Page 88 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“Does he know what a worthless whore you are? How your husband had to fuck other women because you couldn’t satisfy him?” I draw in a ragged breath. The affirmation still hurts all this time later, although I always suspected it. The sudden meetings. The subtle scent of perfume on his clothes. And even in my oxygen-deprived state of mind, I know that my marriage wasn’t a marriage by any real standards, and yet hearing the truth still stings. “Yeah.” He laughs. Taunts me. “I’d leave you with your listless legs spread in our bed and go straight to another’s. A real woman who could pleasure a man.”
/> There’s simply no comparison between him and Zander. Between selfish and selfless.
“I doubt you pleasured her.” The comment surprises me, coming out of nowhere, and my own voice sounds unrecognizable. Calm. Mocking. Confident. Something I’m sure I’ve never sounded like when responding to one of Ethan’s verbal blows.
My chuckle follows the remark and it’s audibly laced with a taunting tone. And I swear I must be going mad, because when he orders me to shut up, I just laugh harder. Yes, he’s in complete dominance over my body, but my mind remains crystal clear and I’m so fed up with everything about him and this absurd situation.
Why come to take me back if you need others to get you off?
But before I can voice it, my face meets the mattress again and what I thought humorous moments before now becomes a struggle to draw in air. To feed my body. And my mind.
I tell myself to calm down as the panic returns. Tell myself that if I struggle, I’ll need more air, and I can’t get more air, so I’ll pass out sooner and he’ll do who knows what with me.
Then as the seconds drag on . . .
. . . and on . . .
. . . and on . . .
My thoughts align one last time as the edges of my mind start to turn fuzzy.
With a clarity I’ve never known before, a new thought crosses my mind: He’s going to kill me.
My vision turns white. Head feels light.
Before, I was needed in his life. I was Damon Caster’s daughter. A symbol of their union. Of his future.
Did I fear him? Absolutely. Did I worry if he’d kill me? Never. He was too greedy to risk ruining that relationship with my father.
I was the glue in their business dealings. The flag raised in victory. The mascot for their world domination.
And now that I’ve walked away, I single-handedly proved to them that their relationship is solid without me. That I’m not needed.
My limbs are heavy. My chest has a wildfire blazing inside it. My thoughts fade. . . .
The sharp pull on my hair as he yanks my head up means oxygen. It means another chance. Tears sting my eyes as I gasp like a fish out of water. And when he hauls my body up to a standing position, the removal of his knee from my back opens up more space for my lungs to expand.
My legs are rubbery. My head still woozy. Was this his plan? Make me weak. Find the submission I refused to give him by starving my lungs and forcing me into our old roles.
When I open my eyes, he’s face-to-face with me. His hazel eyes hold the fraudulent apology he’s given me so many times over the years. The one I believed in at the beginning of our marriage. How I owned the guilt he placed on me when he said my disobedience made him do it. There was a cycle of my acceptance, his apology, then his promise never to do it again.
All the while there was also shame that would eat me whole, gnaw at and erode my self-esteem, because I knew I was never at fault. That he didn’t really mean his apologies. That he was to blame. He was always to blame.
The apologetic look went hand in hand with his actions that broke me. As a human. As a woman. From feeling worthwhile. It was the catalyst that stole so much from me. The me that I’m trying to get back now.
So I find strength in the memory. Find myself clinging there, holding on tight to her, and meeting him stare for stare.
“Why, Ethan?” My voice is hoarse but steady. “If I’m such a horrible wife . . . then why do you want me back?”
His jaw pulses as he tries to wither my resolve with his stare. “Because image is everything, Gertrude,” he says, running the back of his hand down my cheek. “And the Caster name is the ticket to getting it.”
As prepared as I am for his kiss when he leans forward, I can’t choke back the disgust. I thrash my head, but the unforgiving twist of my hair makes me freeze as his lips bruise mine. Revulsion ripples through me. The bile returns.
“Do you believe the lies he tells you?” he whispers against my ear.
He holds my hair hostage so I can’t look to see what he’s doing.
“Does he tell you you’re beautiful? And smart? And funny?”
