleman. He walks to the door, pausing to blow me a kiss. "I love you, Zola. More than you know."

The door clicks shut.

I lie in the dark, shaking. 

The "kindness" was a lie. He didn't stop because he cared; he stopped because he’s a collector, and he doesn't want to break his favorite toy before he’s finished playing with it.

I am trapped in a house with two wolves. One bites, and the other licks the wounds until you're too weak to run.

I look at the clock. 11:45 PM.

Fifteen minutes until I have to go to the other wolf. And for the first time, I don't know which one I’m more afraid of.