Page 54 of The Castle (Endgame 3)
“Hello, little virgin.”
The words are casual, but the undercurrent is far from benign.
“I’ve been reading your books. I hope you don’t mind. It didn’t look like you were using them.”
Ah, sarcasm. However drily delivered, it’s a sure sign that he’s reached the end of his patience.
“Of course everyone’s heard of the Oedipus complex. Every man’s inherent desire to kill his father. Kind of morbid. In my case, stunningly accurate.”
A strange ache beats beneath the darkness.
“It’s the entire point of chess, according to Freud’s protégé. The unconscious motive. Killing your father, in the form of the king. Did you know that?”
More than that, disciples of Freudian psychology even gave sexual connotation to the death—to castrate the father. Checkmate as the ultimate sexual revenge.
“Of course you know,” he says, still mild. “You’re the smartest woman I’ve ever met. The strongest. The most beautiful. Does that shock you, little virgin?”
I don’t believe him. The words ring false, a definite lie. Except that Gabriel never lies to me.
“The awkward part of the Oedipal complex turns out not to be murder, but the idea that you have to marry your mother. Is that required, do you think? Is it a complex if you never knew your mother?”
My heart clenches.
“A prostitute, for sure. She died during childbirth. Or he killed her.”
I open my eyes, meeting his burning gaze.
“I don’t know if she was smart or strong. Probably beautiful, for my father to bother with her.”
Stop. The word hovers on my tongue. I don’t say it.
Stop blaming yourself.
He unbuttons his shirt, and my eyes widen. “I understand you’d like to stay silent and small. To hide in a place where Jonathan Scott can’t touch you. And that’s hard to do, isn’t it? When he found you in your bedroom. In your mind, even. All you did was speak, and you were his.”
His movements are brisk as he undresses—his belt, his shoes. His pants.
Oh God, he’s really doing this. Maybe fuck her, then.
It can’t hurt at this point.
I’m a little horrified at the idea that he’s going to do this. A little curious, too.
He pulls his undershirt over his head, revealing a taut stomach and broad chest. He’s a muscled bronze, so much darker than my pale skin that hasn’t seen the sun in days.
The only thing he’s wearing are briefs that cling to his manhood. He’s hard, I realize. All I’ve done is lie here, and he’s hard. My breath holds as I wait for him to shed the remainder of his clothes. As I wait for him to fuck me. Part of me wants him to, just to prove that I won’t feel it.
Nothing can touch me like this.
Instead he disappears into the bathroom. Protection, maybe.
The water turns on, a thunder that I haven’t heard in the weeks since I’ve been here. Mrs. B comes with a pail of warm water and a washcloth each morning. Gabriel returns, walking toward me with the ferocity of an ancient warrior. My heart lurches as he lifts me from the bed, still wearing a white tank top and sleep shorts.
He carries me into the large tub, dunking us both into the warm water. It laps at my skin, a blast of intensity across every nerve ending. A gasp escapes me, echoing off the ceramic. The tender scent of strawberries rises from the water—the soap I ordered from the Amish farmer, I realize. My lips turn up in a smile. I try to force it down, but there’s too much at once—Gabriel’s body surrounding me, the immersion of water. Every sense bombarded. Every defense destroyed. Almost. Somehow I hold on.
“Stubborn,” Gabriel murmurs. “That’s another thing about you. Headstrong.”
He rubs shampoo into my scalp, and the pleasure is enough to close my eyelids, to force a deep breath from my body. I curl against him, letting him pet me.
“And sensual,” he murmurs. “You think I don’t know you, that you’re just a warm body to me, but I know enough to use against you. I know how to break you if I need to.”
His hands roam lower, down my neck and across my shoulders. Sensation blooms throughout my body, not only the places he touches me. Down my spine and between my legs. All the way to my toes. As if I’m discovering my body again.
As if he’s uncovering it after so long buried.
“Maybe that’s the wrong thing to do,” he says, his hands tight on my hips. “Maybe I should let you stay there, hidden, if that’s what you want to do. Shouldn’t it be your choice?”
I don’t answer, because we both know my choice doesn’t matter. Not in this bathtub, not on Gabriel’s estate. Not while I belong to him. My choice didn’t matter from the moment Damon Scott said, “Sold.”
“I’m selfish enough to make you come back,” he says, almost tender. “Selfish enough to insist you go on living, even knowing it’s going to hurt you. God, you’re going to be in agony. You’ve been protecting yourself from it.”
