Chapter Fifteen: The Cold Marriage Bed

The evening is quiet, the kind of silence that feels heavy, pregnant with things unsaid.

Arthur and I are finally alone in the master suite after a grueling dinner. 

The air in the dining room was stagnant; Ethan looked so shaken he barely touched his vintage red, his eyes tracking every movement of the staff. He didn't even bring himself to touch me.

Ethan firmly believes I’m being poisoned. Arthur and the doctors insist it’s just an allergic reaction. I don't know who to fear more. 

If anyone wants to poison me, I tell myself, it would be Ethan. 

He hates me the most for being Mrs. Reynolds, for being a stripper - for even existing.

Arthur is already in his pajamas, sitting on the edge of the vast, king-sized bed. He looks at me with a tenderness that makes my skin itch with a sudden, violent guilt.

"Zola, darling," he says softly, reaching for my hand as I emerge from the dressing room in a modest silk nightgown. "Come here."

I walk to him, my movements stiff. My body is still singing with the residual ache of the gala, my heart racing from the toxic shock of the morning and the phantom heat of Ethan’s touch. 

I sit on the edge of the mattress, careful not to let my weight settle on my bruised thighs.

Arthur leans in, cupping my cheek. His touch is light, respectful - the complete opposite of the bruising, territorial grip I’ve become accustomed to.

"We’ve been married for days, and I feel like I’ve barely had a moment alone with my beautiful bride," he murmurs. He leans in to kiss me.

It’s a slow, soft kiss, but I pull back instinctively. My skin recoils. The memory of Ethan’s teeth sinking into my neck is a physical barrier. The warning Ethan hissed at me - to never let Arthur or anyone else have me - is a screamed command in my brain.

I don’t want Ethan’s rage. I’m terrified of what he’ll do if he smells his father on me.

"Arthur, I..." I look away, my voice trembling. "I’m still so exhausted. The reaction... it took everything out of me. My head is pounding."

I see the flicker of disappointment in Arthur’s eyes. It isn't anger; it’s a quiet, hurt confusion.

"Of course," he says, withdrawing his hand. "I don't want to rush you, Zola. I just want to be close to you."

"I know. And I want that too," I lie, the words feeling like ash in my mouth. "Just... not tonight. Please?"

"Alright. Sleep then," he says, forcing a small smile as he pulls back the covers. "We have a lifetime ahead of us, don't we?"

I lie down, turning my back to him and staring at the painting on the wall. I can feel him lying there, a few inches away - a good man who deserves the truth. But the truth would kill him.

I wait. I count the agonizing minutes until Arthur’s breathing deepens into the steady rhythm of sleep. 

The moment I’m sure he’s under, I slip out. The guilt in this room is suffocating me.

The hallway is a frozen marble tomb. I head toward the library, seeking the dark, seeking a distraction from the lie I’m living. I don't turn on the lights. I just want to disappear into the shadows.

“Are you alright?”

The voice comes from the back of the room. I don't flinch. My body recognizes the vibration of his vocal cords before my brain does. Ethan.

I turn, and for a split second, I see it - raw worry etched into his features before he slams the mask of possessiveness back into place. He strides toward me, his chest hitting mine, knocking the breath from my lungs.

“Did my father do anything to you?” he asks, his hands gripping my waist with a crushing force.

I shake my head, confused. “No... I just wanted a book.”

This version of Ethan is more terrifying. He is trembling. He feels like a man ready to burn my world down just to claim the ashes.

He lunges. His mouth crashes against mine - not a punishment, but a starvation. He tastes of Scotch and desperation. He devours my lips, his tongue a rhythmic, invading force. He hoists me up, slamming my butt onto the cold desk.

“Nnnh... Ethan...”

"Zola, don’t you dare die on me," he groans against my mouth. 

It sounds like a prayer. It sounds like a curse. 

There is no spanking tonight. No stinging palm.

Instead, he works with a frantic, rough hunger. He rips my nightgown open, the silk tearing with a sharp shing that echoes in the quiet library. 

His mouth finds my breast instantly. He doesn't tease; he sucks the peak with a bruising, rhythmic force.

“Ah! Oh god... Ethan, stop... please...” I cry out, my head thumping back against the desk.

He doesn't stop. He responds by biting the soft skin of my ribs, marking me. His hand slides down, finding me already slick and aching for him. 

He works two fingers inside me with a punishing, rapid pace. Squeltch. Squeltch. "Look at me," he commands, his voice a dark, jagged growl.

I open my eyes, seeing the raw, unfiltered lust in the grey storm of his gaze. He positions himself, and then he thrusts.

“AHH! Nnn-gh...” It’s a deep, powerful entry that bottom's out inside me. 

He is rough - every strike sends me sliding back across the wood. Clap. Clap. Clap. The sound of his pelvis hitting mine is a raw, wet percussion. 

He lifts my thighs high, pinning them to his chest as he hammers into me.

“Oh... yes... right there... mmm-ah!” I’m sobbing his name now, my fingers clawing at the muscles of his shoulders.

He moves with a violent, rhythmic pace, claiming every inch of me as I slam against the desk. 

I wait for the sting. I wait for the pain. But he only gives me this - this ruinous, beautiful heat.

When the climax hits, it’s a shattering explosion. I arch my back, my toes curling, a high, broken keen escaping my throat as my internal muscles clamp around him in a desperate rhythm. 

“Ethan! Ethan!”

He lets out a low, guttural roar, his body stiffening as he pours himself into me. He collapses against my chest, his face buried in the crook of my neck. He’s silent, his heart beating a frantic thud-thud-thud against my own.

For a fleeting second, I feel a soft, lingering kiss pressed to the spot behind my ear. But before I can grasp it, he pulls away. The coldness returns to his eyes.

"Let me have a taste of anything that wants to go into your mouth, Zola. If I find out you’ve swallowed so much as a drop of water I haven't vetted, I’ll reach down your throat and pull it back out myself" he mutters, standing up and adjusting his clothes. The edge is gone, replaced by a haunting gravity.

I stand up, my legs like water, my body vibrating from the intensity of him. He took me without trying to break me.

"Am I clear?" he asks, leaning closer, his shadow swallowing me.

I nod, unable to speak. He walks out without looking back.

Tonight "Tax" has been paid, but for the first time, I think Ethan is the one who feels like he’s lost something.