Chapter 3: Susanna

I met Jaxon when I was sixteen. We got married when I was seventeen. It wasn’t so much a union of love as it was of necessity. I owed him. He owned me. The first and second years of our marriage had been painful. But it got better when I learned how to submit. How to be a docile little bitch when he needed me to. When I learned to sit by his feet without thinking it…humiliating. When I learned how to stand naked and take his sadistic administrations. When I learned to pretend to enjoy it.

I’ve been married to him for four years and I’ve only set foot outside our home twice. It isn’t really ours. He likes to pretend it is mine, give me the illusion of freedom by leaving me all alone. For days sometimes. For weeks. I could walk right out through the gates. There are no guards to stop me.

But I won’t. Why? Jaxon knows everything. There are cameras everywhere, monitoring my every breath. He’ll find me if I run—I know this, because I’ve tried more times than I can count and he’s caught me within the hour. The longest I’ve managed is a day and I still bear marks from his ruthless punishments till date.

This isn’t to say I don’t love Jaxon. I do. In the way the captor grows on the captive and she learns to trust only him. He feeds her, bathes her, clothes her. She knows he may hurt her, but only he in the entire world gives a damn about her. Because without her captor, the captive would be dead. This is the description of my love for Jaxon. I know nothing else of the love I read in books. I read them solely out of boredom and because it is the only escape I have.

It makes me hope and dream sometimes, but those are dangerous things I can’t have. Jaxon will never hold or tuck me in at night. He will never bring me breakfast and ask if I am alright. I can’t not be alright and ready for him when he wants to fuck me. He will never tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, lovingly. He will never tend the wounds he inflicts upon me. He will never, ever tell me he loves me. He will never notice when I wear my hair differently, or wear a different lipstick. He will never look at me like that; like he is lost in my eyes. Like I am the only woman on earth.

And that’s fine.

Or it used to be. Something’s changed with Jaxon recently. Our fights have become much, much worse in the last three months. He barely lets me out of my room anymore. Jaxon never used to lock me in. He is paranoid and always mad when he visits. This is the longest visit yet without a break and it makes it that much harder to pretend. My patience is wearing out and his is completely burned out.

Today wasn’t the first time he hit me. But it was the first time he called me a cheating whore and treated me like one, hitting me until stars exploded in my vision, and pushed me against the floor with my face pressed into the marble. He said he lost his business deal. He said it was my fault. He was drunk. He said I’d been fucking our neighbor whenever he wasn’t home and sought him out like I did the men who raped me when I was fourteen, the men my stepmother pimped me out to.

It was the first time in four years that he'd thrown a life that had treated me cruelly in my face, like I had a choice.

And I’d fucking snapped. When he had turned me around to rip the front of my dress, I’d smashed the wine bottle against his head. I hadn’t expected him to fall unconscious. I hadn’t expected so much blood either.

Panic had driven me out the doors and onto the streets and I’d run right in front of a moving car.

“Ma’am?” a deep voice with a thick accent calls out to me, and I flinch at the strong, warm fingers that circle around my arm. “Mrs. Hawke?” There’s a hint of panic. Just a little, otherwise, the voice is the calmest, most beautiful sound I’ve heard. I hate it instantly. Beautiful things are lethal.

I squint, peering into eyes of deep, burnished brown that seem to hold a hidden fire within. Flecks of amber dance at the edges, pushing back at the unnerving coldness in them. Thick, black lashes flutter against tanned, golden skin as his gaze narrows at the blood on my flimsy nightdress, and against my better judgement, I blurt, “It isn’t mine.”

The man, whom I recognize from yesterday as my neighbor raises his brows as he helps me up to my feet. “Is he dead?”

Startled, I stare up at him. “No…I…I don’t know. He was…bleeding a lot. I…are you going to call the cops on me?”

Pulling off his black, tux jacket, he doesn’t quite look at me as he says, “Do you want me to call the cops on you, Mrs.?”

“No,” I say tentatively. “Jax has…he has friends there. They’ll…” My voice trails off and I flinch, scrambling out of reach when he takes a purposeful step forward. His hand rises and I instinctively shield my face from him. But he doesn’t hit me. Instead, I feel warmth when his coat drops against my shoulder and I lower my bloodied hands to find him staring at me with a grim expression.

“Are you alright?”

My brows furrow. No one’s ever asked me that before. “I may have just killed my husband and you’re asking if I’m alright?” I ask, because I don’t know how to say I am not alright. I don’t know how to express how shaken and broken I might be inside. No, I haven’t been alright in a long time.

He snorts and turns around, walking back to the door. I’m not sure what to stare at. The tattoo starting at the end of his fade haircut and disappearing behind the collar of his black shirt—it’s a dragon…from the little I can see at least, painted in red and black ink—or his hair in that bun. When he gets into the driver’s seat, shuts the door, revs the engine and honks thrice at me, I glance back at the tall gates of my home.

My prison.

If I return—no. Somehow, I can’t stomach the thought of returning after what he said. What he did. What if he bleeds out and…God. I shouldn’t care, but I know Jaxon. He’ll be distraught with me gone. He’ll hurt and when he finds me again, he’ll inflict more pain—

Another honk and my neighbor peeks out the window of his sedan. “I have places to be at, Mrs. Hawke. If you would kindly move out of the way—"

“Take me with you,” I whisper and start, shocked out how small and desperate I sound. I run over to the other side, tugging at the handle of the car. The tinted glass window slides down and my neighbor’s frown is almost scathing as he says, “No,” and starts to step on the gas.

“Please!” I cry. “Please! Just take me with you. You can drop me off at…at…” My voice trails off as I realize I have nowhere to go in this city. I have no one. I know nowhere and I have no money to lodge at a motel for the night. Hopeless, is what I am.

The man tilts his head to the side. “You flee from your husband, right into the car of a stranger. You’re either fearless or stupid. Or both. I do not wish to be entangled in your marital affairs and I ask that you respect that.”

This is the second time he’s refusing to help me. I point down the street. “The estate’s security won’t let me out if I venture there alone, looking like this. Every fucking person on this street defers to him. I ask for your help, not because I wish to cling to you or involve you in my affairs, but because I am fucking scared and Jaxon is going to kill me when he wakes up! I just need a damned ride. Drop me off under a bridge or something, but please, just help me get out of here!” Tears spring to my eyes and I let them fall, hoping to sway his decision.

But all he does is look at me like I am a nuisance. “Fine.” The doors unlock and I get in the backseat out of very, very old habit. As I slam the door shut, he cusses under his breath and spares an irritated glance back at me before driving off.