High Stakes (The Kingdom Book 2) (34 page)

The next couple of days pass easily.

If Jonny brought me food, I ate it.

If he spoke to me, I answered him. I did everything he asked of me.

I stayed in that one room the whole time. Day in, day out.

I knew it was what I had to do to make him stop hurting Denham and those around him.

Jonny never elaborated on what he meant when he said I’d made things worse, but the selfish part of me didn’t want to know. It was too painful. The logical part of my brain told me to toe the line. Do what was expected of me, and the lives of others would be safe, and mine would be as bearable as it would ever be in the situation that I’m in.

Jonny showed me a softer side that I hadn’t seen before. I wasn’t stupid enough to think it was going to last or even to think that it was real, but it did make things easier to deal with day by day.

Tonight was different than every other night so far. Usually Jonny would bring dinner in for me, place it on the table, then leave after exchanging a few pleasant words. Tonight he brought dinner for us both and sat with me at the table in my room. He didn’t explain himself. Just sat, picked up his fork and began to eat.

“I’ll have the white, please,” he states, indicating the wine bottles on the table between us.

His order stuns me for a moment. The shift in his demeanor prickles the hairs on the back of my neck. I knew it was too good to be true.

I pour his wine while he eats. He doesn’t acknowledge it, other than to pick up his glass and drain half of the liquid.

“We’re going out this evening.”

I suck in a quick breath. The thought of going out panics me. I don’t want to go anywhere. I’m cocooned in my own bubble in this room. I’m shut away from real life, from reality.

“Where?” I ask, trying to disguise the rising anxiety in my voice.

He just looks up at me from his plate, then back down again, acknowledging that he’s heard me but not giving me the courtesy of an answer.

“But I don’t have anything to wear.” I came here in my beautiful ball gown, without even thinking about packing to bring clothes with me. I have been living in Jonny’s oversized sweatpants and tees, and I haven’t even seen the gown, or my eternity necklace, since Jonny took them off.

“Well,” Jonny says, placing his knife and fork carefully on the edge of his plate, “if you hadn’t been such a spoiled brat, and tried to have everything your own way when you first came here, you would already know that you have a whole wardrobe full of clothes … in my room. Which, by the way, is where you will be sleeping from now on.” He finishes his informative statement by standing abruptly from the table, and turning to leave.

“But …”

“NO!” he yells, then composes himself and drops his voice back to an acceptable level. “You are not calling the shots any longer. Do you hear me? I have accommodated your childish actions. I have brought your food to you daily. I have been beyond patient with your petulant ways. Now it’s about time you started showing your gratitude for everything I’ve done for you. Get showered. I’ll leave clothes on your bed. Wear your hair up. You have an hour.”

He slams the door on his exit and the sound echoes across the room. This is the Jonny I know. Demanding and cruel. Unreasonable and irrational.

But what choice do I have? What option is there when he holds someone else at ransom?

I look around the sparse room, standing on the plush circular rug in the center.

How did we get to this? I run scenarios through my head, possibilities that were obviously never meant to be. Dreams that were never meant to come true. Nothing but cruel fairy tales.

“You’re not getting ready?” Jonny asks standing in the doorway. I can smell his pungent aftershave the minute I turn to face him, and if his presence hadn’t instantly caused my throat to close over, that smell would have. He’s holding a dress bag, a white lace bra and panties set, and white strappy sandals with a spiked four-inch heel. On any other occasion I would admire those heels, they’re pretty, but I resent the hell they will put my feet through if I have to wear them for him.

The underwear makes my heart clench. Denham would love this underwear, in fact he was very vocal about loving me in any underwear, but lace was his favorite.

I swallow hard, and push the thought away. Denham wouldn’t love me at all now. I abandoned him. And regardless of the love I have for him, he has probably lost anything he ever felt for me.

Jonny lays them all down on the bed and holds the dress bag up in front of me. I reluctantly pull down the zipper. All I see is white. A long white dress. Shit.

I start to feel sick, the small amount of food I managed to eat not half an hour ago, roils in my stomach, and I am hoping and praying to all the gods that this isn’t what I think it is. But as I slide the virginal satin from the hanger, it becomes glaringly obvious what this is.

It’s a wedding dress.

No. No. No.

I don’t want to get married. I can’t marry Jonny. I can’t. I won’t. I’d rather die.

Thoughts run through my head at a hundred miles an hour, and disbelieving mumbled words escape my lips. The defiant, strong girl I had found wants to stand and fight. But it’s futile, isn’t it? Even if he never laid another hand on me, the threat of what he could do to Denham, Mom, Lottie, anyone I’ve ever cared about, is far too powerful. How can I say no to him? How can I ever deny him anything he ever asks for, when I have that threat hanging over me?

But how can I do this? Marriage?

Is he crazy?

Yes. He is.

“Arianna, I …” He searches for the right words and for just a split second there’s a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. He steps toward me and lifts a hand to my face quickly, making me jump. My nervousness clearly pleases him as his smile widens, and any hint of humanity I might have seen is shut off by his dark side. His finger lightly strokes my cheekbone, and then he presses his lips to mine. Instinct fights with me to pull away, but experience tells me not to. Jonny is at his most dangerous when he is quiet and gentle. As if sensing my hesitation, his hand moves to the back of my neck and applies a little pressure in the muscle. I feel all the muscles of my spine tense as I am reminded what it’s like to live in fear.

He pulls away and licks his lips. “Not bad. But we’ll have to work on your enthusiasm later.” He sneers.

I inwardly cringe. I don’t know if I can be compliant enough to be with him. I don’t want to be in the same room as him, let alone the same bed. I don’t want to be with him, in that way, or any other way for that matter.

“Here,” he says, offering out a closed fist.

He nods encouragingly. I place an open palm underneath his hand and he uncurls his fingers.

I screw my eyes up tightly, wishing myself away from here, praying that this moment isn’t happening because I don’t know what to do next.

When I open my eyes, I feel like the world has collapsed on me.

In my palm, sits an engagement ring. Not just any engagement ring. But the one Jonny gave me all those years ago. The one I left behind when I started over. The one I never thought I would see again, let alone place on my finger again. It doesn’t symbolize an eternal unity of love; it symbolizes a lifetime of fear and pain.

I stutter and struggle to find not only the right words, but any words at all.

“We’re getting married, baby,” he says quietly.

Then the words start to come involuntarily. “I can’t do it. I can’t do it,” I whisper over and over.

“You can do it, and you will,” Jonny says impatiently, taking the ring from my palm, and yanking my left hand so he has access to my finger. He jams the ring on roughly, the discomfort has me instinctively pulling away, but this just makes him push harder until it finds the groove in my skin where it nestles comfortably, betraying my reluctance.

“We don’t have all night,” he grumbles as a warning.

“I just, I need a minute. This is all so sudden,” I whisper on a shaky breath.

“No, Arianna. You’ve had enough minutes. There’s nothing to think about. We are getting married this evening. Now, go and get showered and dressed.”

Jonny doesn’t like to be challenged. He doesn’t like not being in control of everything.

Eighteen months of trying to find me, then having me defy him has turned him into a raging bull.

“Jonny, I—”

“Get your sorry ass in that bathroom, and GET DRESSED,” he yells, grabbing my hair in his fist and dragging me there. My legs get in a tangle, and the awkward angle that he’s pulling me means I can’t follow easily.

“Jonny,” I cry, “Please, I’m sorry, I—”

My hands claw at his, trying to get him to loosen his grip, but it doesn’t have any effect.

“What? You’re sorry? Why?” he yells, stopping abruptly in the doorway between the two rooms. He stands in front of me, giving me enough time to right myself on my feet. One of his hands stays fisted in my hair; the other grabs my jaw roughly. His chest is heaving with exertion and anger, and his eyes are black.

“Tell me, beautiful girl,” he says in a way that’s too controlled for this situation. “Why are you sorry? Are you sorry that you fucked another man? Are you sorry that you gave someone else your body when you know it’s mine and mine alone? Or are you sorry for being such a fucking idiot that you couldn’t even run and hide from me properly? Are you sorry I found you? I was always going to find you, Arianna … and you should have known that I wouldn’t have been happy knowing that someone else’s hands have been on your body. Your hesitance to marry me tells me that King is still in your head. Well, let me tell you something … he doesn’t want you. You’re broken and useless.” His nostrils flare as his hand slides along my jaw and over my throat. His grip then tightens as I swallow. “Well? What’s the matter, Arianna? Not so bold now, huh? You made me jealous,” he whispers, and I tense. “I don’t like this feeling … I don’t like knowing someone else’s hands have been all over your body. Say you’re sorry …”

“I’m sorry,” I choke out between choppy breaths. His grip is getting tighter, and I’m struggling more with each breath to get air.

“I don’t hear you. Say you’re sorry for letting him fuck you …”

“I can’t … Jonny … I can’t …” Stupidly I’m trying to tell him I can’t breathe, which is crazy because he already knows that.

My breathing start to become faster and shallower, the pressure increases, and my eyes start to blur, and it blackens around the edge of my vision. I try not to panic, after all, it would be far better for me if I was unconscious, but my body is fighting for more oxygen.

“Say you’re sorry for. Letting. Him. Fuck. You …” he insists.

I try, but his grip prevents any sound from coming out. Tears start to stream down my cheeks.

“Stupid beautiful girl.”

My legs buckle and he lets me drop to the floor, releasing his grip. I gasp, and fight to push the sudden rush of oxygen through my lungs. He crouches next to me and strokes my hair gently. Too gently. Past experience has me drawing my knees up into my chest.

“Get up,” he orders softly.

When I don’t comply immediately he stands and yells, “GET UP!” His temper overtakes his mask of composure. I am thrown back in time as his foot hits my ribs and I hear the familiar crack of the bones breaking, again. The air whooshes out of my body, and I lay in a heap on the floor trying to stop myself from being sick from the pain and the fear.

“Arianna … Get. Up. ”

I muster every last bit of energy that I have left, and push myself up onto my knees, holding onto the edge of the bath for support. My breaths are shallow and shaky, every inhale hurts, and every exhale leaves me exhausted.

Jonny sighs and drops his head before dragging his hand over his face and through his angular beard. “Why do you always make me do this to you? Why do you always have to push me? I’ve done nothing but care for you. I’ve taken care
of
you, while you’ve sulked and acted like an adolescent. But I gave that to you. I let you have your moment, and you
still
push me.” His voice is neutral now. Maybe even soft, but it has a dangerous undertone.

He helps me up, supporting me by holding my arm at the elbow. When I’m nearly at full height, he cups my face gently with his hand. “I just want to love you, Arianna, baby. Let me love you,” he whispers.

My mind is exhausted. My body is broken, again. I don’t have the strength to fight him. So, I don’t. I just nod my acceptance of the situation. But I won’t accept his twisted kind of love.

“I’ll help you get dressed,” he offers.

“I can do it,” I say quietly, and I feel him stiffen beside me. “I want to surprise you, okay?” I insist, and force a fake smile through the pain of my ribs, and the situation. Every second I think of Denham. I see his face, and imagine the hurt that would show in his eyes if he knew what I was doing right now.

But he would have come looking for me if he wanted me, right? He would have fought for me like he promised he would, if he really wanted me. Every second that passes, my heart beats a little slower. I am dying inside. My love for him is killing my soul, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I endure the pain to save his life, that’s the way it has to be.