Chapter Nine: Mirror, Mirror (Pt 2)

His fingers are a heavy, molten weight against my core, thrusting into me with a rough, rhythmic urgency that makes my head swim. 

His intent is crystal clear: he is waiting for me to fail.

"Zola?" Arthur’s voice comes again, closer this time, filtered through the thick wood of the door. "Is the dress too small? I can ask the attendant for another size."

Ethan doesn't pull away. Instead, he drives three fingers deep inside me, his thumb hooking over my swollen nub and grinding into it with a brutal, circular motion.

"Mmmph!" I bite my lip so hard I taste copper, my eyes widening in the mirror. I am trapped between the freezing glass and the furnace of his body.

"Answer him, mother," Ethan whispers, his lips grazing my ear as he continues to pump his hand. 

The sound of his fingers moving - squelch, squelch, squelch - feels loud enough to vibrate through the door.

"I-I’m..." I choke out, my voice trembling as a fresh wave of pleasure rolls through me. Ethan thrusts harder, his fingers hitting my cervix and making my knees buckle. "I’m fine, Arthur! Just... the zipper. It’s stuck!"

"Do you need the girl to help?" Arthur asks, his shadow darkening the gap beneath the door.

Ethan’s smirk is lethal. He leans down, his teeth catching the sensitive skin of my shoulder and biting down…not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a vivid brand.

"Don’t!" I cry out, my hands flying to the mirror to keep from falling. My chest is heaving, my bare breasts bouncing with the relentless rhythm of Ethan’s hand. "Ethan is... he's helping me!"

The lie hangs in the air like a poisoned cloud.

"Oh, alright," Arthur replies, his tone sounding slightly unsure but pacified.

Ethan’s eyes flare with dark delight at my quick thinking. 

He slowly, agonizingly, pulls his hand out, my heat coating his knuckles and glistening under the harsh boutique lights. He doesn't give me a chance to breathe. He lifts me, my back hitting the mirror with a dull thud.

"You're so loud for a 'saint', Zola," he growls, his voice thick with lust.

He positions himself, the broad, hot head of his length pressing against my entrance. He doesn't use a condom; he doesn't use lubricant. He uses the wetness he just forced out of me. He drives into me in one singular, violent motion.

"OH! God... Ethan!" I scream, the sound immediately muffled as he slams his palm over my mouth.

He begins to move - short, brutal, piston-like thrusts that make the mirror vibrate against my skull. Clap. Clap. Clap. The sound of his pelvis hitting mine is rhythmic, raw, and terrifyingly loud.

"Mmmnn-ghhh!" I moan against his palm, my eyes rolling back.

"Shhh," he whispers, his eyes boring into mine. "Your husband is right at the door."

I can feel him filling me, stretching me, claiming every hidden inch of my body. He isn't being careful; he’s taking me like he wants to leave a permanent mark on my soul. He pulls my legs higher, wrapping them around his waist as he drives even deeper.

"You belong to me. Not him. Never anyone else."

The friction builds until it’s a white-hot roar in my ears. I can’t hold it back anymore. My body clamps around him, pulsing in a violent, messy climax that leaves me sobbing for air. 

Ethan lets out a low, guttural roar, his body stiffening as he spills himself deep inside me, pinning me against the glass until the very last drop of his release is spent.

He sets me down, smoothing the violet silk over my hips with a possessive stroke. He helps me into the dress, zipping it up with a cold, steady hand. 

He steps back just far enough to unlock the door, but not before he leans down to press one final, biting kiss to the mark on my shoulder - followed by a sharp, stinging smack to my butt.

"Bad girl," he whispers.

He pulls the door open. Arthur is standing there, looking concerned, but his face instantly brightens when he sees us. 

He doesn't notice the flush on my cheeks or the way my legs are shaking. He only sees his son "helping" his bride.

"Ah, thank you, son," Arthur says, patting Ethan on the shoulder. "I knew she’d need a hand with that lace. It’s quite a complicated piece."

"No trouble at all, Father," Ethan says, his voice perfectly level, his face a mask of cold professionalism. "I made sure everything was... perfectly in place."

Ethan walks past him without a backward glance. I step out into the light, feeling like I’ve been stripped bare in front of the world. Arthur leads me to the center of the boutique, where a small velvet box sits on a pedestal.

"I have something for you, sweetheart," he says softly. "To go with the dress. It’s been in the Reynolds family for three generations. My mother and late wife wore it."

He opens the box. Inside is a necklace of heavy, teardrop diamonds and emeralds, sparkling with a cold, ancient fire. It’s beautiful. It’s a fortune. And it feels like a noose.

"It’s breathtaking," I whisper, the guilt finally beginning to claw at my throat. 

Arthur is a good man. A kind man. He is giving me a legacy, and I am letting his heartless son ruin me.

"Let me," Arthur says. He takes the necklace out and steps behind me.

In the mirror, I see Arthur’s gentle hands reaching around to clasp the jewels at my throat. But standing just a few feet away, leaning against a pillar with a glass of champagne in his hand, is Ethan.

He is watching us. He’s watching his father’s fingers brush against the skin he just bit. He’s watching the family diamonds settle against the collarbone he just branded. As the clasp clicks shut, Ethan raises his glass in a silent, mocking toast.

His eyes tell me exactly what he’s thinking: You can wear their jewels, but you still taste like me.

"There," Arthur says, kissing my forehead. "The perfect Reynolds bride."

I look at my reflection - the diamonds, the expensive dress, the lies - and I realize I’m not a bride. I’m a trophy being fought over by two men, and only one of them knows how to play dirty.