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Grace follows Titus into the bedroom in a daze. Her brain’s going a mile a fucking minute, but her limbs feel like jelly, loose and ill-defined. Oozy. She’s pretty sure that stab wound is still bleeding. The dress is so saturated with blood that it squelches a little whenever she moves her shoulders. She’s past caring.
She listens to him explain that she’ll be seen to, watches him usher in an army of silent and scary slavic women armed to the teeth with Dyson airwraps and tweezers, notices the smear of blood down his front that Faith left there, and registers none of it.
She meets his eyes, dark and grey and sharp, sees the flex of his jaw and his neck and his biceps, watches him stroke the fabric of the bed — with monogrammed pillows, fucking douchebags — with those fat fucking fingers, and doesn’t feel anything at all.
———
Her hair gets washed and straightened. She’s wrapped in gloriously soft towels and robes, gets lipstick and concealer and medical gauze applied with brusque efficiency, gets more eyeliner applied than she’s ever worn, even in her waitressing days. At some point a dress gets carefully hung on the door of a closet. She sees it out of the corner of her eye, a black and bloody spot in her vision. She presses on the wound in her hand, jolts a little at the pain.
By the time Ursula comes in, Grace is pretty sure she’s fully awake, at least. Her head feels clearer. She’s noticing things again, feels a little more present in her own body. She’s sitting at the vanity. The lipstick is a little tacky. Her hands are dry.
Ursula’s saying something about the seat, about Titus, like Grace gives a fucking shit about any of it. Oh her future husband’s a bad man, ohhh he’s really scary — no shit. He went after her with a fucking war hammer. He wears an ascot. She’s fucking aware. She supposes she ought to listen at least a little, since that terrifying brick shithouse of a man is about to be her lawfully wedded husband (though: is it lawful? She hasn’t signed a marriage license. Is Satan licensed to officiate in the state of Rhode Island?), but —
“Having some girl time?” The rough gravel of that voice cuts through everything — the background drone of whatever the fuck Ursula’s saying about working together, the incessant engine of her own thoughts desperately trying to think of a way out of this. Desperately hoping Faith is ok.
Titus is looming in the doorway, looking at his sister with his weird shark eyes. He’s got a stupid fucking ascot on again. Ursula does look genuinely scared, which Grace thinks should probably worry her, but at this point she’s past caring. She watches them, though, can’t quite look away, the way you can’t stop watching a predator.
There’s a violence, of course, thrumming between them, and you can tell Ursula thinks she’s the smart one. She probably is. Titus is all muscle and unhinged anger management issues. There’s also a weird, like, sexual undercurrent between them. Or something. Freud would have a fucking field day with them.
There’s some menacing — verbal and physical — and then all of the sudden, with no warning at all, Titus has his sister in a headlock, vicious and unrelenting. She’s scrabbling, panting, and Titus grinds out, “Family isn’t against the rules, you know,” which is — something to file away, maybe — and Grace can see Titus moving his hands, getting a grip to —
He steps away, just as suddenly, leaving Ursula on her knees, gasping and grasping at her throat. He stands over her for a beat, then two, and then says, low and raspy, “Get the fuck out.”
Ursula attempts to look dignified getting to her feet, but she looks like shit. She shuffles to the door, giving Grace a meaningful wide-eyed look, and then she’s gone. And then Grace is alone with Titus fucking Danforth, who finally raises his head and looks her right in the eyes.
———
For a moment, Titus doesn’t say anything, just looks at her, a long, thorough look, from her head down to her bare feet. Grace can feel his gaze on her like a rough touch, like a gun-calloused, heavy hand scraping down her skin. She tries not to shiver. Shivers anyway.
His eyes flash at that and it seems to snap him out of his perusal. “Wife,” he says.
“Not fucking yet,” she spits back.
He crooks a little smile, more of a crinkling of one side of his face. “But soon. I thought I would check in.”
“Pretty sure it’s bad fucking luck to see a bride before the wedding.”
He shrugs, unbothered by the spitting anger in her tone. “Pretty sure I’ll survive.”
“What do you want,” she says on a sigh. She’s so tired.
At that, something in the way he carries his body changes. He’s been so broad and stiff every time she’s run into him — like fighting a tree trunk that was evil, really — but now something in him relaxes, without him really moving, and where before he was an intimidating, crazed wall of a man, he’s now a cat, lounging and satisfied.
She feels a new kind of terror spark through her.
“Well,” he drawls, voice even lower, somehow, “I wanted to discuss the … expectations I have. Of our marriage.”
“Sure,” she says, “I give you the power of your stupid fucking seat, and you give me my sister. Done.”
She turns back to the vanity, trying to play it cool, pretending her hands aren’t shaking, and she reaches out to rearrange some of the brushes.
He’s suddenly right behind her, and his hand shoots out, grabbing her wrist. “Jesus fuck,” she yells, “What the fuck.”
“I wasn’t clear,” he says, “I meant physically.”
“Physi —“ it clicks. “Oh fuck you.”
“Hm,” he says, almost a laugh, and then she’s screaming as he hauls her out of the seat. Jesus, he’s strong.
She lands a good stomp on his foot, and he grunts, and she tries to smash an elbow back into his face as he brings her upright in front of him, but his arms are tight around her, unmoving, and all she can do is thrash as he drags her to the bed and throws her down.
She bounces against the mattress, screams as her scraped-up arm rubs against the bed cover, and twists herself as fast as she can to get off the bed. He’s got height on her though, and weight, and also fucking energy, and he gets her pinned, arms above her head, legs held down by his bulk.
She thrashes and he grunts, tightening his hold. “I’m not — fucking stop that,“ he huffs as she tries to knee him in the groin, “Enough.”
“Fuck off, you pretentious piece of shit,” she yells, trying to thrash more.
“Fucking enough,” he says again, and then he’s shoving a piece of fabric into her mouth, and Jesus fuck, is that —
“Yeah, that’s part of your old dress,” he says, “thought it might be useful.”
She screams from behind the gag. He shakes his head at her, disappointed, and reaches up to his neck, untying that stupid fucking scarf. “Come on, Grace, let’s be reasonable. We’re about to be married, after all.”
She gives him the finger. He laughs, and then he’s grabbing both of her wrists in one of his fucking huge hands, and then he’s tying her to the fucking headboard with his fucking ascot, and she’s so fucking angry, and —
“Right,” he says, and sits his weight on her thighs, and then, with a terrifying kind of calm, puts a hand at her throat — not squeezing, just there, but the threat is clear. She forces herself to still.
“Thank you,” he says, “fucking finally. Now here’s the deal. Le Bail, he does weddings a little differently. He likes consummation before. Test the compatibility and all.”
This motherfucker —
“Stop trying to interrupt,” he says, cutting off her muffled outrage, and tightens his grip on her throat, just a little, “I’m sure Alex didn’t explain it, but he fucked you the day before the ceremony, I’d bet. Probably just said it was because he missed you. God, he was a twerp. Honestly you did us a favor, getting rid of them. Useless fucking board game dipshits.”
She ignores his ramblings about board games and tries to think — Alex had fucked her the night before the wedding, it was true. It had felt oddly solemn, she remembers, and she’d teased him about it, but he hadn’t laughed with her. She’d attributed it to nerves, but —
“So,” he says, “We’re consummating.”
She screams, furious. He smiles.
———
She fights, of course — what else was she going to do? But he’s got about a hundred pounds of muscle on her, and is fundamentally an evil person, and so he wins, in the end, gets her legs strapped down so that she’s spread-eagled on the stupid fucking monogrammed bed coverings, and pulls at the tie on her robe, lets it fall open on either side of her.
He pauses for a moment, then, at the foot of the bed, and looks at her. It’s a bizarre mix of curiosity, like he’s never seen a naked female body before, and heat, like he wants to eat her. She can’t stop herself from shivering. She can feel her nipples peaking in the cold of the room.
When he gets to the spot between her legs, he frowns. “A lot of hair,” he says on a sigh, “I guess we can fix that.”
She gives him the finger, which just makes him smile.
“You know,” he says idly, and she jumps as one of his fingers lands lightly on the bridge of her foot, starts to slide upwards, “When I saw you, I thought it was a bit of a shame that I’d have to kill you. Such a feisty little thing. And I do love blondes.”
“Fuck you,” she says, which comes out around the gag sounding more like a groan. He just shakes his head.
“We’ll have to work on your manners,” he says, and sounds excited about that idea. His finger is on the inside of her calf now, just under the knee. She can’t stop shivering.
“Never had a wife before,” he says, pensive, as he swirls his finger around her kneecap. “You’ve had a husband, though. Any tips?”
“Don’t try to kill me,” she says — or tries to say, through the gag of her wedding dress scrap.
The smug bastard gives a little tsk. “Didn’t catch that, sorry. Still, I can guess. Don’t lie about your membership in a global organization. That’s fine. You already know I’m a member. Don’t kill you, I figure. That’s fine too. I’ve got more interesting things to do with you now, Grace.”
His finger has been creeping up the inside of her thigh during this whole
conversation, ignoring her wriggling rage.
“You know,” he says, and he’s way up her thigh now, has a knee on the bed to reach better, “Ursula says I always come on too strong, that I don’t have good manners. What do you think?”
She gives him the finger again, both hands now, and he shakes his head. “Just for that, I’m skipping the fun stuff. For now.”
He skirts up her hip then, bypassing as her cunt entirely, and then he’s dragging his nails up her stomach. She can feel herself drooling around the gag, trying to pant.
“As I was saying,” he continues, skating up her rib cage, “Ursula says I come on too strong. But I dunno. Feel like it’s working in this situation.”
At that, he gets a hand on her breast, palming the weight of it. She jolts, or tries to, and his other hand flies out to press her hip into the bed.
“A little big,” he says with a frown, “But very nice.”
He pinches her nipple then, hard, and Grace can’t hold back a shriek. She’s always had sensitive tits; Alex had hated it, actually, found it hard to keep up with. Titus doesn’t really seem to care how she feels about it either way, is just laser-focused on pulling and twisting and pinching, until she’s panting. She can feel herself getting wet, feels a heavy heat start to settle low inside her. She feels empty, aching.
He notices, of course, the bastard. She can see the moment he clocks her because his eyes go even darker, and he smiles, coolly satisfied.
“It’s ok to enjoy this, you know. You’re sort of supposed to.”
It’s just — she’s so tired, and her brain is so fried, and she’s feeling some fucked-up combination of relief and fury and frustration — it stands to reason that her brain’s all mixed up. Also, he’s kind of hot. In a scary sort of way. Alex had been so willowy, all droopy sad boy eyes. Titus is … not that. And if she’s going to be married to this fucker —
A moment flashes through her mind, then, that gravelly Family isn’t against the rules, you know, and a thought begins to take shape. She could, maybe — if the timing was right —
You know what, she thinks, and it sounds a little like Faith, like something Faith would say, do something fun, for once in your life. And if she’s going to kill him anyway …
She lets herself sag a little in her ties, then, and she can see the moment he registers it. His smile is satisfied, cocky. “There we go,” he says, “isn’t that easier?”
He crawls fully onto the bed then, looming over her, and scrapes his hand up her chest, cupping her throat in an almost-friendly way, before gripping her chin. She tries to turn away, but he’s caught her like a vice.
“Hush,” he says, “we’ll save the kiss for the wedding. Just want —“
He cuts himself off, leans down, and licks a filthy wet stripe up the side of her neck, up to her ear. He bites on the lobe, not particularly gentle, and because her brain is a useless pile of fried synapses at this point, it goes straight to her clit, and she gasps.
He does it again, a broad lick across her cheek, catching the drool from the gag and her tears of frustration.
“Very nice,” he says, and then he’s rolling off to the side, propping himself up on an elbow as he looks her over. He sighs. “You know, you were wasted on Alex. Never knew what to do with himself. Weakest link of that weak fucking family.”
He gives her other nipple a tweak as he talks, ignores her groan. “If I’d met you first … well, Ursula says I’m bad with women. Scare them. But I think you’d be able to keep up, hm? Wouldn’t have made you play that stupid game, that’s for sure.”
His hand is broad and hot on her belly now, crawling lower. She wants him to die. She wants him to touch her. She thrashes her head on the pillow, messing up her stupid hair instead. He doesn’t pay any attention, eyes focused on the thatch of hair between her legs.
“Let’s see,” he says, almost to himself, and then before she can prepare herself, he’s thrusting two thick fingers into her, thumb coming up to rest against her clit. She hears the wet squelch of it, hears his soft gravelly laugh, scrunches her eyes against it.
He dips down, bites her earlobe. “Open your fucking eyes, Grace.”
She shakes her head, keeping her eyes closed, and he dips down and bites her nipple, hard. She shouts around her gag then, eyes flying open.
“That’s it,” he says, “good girl.”
She glares at him. He smiles.
“Anyway,” he says, and gives a rough thrust up into her wetness. She groans.
“Knew I’d get you,” he says, and he’s looking at her pussy now. “Knew I’d be the one to do it. Fucking Ursula” — he thrusts a little harder at that — “bet she’s furious. Bet she wishes you’d asked her. She loves a tight, angry pussy almost as much as me. Maybe we’ll share you.”
She shakes her head at that, not sure if she’s repulsed or —
“No?” he asks, casually, flicking his eyes up to her. “Your pussy liked it, though. Even wetter now.”
He thrusts into her again, rubbing up against a spot inside her that makes her groan. His thumb starts quick little circles around her clit.
“Would have been such a waste to kill you,” he says, a little mournfully, “fun though. Oh well.”
His thrusts are faster now, and she feels, humiliatingly, like she might —
“Like I said,” he says, “it’s ok to like it. Le Bail wants you to.”
She can feel herself crying again. She wants to get out. She wants to come. She wants —
“Give in to it, Grace,” he says, bending down to lick the shell of her ear, “It’s going to happen either way.”
She’s never tried to stop an orgasm before. Usually, with Alex and the string of idiots before him, she’d had to will herself into it, had to imagine a variety of filthy horrible things to get herself going. Now, though — it feels like a freight train, and she’s strapped to the tracks.
He gives a little crook of his fingers, pressing up against that spot inside her, and then — that’s it. It’s over. She can’t stop it, can’t do anything but submit to the feeling. It’s a full-body experience. Her vision whites out. It’s so overwhelming, it feels almost like she’s — like she’s —
“A squirter?” he says, with thinly concealed delight, “oh, Ursula’s going to love you. I don’t usually like the mess, but …”
He trails off and bends down to where she’s soaked her thighs, licks some of the wetness off. She groans, overstimulated, not sure if she wants more or if she wants to die.
He smacks his lips. “Not bad,” he says, "not bad at all."
And then he’s pulling his fingers out, giving them a lick, and then he’s standing, straightening his vest. “Don’t worry about the scarf,” he says, turning to leave, “I’ll get another one.”
And then he’s gone, and she’s alone.
— — —
An hour later, as she’s stabbing the pen into his neck, she lets herself lean down and whisper, just before Faith tips him over into the pit, “Thanks for earlier. Needed that.”
And then Faith is pushing, and he falls.
She sighs. Two-time widow. Not great for the dating apps.