Damien grabbed me to prevent a fall. "Don't be angry. She is nothing, but you, you are my wife."
I struggled, but he merely held me tighter, his embrace strong, his will unbendable. "Listen to me. You have my name, my heir, and I believe, apiece of my heart. She is nothing, while you are everything."
Then he was kissing me and I let him. Do you understand? I let him. I heard his words, reveled in their meaning, embraced them and their implications with greedy defiant selfishness. Desperately I wanted to believe him, to feel secure in my position, his affection. I felt his touch, welcomed it, and my anger blended with passion as he kissed me. But my haughty pride, so very much increased of late, still stinging from the sight of the unattractive maid, compelled me to fan the flames of our argument by attempting to jerk back once more.
I believe I knew what I was doing. I believe a certain small part of me knew he would not let me go, and I wanted that confirmation. I wanted him to fight for me, to feel the anger that I did.
He didn't disappoint. Damien held on, tighter, and walked me backward, almost shoving, until my back hit the wall of the house. His hand went in my hair and he kissed me harshly, fervently, hotly, and his fingers curled around the careful arrangement Gigi had created. With rough yanks and tugs, he disassembled the coiffure while his mouth raced over my neck. I leaned against the wall, assaulted with my own desire, my own eagerness.
"My wife," he said, looking into my eyes as he tore down the front of my gown. "My Marie."
My head was smacking into the house, my br**sts pinched from the gown, my leg twisted awkwardly on the bricks, and Damien's touches were rough, demanding, his kisses deep and smothering. But it excited me, aroused me, heightened my awareness of each touch, left no time to recover before the next kiss or suckle or pinch assaulted my senses.
When he lifted my skirt, shifted aside my pantaloons, and surged into me, I welcomed his roughness, enjoyed his possessive pounding.
"I own you," he said, thrusting me against the wall, my shoulders scraping and head colliding with the solid structure. I cared not. I was tight and tense with pleasure, consumed by him, of him, for him.
"And you own me, Marie. Never forget that. I am yours."
I reached my peak as his hot seed exploded inside of me, our bodies, our lives, sinfully and passionately entwined.
That night I awoke with the moon high and my linens soaked with blood.
Marley spent the day wandering around the French Quarter, taking a walking tour of St. Louis Cemetery #1, browsing antiques, and snapping pictures in Jackson Square after grabbing a trio of beignets at Cafe du Monde. She hadn't planned the day out, but when she'd woken up, she knew she had to get away from Damien, or more accurately, away from her own feelings about him.
He had warned her not to fall for him, but the ugly reality was that Marley was sure she already had. If he could only see his face when he talked about his wife, about his home, his parents, the way he hid the pain in his eyes with a careless smile, he would understand how it had happened. She looked at him and she wanted to soothe him, to hold him, fix him, make him see that the rewards of love were worth the risk of being hurt.
She was the hopeless optimist, he was the jaded cynic.
Not a good combination, but an obvious one.
Staring through a window at a display of elaborate Mardi Gras masks, Marley marveled at the intricacy of the feathers, the beading, the rich and vibrant colors. They were beautiful, extravagant, expensive. All designed to hide your face, to allow the wearer to become someone else for a few hours, to say and do anything without regard for the consequences.
Her cell phone rang in her purse, and Marley reached for it, hoping it was her cousin Rachel. The number on the phone was a local number, so she flipped it open, steeling herself for an uncomfortable conversation with Damien. "Hello?"
"Hey, Mar! What's up?"
"Lizzie?" Marley gripped the phone tighter, her heart dropping into her stomach. "Are you alright?"
"Of course I'm alright, why wouldn't I be?"
Her sister sounded puzzled and Marley's overwhelming relief quickly gave way to frustration. All this time, all this fear made ridiculous with one careless sentence from her thoughtless sister. "No one knew where you were. Have you called Rachel? We were worried about you."
"Oh. Sorry. But why would you be worried about me? I'm fine. In fact, I'm fabulous. I met this guy… he is amazing. He's perfect, and I've finally figured out who I am, you know what I mean? It's like I can define myself in him." Lizzie gave a dreamy sigh in Marley's ear.
Marley felt slapped. All the months, all this worry, and Lizzie had just run off with another guy? Her voice sounded sharp and shrill, even to her own ears. "Why haven't you checked on Sebastian? Let someone know where to reach you?"
"He's fine with Rachel. God, you sound so pissy. I haven't talked to you in months and you're already yelling at me."
"Because I was worried about you! I thought you were dead in a ditch and you're just off playing house with the flavor of the week? What if something had happened to your son?"
"Nothing happened, obviously," Lizzie said with annoyance. "Give me a break."
Marley closed her eyes and prayed. She had never been so angry with her sister in her entire life. This was too much. This was beyond what she could tolerate. "Where are you, Lizzie?"
"Shreveport. Where are you, Miss Piss?"
"New Orleans."
"No shit? Wow, that's cool. Let's get together this weekend. Alex and I are going to a party at a plantation on Saturday. Where are you staying? I'll ask Alex if he minds dropping me off at your hotel so we can have dinner together. I'm so impressed, Mar. You never go anywhere. Are you actually sightseeing by yourself?"
Marley looked out on Royal Street, her temples throbbing, neck tightening. As a matter of fact, she was sightseeing. But she wanted to throttle her sister six ways to Sunday. How could she not miss her son? "I came down here looking for you at Rosa de Montana when we didn't hear from you. I'm staying there."
"You're staying there? Ohmigod, that's so hot. Now I will definitely see you on Saturday, because that's the party we're going to. So what do you think of Damien? I can't believe you managed an invite to stay in his house. That is so cool. Has he gotten in your pants yet? I know you have like a vault door over your zipper, but if anyone can get past your security, it's Damien du Bourg." Lizzie giggled.
Marley wanted to throw up, forehead clammy, stomach hot and roiling. Lizzie thought Marley was a joke, her prudity a challenge to a man like Damien.