Page 57 of The Castle (Endgame 3)
I buried myself in Gabriel’s library, digging out the Greek dramas and philosophers. I located texts online with religious practices and Hippocratic medical writings. I pored over every text I could find that explored the classical views on sexual purity.
Was a woman ruined once her hymen disappeared?
Why was virginity something for a man to take, as if it was a possession?
It took me weeks to write the first version of my essay, carefully outlining and rewriting, debating the best sources and the right format for my arguments.
The new one appears as quickly as I can type the words, a manifestation of a lifetime of study, a synthesis of everything I’ve learned—a rebuttal to what Jonathan Scott said to me in that dilapidated mental hospital.
What’s wrong with teaching a child about her body?
He didn’t teach me. He violated me.
He didn’t show me anything. He took from me.
That’s the essence of how a man takes a woman’s virginity. By exerting his power. By purchasing her. By bending her to his will. These are first times in the purest sense. The first time I was used and sold and abused.
They aren’t my only first times. There’s the first time I orgasmed by myself, alone in the silence. The first time I stepped over the threshold at the Den, determined to save my father and myself. The first time I climaxed against Gabriel’s fingers in the warm tub, coming alive, feeling every nerve ending in my body as if I were born anew.
For all that we consider modern society to be enlightened and even highly sexualized, our views on innocence and sin are remarkably puritan. For the Greeks, virginity was not about a small strip of skin. It wasn’t irrevocably missing after having sex.
Virginity was closer to abstinence, to modesty. A purity of body and thought.
A sacred duty.
And that’s why I don’t object, when Gabriel continues to call me his little virgin. It’s true enough. True in the most important ways. That I belong to him and no other.
That he belongs to me, too.
Of course I add annotations and references to my paper. It wouldn’t be complete without them. Still, I’m nervous the day after I submit the paper. Most of the undergrad work is simply regurgitations of existing concepts. Have I gone too far? Flown too close to the sun?
From across the chessboard Gabriel gives me a dark look.
Only then do I realize I’ve been tapping the wooden rook against the board. “Sorry.”
“What’s the matter, little virgin?”
“I should have sent the first paper.”
He turns back to his book. “Perhaps.”
With a huff, I throw the piece at him. It bounces off his arm and falls harmlessly to the floor, rolling on the rug. “You’re supposed to say I did the right thing.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “If you already know, then why are you worried?”
“Because.”
“Because?”
“Sometimes men have antiquated views of virginity and a woman’s status, even now, and my stuffy professor might not enjoy them being challenged.”
Gabriel closes his book and sets it on the chessboard. “A smart man enjoys the challenge of a smart woman. Surely you know that.”
A small smile teases my lips. “And what if he’s not smart?”
Golden eyes regard me with solemn promise. “Then I’ll kill him for you.”
I can’t hold back my laugh. “Liar.”
“I’ll arrange for a sex scandal, thereby revoking his tenure.”
My eyes widen, because that one seems more plausible. “Don’t.”
“Can I at least have his office vandalized? We’ll cut words out of your essay to spell out The professor must die.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t use the word professor in my essay.”
He nods gravely. “Then I suppose we’ll have to accept whatever the grade is.”
“How sensible.” I stand and stretch, my muscles tight after hours spent reading. I love these evenings of quiet repose, but I love the loud recreation that follows even better.
His eyes track the sliver of skin beneath the hem of my cami. “Quite.”
“Is that what you are? Logical? Analytical?”
“For the most part,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Unless provoked.”
I pick up the king, tapping the square cross at the top with my finger, feeling the imprints and the edges. “Then I suppose it would be wrong to provoke you.”
“God,” he mutters, watching my finger trace the outline.
And I put the tip of the king to my lips. My tongue darts out to taste. Wood tastes like nothing, but all I feel is danger when his golden eyes sharpen on me.
He takes a step forward, and I drop the piece to the floor.
Another step.
I’m backed against the spiral staircase, carvings pressing into my back. When I would slide away, he shoots a hand to my collarbone, holding me there. He brings his body flush against mine, looming over. His thumb brushes over the delicate bones at my throat, the way I felt the wooden chess piece. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. “You provoke me just by standing there. By looking at me. By writing those glorious, filthy words about sex and women and love.”
