Page 41 of Bitter Burn
I should have seen this coming. We sent Tristan away thinking it would bandage my reputation, that the miasma of distance and time would blur the memories, but I hadn’t even considered that the club might suspect that I’d continue to be unfaithful. Might suspect that cheating is such an indelible trait of mine that it doesn’t even matter whom I’m cheating with, so long as I can tumble around in a bed with someone who isn’t Mark.
And I’m such a goddamn fool, because not once had I ever considered that the club might spread baseless rumors about me.
At least I know this much—a denial will make things even worse, seem like a sure indication that their aim was true. But neither can I be dismissive. Neither can I wave it away.
I meet her gaze and smile. “If I’m comfortable at Lyonesse, it’s because Mark’s always gone out of his way to make it so. There’s never been something I couldn’t come to him with. He can be a little too eager to solve problems for me, when I think about it, but that might be the former CIA officer in him. When you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail, they say.”
Her expression shifts as I speak, subtly, going from jeering mock congeniality to a hard smile, to eyes that glint with more than reflected candlelight.
“I suppose we’ll see how many problems he’ll want to solve for you now.”
“Shall we find out?” I ask calmly.
Silence.
They both stare at me, outmatched by this last gambit and knowing it. And point made, I nod in a polite goodbye and go upstairs.
The final night of Saturnalia, I put on a filmy yellow gown, translucent in almost any lighting. I selected the clothes for Saturnalia months ago, having no idea what the autumn would bring, and had been pleased with my interpretation of the theme. Darkness to light, the story of the midwinter solstice told in dress form. And of course, the final dress I’d chosen assuming I’d be sitting in Mark’s lap as I wore it.
I almost change dresses. I think of those two women last night—Gabrielle and Dena, I learned their names were—and I think of the whispers. If I go down there like this tonight, then I’m abandoning even the conceptual armor of clothes. I’m proving that I’m indeed no vestal.
But what does it matter in the end? I am an outcast either way. At least in this dress, I might get Mark to look at me for longer than a single inhale.
I leave my hair unbound and tumbling down my back. It’s longer than I’ve ever had it, since long hair is a liability as a saint…but I’m not a saint right now, am I? And I like the way it looks. Long enough for Mark to wrap his fist around and around.
Tonight I try the balcony first, and I’m relieved to see Mark finally, fucking finally, sitting in his usual leather chair like it’s the throne of the underworld. He’s surrounded by people, including Andrea, but that’s fine. It’s more important that we start the illusion of coming together before the club decides I’m secretly fucking Christopher or Dinah or the DJ or something.
I make my way to Mark, and he doesn’t pretend not to see me. He watches me with a cool, appraising look as I step closer, and then as I come to a stop and sink to my knees in front of him, I feel his gaze on me still.
A wolf whistle at my dress, and then a murmur—Andrea’s. Maybe she’s going to offer him a trial by iron after all.
Someone clears their throat in discomfort.
“Look,” says my husband. “The sun has returned at last.”
I can’t parse his tone exactly, if it’s edged with mockery or admiration…but then he slides his sandaled feet apart on the floor, making room for me between them.
I’m allowed to stay.
I adjust myself so that I’m still kneeling, still looking down, but turned so that I’m facing the stage. Even without looking, I know we’re being stared at, that word is rippling through the hall.
I remind myself that I have faced worse than gossip and disgust; I remind myself that I will face worse, and so could Mark and so could Tristan if my uncle is unconvinced of my efforts to rob Lyonesse’s vaults. All that matters is keeping the three of us alive, and anyway, I made my choice when I came back here. I need to live with it.
But I can’t carry it, the weight of their loathsome whispers and bursts of hard laughter. A shiver rolls through me, from top to bottom, and my lungs won’t inflate as deeply as they should.
I’ve faced worse. I’ve faced worse.
Except even when I faced worse, I felt like I had God on my side, and my uncle and the Church too. Even scrambling on rooftops, holding my breath as bullets snapped around me, fighting men two or three times my size—I wasn’t alone. I was a saint, one of God’s most necessary children. My sins were to save God’s kingdom, which meant even my darkest, bloodiest moments brought me deeper into the heavenly fold.
And now…
Now I can’t even pray and feel comforted. I don’t have God or Tristan or Mark, and I don’t have myself, because no one’s known me for so long that I don’t even know myself anymore.
I close my eyes. For the first time in months, since I told Mark in the predawn light that I wanted to be his submissive for real, I think about punishing myself. Atoning with my flesh, flogging my own back, planting myself in the cold garden until my lips are blue.
The fantasies are vivid, urgent, coaxing. I could feel better if I hurt myself, the fantasies promise. I’d feel cleaner and better, because I deserve to hurt, don’t I? I did break my promises to Mark. I did fuck Tristan in Belgrade and again in the garden here. I am greedy and constantly unfaithful in my thoughts. Maybe running away to Morois was justified, but I can’t pretend that I’m not an adulteress. I can’t pretend that I wouldn’t be one still.
But I’m scared of myself, because in these fantasies, God isn’t with me. And the atonement is an offering to nothing, to the empty air. To my own agonizing loneliness.
