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βAnd what can I do for you today, little lady?β The burly man behind the counter offered you a smile as you examined the different types of meat in the display counter, the same one that divided the room between yourself and the butcher.
Your eyes narrowed as you scanned every label, yet not one spelt out what you were looking for. βI donβt suppose you have any venison in the back do you?β
This had been the third butcher you had visited, and quite frankly, you were getting antsy. You knew the repercussions that were to unravel if you failed getting your hands on the exact type of meat your vile husband demanded you retrieve for tonight. And due to the brute demanding you make a dish that thankfully your mother used to dabble in βthe only good thing she had done for you since birthing youβ in the late morning, you knew you hadnβt much time left before you needed to begin the process of making the dish.Β
You didnβt want a repeat of what occurred the few times you had made dinner late; and god forbid you find out what he would do if you made it late whilst a guest was present.
The man before you clicked his tongue before eyeing you up and down, setting insecurity and anxiety to seep under your skin.Β
Why was he looking at you like that?Β
Instinctively, you moved your hands to grip into the fabric of your flowy garden dress as a defence mechanism. Averting your eyes, you attempted to look at anything other than the man before you. Men were unpredictable, you couldnβt trust them or their intentions. Your husband taught you that.
βI do have some in the back,β Letting out a breath in relief, you instantly lit up and looked him in the eyes with pure joy; maybe some men were okay, despite the ideas your husband embedded in your mind about them. And with some wishful thinking, maybe the rest of the day could be pleasant for you. βItβs not a great amount, little lady, depending on what youβre planning to make with it that is.β Maybe not.
βWell, I was hoping to make some Jambalaya for three, do you have enough spare for that?β Your eyebrows threaded, begging to whatever god that there may exist that theyβd have some mercy on you and just give you the right amount of stupid meat.
Unfortunately, the butcher shook his head negatively. βUnless youβre happy with rations, thereβs enough for about half of what youβre wanting, little lady.β Shit. Your top teeth impaled your lower lip as you quickly analysed what the hell your next move would be. Should you go to the next butcher in hopes that they might have some venison? More than what this man had? With how today had gone so far, your doubts were high. And even if you didnβt buy this meat, there was no guarantee that anyone else wouldnβt buy it whilst you searched elsewhere.
Closing your eyes you debated with yourself. Maybe you could mix it with some other meat? The way your mother used to make it only involved one type of meat, but you were aware that it typically involved different types of meats. βThen Iβll buy it, along with a pound of chicken please.β You could easily just distribute the venison between your husband and his guest. It was the only solution you could come up with, one that you hoped would save yourself from another beating.
Watching the butcherer nod before heading in the back, you tapped your T strapped heels against the floor as you waited for him. Youβd be able to make dinner on time now, it was a small weight off your shoulders, but a weight regardless. You could finally let yourself relax, just for a little bit.Β
Humming one of your favourite songs to yourself, your eyes drifted off to the windows that revealed the main street. As you watched the crowds of people pass by the shop, a sad smile tugged at your lips as you watched families that seemed to be living their best lives. It was something you truly envied; people that belonged to a loving family. If only your husband wasnβt such an ugly truffling pig, youβd be able to be happy and content with your life. But no, your husband just had to be one of the worst human beings alive. One who was hell bent on destroying you from the inside out.Β
You often wondered if you wouldβve met your true love if he hadnβt stormed into your life. If he hadnβt demanded you be his. Would you have a family with this faceless person? Would they hold you with love and softness? Would they protect you from the types of horrors that your husband had inflicted upon you? These types of thoughts were the only thing that kept you sane within your abusive marriage. Just imagining being with some faceless stranger who loved you the way you wished to be loved.
Letting out a sigh you averted your view onto the meat that laid behind the glass counter. Focusing on the glistening carcasses before you, your pupils dilated as the imagery and fantasy of the meat in front of you being your husband turned your saddened smile into one of a deranged grin. One that brought a glimmer of light into your dulled eyes.
You wondered what itβd be like to cut hi-
You snapped back into reality once the butcherer returned with a bag of red lean meat, placing it on the counter for you. You offered him a smile before he began to wrap up a portion of chicken for you, placing it within its own bag before giving you the total cost. Pulling out a masculine wallet -because your husband would never allow you your own carrier for money- you offered the man double than what he asked. It was a very rare pleasure you could indulge in nowadays; wasting Vincent's money.
With a smile and a wave, you bid the man farewell before exiting the store with the bags in your hands. As you took a breath of fresh air in, you felt a cold tremor sliver down your spine. Immediately, your eyes darted around as you felt someone's piercing gaze on your form. Turning around in an attempt to take in your surroundings, a man entered your view. One with round rimmed glasses. His smile was one youβve never seen before; wide and intensely stretched. It was sinister in a way, yet it suited his unconventionally attractive features well. Apprehensively, you returned his smile with your own along with a small shaken wave, only to still when your reciprocation made his smile stretch further than humanly possible.
Why was he smiling at you like that?
It felt as if all time had halted as you both stood there, gazing into each other's eyes and memorising each other's faces, yours stunned and mesmerised whilst his remained charmingly sinister. The way his smile curved his eyes made you think he was attempting to be sweet, but the way he refused to look away from you had you second guessing his intentions. Was he trying to assert some sort of dominance over you? Did he just creepily smile at anyone who came into his view?Β
Had he been watching you since before you left the shop?
Another shiver shook your entire body this time, alarm bells ringing in your mind, screaming at you to run. Taking a step back, you slowly turned around, letting him win this strange staring contest you both participated in. You already had a man that made your life a living nightmare, you sure as hell didnβt need someone else making it even worse.
Despite constantly looking over your shoulder on your journey home, the facial structure of thatβ¦ man was etched into your retina.Β
Why was he staring at you in the first place?
Arriving at your home in the garden district, thoughts of the strange man slowly evaporated from your mind. Opening the front door you closed it quickly, letting out long quivering breaths as you leaned against it. You were thankful that your husband was busy during the afternoons with his business, it was the only time of the day you felt you could truly breathe. Even if you were currently breathing from hyperventilation.Β
If he were to witness you in this state, heβd only make you learn a lesson; one that involved making sure you only shook in fear for him.Β
Standing up straight, you pinched your arm. Hard. It was one of many ways you forced yourself to come back to your senses. To ignore all the bad things in your mind.Β
You strutted into the kitchen, placing the bag of meat on the counter before going to grab your apron. Despite all the ungrateful, back handed comments your dim witted husband gave you in regards to your cooking, making food was a way for you to distract yourself from the hell you were living. It was also the only activity that prevented your husband from putting his grimy little hands on you. He hated messes, and you made sure to always make your hands and apron messier than need be, only to alleviate yourself from him and his touch.
Heβd always make you clean yourself and dress up nicely before you were allowed to eat too. He believed that a wife should look her best whilst with her husband, which made you scoff considering how he didnβt harbour those same views for how husbands were to present themselves to their wives.
Always the double standards with him.
Taking out the ingredients, you began the process for the meal tonight. Watching your fingers as you cut the meat into thick cubes, your stomach began to rumble. You hadnβt eaten since the day before yesterday. All thanks to that stupid man-thing you hated more than anything.Β
He never allowed you to eat without him present. That included lunch and snacks. And if you did? Youβd get beat.
Your husband believed that a wife should eat second to her husband; and that meant that if your meal for him didnβt satiate his hunger, he would simply eat yours. You were given the scraps of the meals you made. Always the fucking scraps. Even when you made larger portions to combat this problem, he just seemed hell bent on eating at least a spoonful of your food, even if you knew he couldnβt handle anymore food in that vile body of his.
He enjoyed making you feel as though you were beneath him, you knew that for certain.
But thankfully for you, your husband never attempted that pathetic habit of his whilst he had guests over, which meant you could finally indulge in a full meal; something you hadnβt been able to do in a couple months now.
As the lighting in the kitchen began to dim with the day getting later, you took a breath as you turned off the gas stove, patting your hands together as you finally finished. Putting a cover over the pot that held the food, you took your apron off. You would need to wash that later, before Vincent noticed.
Heading upstairs, you entered your bedroom, only to frown as the bed came into your line of sight. Memories of what transpired earlier imbued your mind, narrowing your eyes as you viewed the blood that stained the sheets. Your blood. Dried and bordering on black. Air sucking through your teeth, you grabbed the bloodied sheet before stuffing it under the bed, only to replace them with clean ones from the wardrobe that hugged the corner of the room. You took a mental note to wash that later too. You had to. Vincent would never get off his rear end to wash anything, and you had to avoid his violent tendencies.
Because it would only be your fault if nothing was clean.
Stripping down until you were bare, you sat down at your elegant vanity. Staring into the almost misty mirror as you examined your face. You didnβt want to look below your neck. You didnβt want to see the bruises. But it was inevitable.
Placing your hand onto your products that neatly laid out on your vanity, you began to pretty yourself up whilst also using some foundation and powder to hide the impact of your husband's anger on your upper body. Vincent's words echoed in your mind; he wanted you to wear a revealing dress. He always did when guests came over. It was his way of putting you on display. To show you off in order to induce some sort of hierarchy onto his guests. To make them aware that his wife was a trophy. His trophy.Β
After you finished styling your hair, you slipped yourself in the red floor length dress that Vincent demanded you to wear for tonight. The same dress that held tight to your body from knee to waist and draped dangerously low on your chest and back, leaving very little to the imagination.
Despite once harbouring a love for dresses and clothes, especially the ones that went against the norm; the ones that made you feel sexy, your husband replaced those feelings you had towards fashion with disgust. He made it feel so objectifying and rancid. He inflicted worry and panic within you when you wore revealing garments due to the sexual reaction it brought out of him towards you; a feeling you could never reciprocate.
Flattening out the dress, you slipped your feet into a pair of black heels before making your way downstairs. Sitting down in the parlour room, you glanced at the clock hanging on the wall and sighed in relief. Your husband still had a few minutes left before he was due home. Would his guest be with him? Or would the guest arrive later?
What if his guest never arrives at all?
Dread pulsed through your veins, fingers gripping into your dress as you allowed your thoughts to consume your mind. What if this guest scenario was just to get you to relax? To make you think you were safe for a night? To get your walls down before he stormed in and hurt you? It would be a truly evil situation to put you in; but it was one you were positive heβd enact. He always did like to try new ways to break you, afterall.
Freezing in place as you heard your husband's car park in the driveway, you waited for the moment of truth. Clasping your hands together, you closed your eyes and listened intently to any noise. Any noise that indicated he wasnβt alone. Letting out a breath you didnβt realise you were holding, you perked up as you heard two voices from outside. Not one. Two. You couldnβt help the excitement that took over you; youβd be free from harm. Only for a night, but a night of freedom nonetheless. Standing up straight, you placed your hands together towards your thighs, waiting for your husband and his guest to enter the house.
Once the door opened, your husband's voice seemed to carry the conversation between him and his guest. You rolled your eyes as you overheard him obviously talking about himself. Because of course he would be, what were you expecting? Before you could begin your flurry of insults to your husband in the realm of your mind, you heard his voice shout your name, calling you to reveal yourself. Like you were some damn dog.
Grinding your teeth sharply, only to quickly relax your mouth into a false smile before you left the parlour room and into the hallway connected to the front door, you froze.
Linking your eyes with your husband's guest, you recognised the man instantly; the man with the strange attractive smile that you had some weird staring contest with earlier. βAlastor, this is my beautiful wife,β Your husband spoke, causing you to become attentive whilst he introduced you. He gave the man- Alastor, your name, before addressing you. βDoll, this is our guest for the evening; Alastor Hartfelt.β
Studying the man, you came to the quick conclusion that he was much more unconventionally attractive from up close. His tawny skin tone was a huge contrast to your husband's ghostly white one. His brown hair, although somewhat followed the common hairstyles you saw on men whenever you were allowed out, was much more volumized and fluffier. His eyes seemed almost black, with a soft shine of a yellow hue that was barely visible. His height was frightening considering he towered over your husband who you knew was 6β1 at least. And oh, you couldnβt ignore that inhumane smile that he seemed to pull off flawlessly.
Every feature about him seemed so dark and disturbing, yet at the same time, every feature seemed to hold a sense of softness to them as he looked at you. He was handsome. Not a stereotypical version of handsome like your vile husband was, but uniquely handsome.
Slowly, Alastor approached you, offering you his hand; inaudibly asking for yours. Settling your fingers into his palm, you noticed how contradictory his skin was. How was it possible to have such rough yet silk like skin? Gently, he guided your hand closer to his lips before placing them on the back of your hand. Pecking your dorsal with a sense of intimacy that had your heart racing. His eyes never leaving yours throughout the whole ordeal.
A/N: Initially I was going to wait until I had finished the third chapter before posting the start of this series, but I know the third chapter wont be finished for a couple days (probably) as I'm at uni, and I'm desperate to get this out to get some feedback and see if this kind of story is something people are actually interested in. See you next chapter ;D
A year since you had arrived in the upbeat city that was New Orleans. A year since you had officially married your arranged betrothed. The one your family sold you to. And within that year, you were supposed to fall in love and start a new chapter of your life.
But life had other plans for you.
You used to dream of meeting your one true love. How theyβd court you, dance with you, sing to you, and kiss you all whilst whispering sweet words of desire and devotion to you. The fantasies of meeting someone who would make you the happiest woman to ever exist was what kept you so euphoric throughout your childhood. You had always hoped that when you finally met that special person, it would be love at first sight. That they would whisk you away into their arms, all whilst living a happy and domestic life with them. And that it would be true love.
But those dreams only shattered into millions of fragmented pieces on the date of your 21st birthday. The day your family sat you down with an unfamiliar man who seemed to be a decade older than you at least. His hair, dark and slicked back, and sharp dulled eyes that were filled with malicious intent. He looked like a man who owned an enormous amount of money, it showed from the way he dressed to the way he presented himself.
Your mother, you remember, called your name as you eyed the guest sitting in the parlour before gesturing towards him. βThis gentleman here is Vincent. We have arranged that he be your husband by next summer, why donβt you sit down and get to know him?β Despite the vacant expression on your face that implied to anyone on the outside that this news didnβt affect you, inside you were seething and thoroughly disturbed with this abrupt news.
It was apparent rather quickly that this man had bought you. Your family had sold you like cattle. Vincent was a man who couldnβt seem to keep his blabbering mouth shut. He made it a point to make you aware of the fact that he had spent a lot of money for your hand in marriage. How could your family do that to you? Sell you off like a sheep to the slaughter. Especially to a man who looked rugged; like he held no genuine kindness inside himself.Β
It killed you inside. Knowing that for the rest of your days, you would have to love a man who despite put a lot into his appearance, and had a commonly attractive face, was a man who you found truly revolting and ugly. He was not easy on the eyes to you and you dreaded the thought of having to touch him, let alone having to faunicate with him. Yet you accepted it. More so, you learned to accept it. You had to, only to make this process easier on your psyche. There was a time you thought you could trick yourself into loving him. It wasnβt what you dreamt of, but maybe you could grow to love Vincent with time. Maybe there was more to him than how he presented himself when you first met him. Maybe he was a sweetheart under all that malicious aura he projected and those harsh words he spoke.
But oh how you were so wrong to even attempt to trick yourself into believing he could be kind; it wouldβve been easier on your mental state to not allow silly little maybes get your hopes up.
You could never entirely recall the time that your family forced you into courting Vincent. Every memory you had of that phase was a blur. It was easy to recognise that it was due to the constant dissociation you enacted on yourself whilst interacting with your now-husband. And no matter how hard you tried, you couldnβt force yourself to love him. Let alone like him. And only hate began to dictate your feelings towards him when you began to uncover that he was quite a misogynistic man.Β
His views disgusted you.
βA woman shouldnβt be able to vote; it is a ridiculous concept. Your species will ruin the very foundation of this country with this power in time, just watch.β You recall him saying to you over a formal dinner at an extremely expensive restaurant. It was one of the first outings between the two of you, and you swore it hadnβt even been 10 minutes before he started baffling about his disgusting views towards women.
You learnt at that same dinner date that he expected you to be a closed off housewife that would essentially be his baby incubator. βOnly the most beautiful woman alive may produce my offspring, doll. You should be thankful that you rival the beauty of a goddess, else I would have never bought you.β It was something he would remind you constantly. It was your looks that made him fascinated with you in the first place, not who you were, and it made you feel sick. Even when he attempted to say sweet things, they were laced with revolting words that brought you back down farther than they were supposed to lift you.
Blinking as your vision focused on the ceiling above you, you gripped the blankets on the bed, struggling to sit yourself up in an attempt to rid yourself from the thoughts of your times with your now-husband. Your body felt bruised. Probably because it was bruised. Bruised and beaten. They were constant reminders of what your husband had done to your body not only during your time with him, but moments ago too. Dried tear stains only wettened again as you allowed yourself to come out of the realm of dissociation. You hated how much of a monster your family had sold you to. How many more years would you have to live like this?
This was only year one.
You let your shaken legs hold your body up as you slowly stumbled into the bathroom. Panting as you leaned against the sink, you looked in the mirror as you assessed that yet again, Vincent hadnβt left even a scratch on your face. It was the only place he refused to vandalise. Youβd often wonder if it was because he didnβt want to harm the beauty you had, or if he just didnβt want outsiders to catch on to what he did to you behind closed doors.
Probably both.
A distressed groan left your lips as the pain in your lower abdomen spiked up without warning, tears dripped onto the backs of your palms as you attempted to ease the pain. You didnβt want to look; you refused to look. You didnβt want to see the damage Vincent had inflicted upon your lower body, but you had no choice. You had to assess the damage.
Looking down slowly, a sharp sob left your lips as you recognised the red liquid dripping down from your core and onto your thighs as blood. Your eyes shut tight as your knuckles turned white from clenching the sink, allowing an ugly silent sob to seep from your gritted teeth. It made sense as to why your intimate area hurt so much now. Panic consumed you. What had he done to make you bleed? Had he torn something inside? What should you do? Did you need to visit a doctor?
Your whole body stiffened as you heard the floorboards creak behind you, pulling you from your thoughts of panic. βIf youβd stop screaming βnoβ whilst I try to bed you, and at least tried to enjoy it, I wouldnβt have to be so brute with you, doll.β You dared not to look towards the doorway as his shadow encased your smaller frame. Why was he here? You were certain he had left the house once he had finished forcing you into acts you didnβt want to partake in.
You were stupid to think you were temporarily relieved from him.
As you heard him scoff from your lack of response, you flinched. βYou are overreacting my dear doll, you will be fine.β He referred to your bleeding area. Slowly, he approached you, the sounds of his gatsby shoes thudding toward you frightened you, haunted you, even. βNow,β His polished shoes stopped in front of you. βGet up.β
His hands swiftly gripped your upper arms with a roughness you knew too well; dragging you back into the bedroom despite your panicked cries and pleads of mercy. Throwing you onto the bed you only just managed to get up from, you sobbed silently, attempting to hide your body away from him. His moves were always unpredictable when he was in this mood; always ranging between sexual abuse or a beating. You had to decide which one was the easiest to endure.
And sex, you learnt, was the only thing you could use to stop his bad moods. Even if you never wanted it.
Even if it made you feel like filth.
His face lowered into yours. βYouβre going to go to the butchers today to get some prime venison, and make what those dirty peasants eat; Jambalaya.β He began to ramble as he grabbed your wrists and pinned you further into the bed. βI donβt care if youβve never made it, I donβt care if you donβt know what it is, you better make it, and you better make it good.β He spat at you, causing your head to tilt away from him in disgust and fear. βYou better look your best too. Maybe that red dress you have, the one that shows off your fat fucking tits.β His fingers gripped your right mound tightly, nails piercing into your skin from the pressure.Β
You recoiled with abhorrence, sucking air through your teeth as you attempted to ignore the pain. Focusing on his voice and not the situation you were in, you made a mental note to remember all of his words; there would be consequences if not. And oh did he have a way with words. Always seeming to speak the most despicable things. A brute was what he was, one who always reduced you to your body with every sentence he spoke. He always knew what to say to make you feel worthless, to make you feel like what he nicknamed you: a doll.
Vincent moved his hand from your breast to your face as he forced you to look at him. You struggled as you attempted to pull away from him before he shoved his vile tongue into your mouth. Your wrists struggled against his as you attempted to tug away from him, to halt the assault on your body and mouth. Was his breath always this bad? You cringed, attempting to prevent the sensation of bile threatening to leave your stomach as he continued to defile your mouth with his.
If only you had the courage to bite his nauseating tongue off.
Fortunately for you, he pulled away; putting you out of a bit of the misery he was currently inflicting upon you before he opened his mouth again. βSome big cheese prick of a radio host is coming over tonight,β He spat, his saliva hitting you in the face as he continued to yap his lips. βAnd I need to make a good impression and if you fuck it up,β His grip around your face tightened, forcing your lips to pucker up. βWellβ¦ I think you know, donβt you, doll?β He quickly pecked your lips before pushing you into the bed further as he got off of you. Stiff as a board, your eyes followed him in fear as he stood in the doorway of your shared bedroom, watching his sinister smile that was directed towards you before he finally exited the room.Β
You didnβt make a sound, you didnβt dare to. Your body seemingly paralysed as you tried to stabilise yourself. You began to heave, letting little tears silently spill from your already reddened eyes. You just wanted this torture to end, the pain in your heart to cease to exist. You just wanted to be free.
Despite your current meltdown, you smiled. A smile so tight that it stretched to the furthest corners of your face as fantasies of your husband's death began to intrude into your mind. Maybe he would have a heart attack on the way out of the house, or perhaps run over by something.Β
Maybe you could do it yourself.
Or maybe youβd get lucky and that serial killer you had heard about would end his life for you.Β
Before you could imagine more ways that your husband could perish, your mind kept drifting onto something else; the guest that was to appear in your home later. Yet every time you attempted to think back to your pleasant thoughts of finally being rid of your husband, your mind kept wandering back to the words he just spoke to you.
A radio host huh?
It wasnβt often that Vincent allowed visitors over; in fact, he only allowed visitors over when he was trying to smitten them into furthering his own business into greater success. It was confusing though. Trying to work your head around why Vincent would need an advertisement for his business. He was well off, you lived in the Garden District in New Orleans after all. Was there something he wasnβt telling you? Was his business failing?
You scoffed. Like heβd ever tell you.
Despite the events that just occurred, you focused on this mystery guest that was to enter your home later. Would it be a man or a woman? Oh you hoped it was a woman; it had been a whole year since you last truly interacted with a woman. Maybe you could be friends. Itβd be great to finally form a friendship-
Startled, you flinched in fear as you heard the front door slam shut, indicating that your bastard of a husband had finally left the house. You frowned as you let reality overcome you. Vincent would never allow you to befriend someone, he was a greedy man, with money and with you. The tears that drenched your cheeks couldnβt be stopped. You couldnβt help but etch your fingers into your hair, pulling as you tried to compose yourself.
You turned around, only to shove your face into a pillow as the screams of pain and sorrow howled from your lips as you reminded yourself that youβd probably be forced to be with that revolting man for the rest of your life. That you would never be allowed to enjoy the company of another person. To form relationships with others.
It had only been a year since you moved here.Β
How were you supposed to deal with this for the rest of your life?
Vincent was angry. The way his lips twitched into a scowl as he watched Alastor kiss the back of your hand let you know all too well how pissed he was. Your lips shook in unease as the colour from your face began to drain. βItβs lovely to meet you too, Mr. Hartfelt.β You spoke firmly with a small smile, trying to eradicate any tone from your voice in an attempt to calm the furious man that was your husband.
Refusing to allow your face to contort into worry as you feared the consequences of your husband, your eyes subtly darted between Vincent and Alastor, hoping the taller man would get the hint and let go of your damn hand. βAlastor it is then. Itβs a pleasure to have you here.β Your smile constrained, unable to offer anything genuine as dread coursed through your veins. Your husband was going to hurt you. Bad. You could sense it like a bad omen crawling along the spine of your back.
After you uttered his name back to him, Alastor granted you mercy as he relieved your hand from his gentle grip; a grip that was shockingly contrasting to what you were used to. Your husband was a rough man, whose movements were sharp and harsh. You couldnβt comprehend how a man of all things could touch you with such delicacy like Alastor had just displayed.
Turning his attention away from you, Alastor faced your husband, his smile faltering ever so slightly in the process. βQuite the home and wife you have here dear Vincent! Are you sure you need promotion on my broadcast?β Alastors voice spoke in a completely different tone with your husband, a hint of conceit laced with his words; vastly different to the flirtatious and charming presence he held for you.
Your husband scoffed, seemingly brushing off the ordeal that transpired between you and his guest just seconds ago. You knew it was due to the fact that Alastor had placed attention onto him, and oh did your husband love to talk about himself. βOf course I have quite the home and wife, I worked hard for it.β You mentally rolled your eyes. That man didnβt work hard for shit. He was born into generational wealth; had his life laid out before him on a silver platter, one that allowed him to establish the businesses that kept him in his own current wealth. He didnβt even work hard for your hand in marriage either. He just bought you.
βBut businesses require promotional content regardless, and radio is such a popular media. It wouldβve been ridiculous of me to reject your generous offer when you approached me.β
Well, that was unexpected. You gazed upon Alastorβs side profile as his eyes twitched in a way that suggested he didnβt like that little spill of information; that it was Alastor that had offered advertisement to your husband. And as quick as that expression came, it disappeared. You wouldnβt be surprised if Vincent had missed it. βWell of course Iβd ask! Business is business; itβs what brings in the station's revenue. And it's quite telling how much you need it. So of course Iβd offer you some charity work instead of another establishment!β Alastor spoke astutely in response. His words were laced with a sense of cockiness that were tenfold to what your husband initially spouted.
As Vincent's eye twitched, he responded. βOf course, your charity knows no bounds!β It brought a tug of a smirk to your lips as you watched him suck up, but ensuring he didnβt notice your face mock him in the process, you turned more so towards Alastor, watching his smile turn a tad more arrogant. You wondered if he got off on this; making people feel pathetic and small. Ironically, Alastor was belittling your husband, just as Vincent belittled you. Albeit in a vastly different fashion, but belittling still the same. It brought a smile to your face, seeing Vincent be the one having to suck up. To pretend to be perfect. Even if it was for his own greed and not for his life. It made you feel a sense of restitution. In a way.
Hiding his scowl, Vincent approached you, tensing all the muscles in your body. He slotted himself beside you, with Alastor watching his every move with a glunch in his expression. Your husband wrapped his hand around your back; gripping the crevice of your waist with such a force that it pinched your skin through the fabric of your dress. Yet you didnβt flinch. Stilling your body, you halted the smile that sheltered your face, refusing to allow any indication that your husband was inflicting pain on you to show.
You didnβt miss how Alastors gaze turned slightly dark as you noticed him staring right where your husband's hand connected to your waist. In an attempt to change the subject, and the growing negative aura in the room, you spoke up. βBy the way dear, food is ready. It just needs plating.β
Vincent huffed, almost dismissively; like he was annoyed you had the gall to speak in the first place. Yet he loosened his grip on you, only to lower it to the small of your back. βWhy donβt you go plate it up for us whilst I give our guest here a tour, doll?β
βDonβt be ridiculous, olβ chap!β Alastor chirped up immediately with a tone of deride, almost as if he was offended that your husband was attempting to force your company away from him. βHow awfully stereotypical, making such a lovely dame fix up the gentlemans plate; I wonβt have it, not in my presence!β He waved his hand dismissively as he took a step towards you, linking your arm through his, practically tearing you away from your husband before flashing a smile his way. βWhy donβt you challenge the norm and plate the food whilst your wife gives me a tour, hmm?β
No. You wanted to object. But your voice stilled in your larynx as you felt a sensation of protection and possessiveness from the stranger who was Alastor. The want to say no was still present despite it, and the want to push this man away from you only increased. Not in disgust, but to protect yourself. It was terrifying; imagining the outcome that was to transpire later, and Alastor seemed to continue taking actions in making it all the more worse for you.
Besides, you needed to plate the food. Vincent was sure to fuck it up, even if it was on accident. You knew he would give you a way smaller portion than you wouldβve given yourself and you didnβt want food being ruined. Especially so since you hadnβt eaten in almost two days now. Biting your lip, you remembered that you also needed to make sure only Alastor and Vincent received the venison; there wasnβt enough for all of you after all.
You could feel Vincentβs rage as he watched Alastor pull you in ever so slightly. You needed to alleviate this situation, even if you oddly enjoyed the strange affection that Alastor was bestowing onto you. Craning your neck to look at Alastor, which was quite the task considering how he towered over your frame. You watched him turn his attention towards you, his expression shifted into a more peaceful stance as your eyes connected. βI appreciate your proposal Alastor, but you know how men can be in the kitchen,β You laughed almost awkwardly before continuing. You knew insulting your husband, insinuating he was a bad cook -which he was- would only get you in trouble. But you dreaded the reaction that was to unfold once Alastor had left, and you needed to get away from the radio host, to lessen the repercussions that were due later. βBesides, Iβd much prefer to fix dinner for us, itβll only take a moment, and Iβm sure you and Vincent have much to discuss.β
Before you could pull yourself away from Alastor, he unlinked his arm from yours, only to wrap it around your shoulder. You squeaked ever so slightly; only enough for him to hear it as he gripped his fingers in your upper arm gently. βNothing that canβt be discussed over dinner my darling!β He chuckled softly before pulling you in to the point where your sides met. βBesides, Iβm a man and Iβm quite the chef; how about I assist you in the kitchen my dear? I canβt fathom a woman such as yourself slaving away for the likes of me! My mother taught me better than that!β He rambled before you felt him playing with tufts of your hair behind your back; discreetly from Vincent's scrutinising gaze.
What the hell was this man thinking? Why did he think he had any right to touch you so much? Regardless of how much you may of enjoyed being touched so softly by rough yet silked hands that offered you a touch of kindness, you didnβt want to piss off your husband. Pulling away rather quickly, Alastor didnβt attempt to pull you back, clearly sensing your unease.Β
You didnβt miss how his smile faltered ever so slightly.
βIβm starting to think youβre here for my wife, Alastor.β Your husband spoke up, attempting to entwine his words in jest, but you sensed his agitation against the fact that another man was putting his hands all over you.
βWell she is quite the charmer, I canβt deny Iβm quite enthralled by her.β You couldnβt help but feel flustered from his choice of words. βBut try not to get jealous my friend, I am here to get to know my future associate and his wife.β The way he worded his sentence made you believe he was more attuned to getting to know you rather than both of you equally.
But why? It didnβt make sense as to why this eccentric man was treating you this way; with kindness. Every single guest that had ever entered your house had either simply acknowledged your presence before indulging in conversation with Vincent for the rest of the evening, or they wouldnβt stop staring at you with a lustful gaze whilst complimenting Vincent on wedding you.
Why was Alastor doing this? What was his motive?
Taking you away from your thoughts, Alastor offered you his hand yet again. Turning your gaze toward Vincent, your husband seemed conflicted. You could tell by his facial expression that he didnβt want you near Alastor, but he needed you to be. You knew he would use you now; to soften Alastor up so he could get some sort of advantage over him with this proposition of promotion. With a slight nod of his head, he gave you permission to hold Alastorβs hand.Β
You didnβt know how to feel about that.
βNow, let's see ourselves to the kitchen, darling.β Threading his fingers through yours, he turned to face Vincent before opening his mouth again. βWhy donβt you grab some wine from the cellar whilst we busy ourselves?β Alarm bells immediately triggered in your mind. How the fuck did Alastor know you had alcohol stashed away? And how did he know where it was?
Refusing to voice your concerns in front of your husband, you held back to see if he had picked up on Alastorβs words. Instead, he just falsely smiled, eyebrows furrowing in subtle frustration before stating that heβd be back in a moment. You had thought your husband would not be as inattentive as he just showcased.
As soon as your husband left the room, you spoke softly, enough so that your husband couldnβt hear. βHow did you know where the wine was?β It was hard to mask the anxiety in your question, and it felt as though Alastor was consuming your whole field of view as his smile twitched at your question.
βWeβre in the prohibition era my darling, everyone, especially well off folks like yourselves have alcoholic beverages hidden within their cellars. Just an easy guess is all.β He whispered. You tried to believe his words, but the way he knew so confidently where it was had you second guessing. Yet, when the man before you beamed a flashy smile at you, you believed him. Was he being truthful? You couldnβt tell.
Pulling you towards him from your intertwined hands, he slowly lowered his face, forcing his back to bend to level against your smaller frame. βNow, why donβt you whisk me away to your kitchen so we can finally eat, my darling?β He almost purred the term of endearment, causing an oddly pleasant sensation to cascade through you. Slowly nodding, you turned around, guiding Alastor along with you as you led him to the kitchen.Β
Once you both entered, Alastor dramatically breathed in before letting out a dreamy sigh. βWhat have you made, my darling? It smells like a delicacy!β You felt your body heat up yet again from his charming way of words.
βYouβre too kind!β You smiled. βI made jambalaya; I know itβs not a sophisticated dish but-β Your lips halted into a close as Alastor patted his finger against your lips.
βDarling, donβt ever disparage jambalaya in front of me again! Itβs a wonderful dish, one of my favourites in fact!β Ah. So thatβs why Vincent was so hellbent on you making it; he wanted to butter Alastor up. Looking up at him, his closed smile turned into a toothed one as his finger swiped over the skin of your bottom lip.Β
Flinching away, worried that Vincent would walk in and catch Alastor overstepping his bounds again with touching you, you attempted to derive his attention. βWell, letβs plate this food, I do hope you enjoy it, Alastor.β You walked towards the glassed cabinet, grabbing three sets of bowls, placing each individual bowl in their respective plates.
You chuckled along with him. βSorry, mine wonβt be as spicy; Vincent tends to spit out anything that has more than a gram of spice.β
βWhat a shame.β He shook his head before taking two bowls away from you and placing them next to the stove. βYouβll have to invite me over sometime so I can show you how glorious a well spiced jambalaya can be my darling!βΒ
That sounded nice. Despite how handsy Alastor was, he was a very pleasant man. A huge contrast against your husband. Looking at the man, you took in how he seemed to be a complete opposite when comparing him to Vincent. To the contrast of his skin to the soft touch he displayed, he seemed like a refined gentleman; one that you hoped didn't hold the same sexist views as your husband. But alas, Vincent would never allow you to have your own guest over.
Stumped at the root before anything can bloom.
βIβd like that.β You smiled. Despite knowing you were only leading him on by insinuating it would happen, you truly meant it. Alastor was a breath of fresh air; air that seemed to put a barrier between you and your husband, and it felt freeing. Liberating, almost. Moving toward Alastor with the third bowl, you stood next to him as you lifted the lid off the pot; steam transient as it fluctuated.Β
You heard Alastor shift next to you as you asked him to grab the cutlery, pointing towards the drawer where they were held whilst you filled the bowls with food; you needed to put all the venison in his and your husbands bowls without it looking weird. But as you finished completing your task you heard Alastor comment on the food.
βIs a child eating here tonight?β You turned around to face him, not expecting him to be bent down, face obscenely close. You raised your eyebrow as he looked towards the bowls.
Gazing upon the bowls you grimaced as you realised how empty your bowl looked compared to the other two. βI just donβt need to eat as much.β You quickly stated. βGot to keep my figure and all.β You patted your hips, trying to play it off as a joke, hoping heβd just accept your answer and leave it alone. But you would slowly learn that Alastor didnβt like to leave certain things alone.
βAre you impartial to venison too?β
No, you werenβt. You enjoyed it in fact. But Alastor didnβt need to know that; didnβt need to learn the details of your life. Youβd never see him again anyway. Lying to him wouldnβt be an issue. βOh, Iβm not a huge fan of red meat, so it would only be wasted on me.βΒ
His expression implied he didnβt believe you; as if he knew you were lying straight through your teeth. You didnβt like how it made you feel bad, lying straight to his face, and it made you feel even worse when he looked at you like that. But it was what you had to do.
To protect yourself.Β
Before Alastor could respond to you, Vincent entered the kitchen. You had forgotten, if only for a minute, how oppressive the air became when he lingered around you. With wine in his hand, he set the glassed bottle onto the dining table, and you immediately took a step back from Alastor; picking up the bowls before settling them in their respective places.
Being the observant woman you had to be due to your husband being such vile filth, it became increasingly obvious throughout the meal that when Alastor spoke, there was a subtle difference in the tone of his voice when he addressed you versus your husband. When he focused his attention on you, he vocalised his words in such alluration, and dare you say, seductively. His almost black eyes, you were sure, lit up ever so slightly with that yellow tint you noticed when he first arrived. And oh how contrasting that was when he conversed with Vincent. It was always in a conservative manner; business-like, almost appearing disinterested. And if the tenuous twitch of his eyebrow told you anything, you were certain that Alastor did not like your husband.
So why was he involving himself with your husband? What on earth was Alastors motive? Why would he bother dealing with Vincent if he did not like him?
As Vincent began to talk about his ridiculous advertisement, you glared down at your almost empty bowl, feeling agitated. Angry, even; that you had to eat so little when you were the one that made the fucking dish your greedy little maggot of a husband was hoarding to himself. But Vincent would be choleric if you ever thought you deserved the same amount of food he had. Heβd call you a fat pig for doing such a thing. Sometimes you wished you had the backbone to say even half of the vile words he spouted at you; fantasised about disobeying him, eating whatever you wanted, going out wherever you wanted. Ultimately if it were up to you, you wouldnβt be with the sorry excuse of a man to begin with.
Youβd be with someone like Alastor.
Gripping your fork a bit tighter you looked toward the man who intruded your thoughts. Such a thought you couldnβt believe entered your mind. It was strange, but you decided yes. If it were up to you, youβd think you would have a content and happy life if you were able to live it with someone as soft handed as Alastor.
Not being able to take your gaze off of him, he turned his gaze towards you; as if he had sensed you staring at him. His mouth moved, but you didnβt hear any words reverberate from him. Looking at your husband as you slowly began to zone in, he gave you a look. One that told you you were fucking things up. βI apologise Alastor, I didnβt quite hear you.β You spoke softly, placing your hands on your thighs.
βItβs quite alright, darling. I was asking if youβd like to come with your husband to my broadcasting station next Friday.β You pieced together that Vincent would most likely be advertising his business during the upcoming visit. Taking a quick glance at your husband you could tell just from the look on his face that he was relishing in how inclined Alastor was toward you, and you knew he was going to use this to his advantage. The thought of being used for your husband's business was making you feel sick. It made you feel more like a pawn than anything else.
But you did want to see Alastor again. Regardless of your husband's wishes.
You wanted him to look at you again with those kind eyes, speak to you with those sweet words, touch you with his soft hands.
You knew you could face punishment for accepting, you knew it. But for the first time in a long time, you craved for something -someone- more than you feared being hurt. You wanted a friend.Β
Alastor could be your friend.
But before you could respond to the radio host, your husband responded for you. βSheβd love to. Wouldnβt you, doll?β
So he was going to use you to get an advantage over Alastor.
βOf course.β You responded.
Alastor could only apprise you about how delighted he was that you would be joining along, and you stayed attentive, hung onto his every word. The want to dissociate wasnβt present when he spoke to you, it was refreshing. Yet that feeling became absent the moment Vincent joined in the conversation, forcing you to tune in and out; only becoming attentive when Alastor spoke to you. Luckily for you, your husband wasnβt interested in conversing with you. Not one bit.Β
It was nice; having his attention off of you.
As you slowly progressed your way out of dissociation, and began partaking ever so slightly in the conversation with Alastor, the evening grew into night, and Vincent began hinting at the time, offering to take Alastor home.Β
A moment you didnβt want to happen.
Reality kicked in. You didnβt want Alastor to leave. You were scared. Frightened, in fact. You weren't ready to face what your husband had in store for you, and you probably never would be. You chewed on the inners of your gums as you attempted to stop anxiety that pulsed through your veins; to stop your brain from imaging what was about to happen.
You knew from the events that transpired earlier on in the evening would leave him in a sour mood, and you didnβt know if he would brush it off, or if he would take it out on you instead.
As Alastor declined his offer, stating that he would make his own way home, he stood in front of you.
You didnβt recall making your way back at the doorway; you didnβt even recall finishing your food.
His eyes, almost black, observed you, glittering with an emotion you failed to make out. βIβll see you soon, darling.β He voiced before leaving your house.
The evening seemed to end too fast. How did time go so quickly?
You wanted to scream, beg for help. Ask him to take you away from the man who drenched you in a constant state of fear. But your voice stilled, as did your expression. Only bidding him farewell as you watched the walking animation of him cease from your visibility.
Your husband locked the front door.
You were pathetic. Stupid in fact. Why were you deluding yourself into thinking Alastor could- or would protect you? If anything he caused you more harm than good due to his lingering touches and flirtatious attitude.
He was a man after all. He would only bring you misery. And that misery was what you had to currently face.
Looking toward your husband, his eyes were already pinpointed on you, and before you could even coherent a word of an apology, your vision blurred as you fell to the floor. You gripped your cheek as a sharp stinging sensation began to irritate your skin. He had hit you.
You weren't surprised.
Gripping one hand against the wood of the floorboards whilst holding your cheek with the other, Vincent threaded his fingers into your hair, yanking you up so you rested on your knees before he dragged you towards the sofa in the parlour. You yelped, wanting to scream, but the hyperventilation that mixed with your tears only forced you to let out sobs instead.Β
Throwing you against the sofa, Vincent crouched in front of you, gripping your cheeks to force you to look into his eyes. βYouβre just a flat tired whore arenβt you? Dressing up like this.β He punched you in the stomach, making you heave. You wanted to scream; he was the one who told you to wear the damn dress in the first place. βLet that smiling cunt touch you all over, letting him kiss your fucking hand.β He gripped your temples before bashing the back of your skull against the floor. Your vision vertigo as you heard him continue. βDo you want him to fuck you?β
βNo-β Another punch. βI donβt-β Another. βStop!β You begged, pleaded, but he kept sending a barrage of harsh attacks against you, on your arms, on your legs, on your stomach; but after that first initial hit, he gave mercy to the skin that covered the facial features of your head.
Before he tore himself off you, he ripped the top of your dress in two. You stopped yourself from covering yourself as the cold air prickled your skin; you knew better than to hide your form from Vincent.Β
He would only make this worse on you if you did.Β
As he took a seat on the sofa, letting out huffs of breath in process, he began to unbutton his dress shirt. βYouβre going to get your fucking ass here within the next ten seconds, and if my cock isnβt in your fucking mouth by then,β His face glared at you in craze. βIβm going to kill you.β Quickly, you stood on your feet, not taking his threat lightly. Stumbling over yourself, you made your way towards him. Landing on your knees, you quickly unbuttoned his trousers as you began your process of dissociation.Β
Closing your eyes you began to pretend, pretend that what was happening wasnβt happening.
That you were doing the activity with someone you actually loved.Β
