Until she was no longer his will, he would not release her. And though she was strong, she was not powerful. She could not fight him and survive, and so she withstood his will and waited for him to tire of the game. She used her strength for the waiting.
But tonight, someone had stopped him. A tall, dark, dashing stranger, looking stiff and uncomfortable in his tuxedo. James had said his name…Carlo. Carlo Pagano. Of those Paganos? There were a lot of Italians in Rhode Island, and most of them were just normal people. Sabina had lived in the States for years, most of her life, but she still felt somewhat flummoxed by the wide range of cultural identities. Maybe Pagano was the Italian version of Smith. But somehow, Sabina doubted it. The simple fact that the man had known who James was and had yet interfered indicated that he was accustomed to men who were intimidating.
Interesting. Perhaps that was why James had stopped. Perhaps a member of one of the largest crime families of New England had come to her rescue. That was the only kind of power that would have given her husband pause.
She smiled, then realized too late her mistake. James’s eerie expression of demonic tenderness—his eyes avid with malice, his smile sweet and loving—shifted and darkened, and he tossed the bloody, sodden cotton ball into the wastebasket.
“You like that? That’s good. I’m in the mood for some play.”
He wrapped his hand—its palm soft, its nails manicured—around her arm and yanked her up, then out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Her knees protested strenuously, but she did not limp. When he slid the belt from his pants and shoved her to kneel at his feet, she didn’t cry out.
She used her strength for the waiting.
~oOo~
As always, James was up at dawn. As always, Sabina waited to sleep until he had left the bed.
As always, she was up by ten o’clock. In the bathroom, she finally finished tending to her sore knees. Once they were bandaged, she stood in the middle of her closet, undecided.
James hated for her to wear her robe outside of the bedroom. He thought it gauche. Normally, first thing in the morning, she dressed to work out, then showered after she had finished whatever workout was on the docket for the day. But she wasn’t going to yoga today. The thought of kneeling in child’s pose or attempting any asana whatsoever today made her wince. He wouldn’t like it if she skipped her workout, though, and today she wasn’t in the right frame of mind to resist him. After last night, she needed a quiet day.
Finally, she dressed for yoga. It wasn’t as if he followed her to the studio. He’d be leaving for the office soon enough, and he needn’t know she’d skipped. Selecting a long-sleeved top to cover the new marks on her arms, she combed her hair out with her fingers and tied it back in a ponytail, then went down to see what Gloria had done for breakfast. She was relieved that, though her legs were stiff, she could walk without limping.
~oOo~
Eggs Benedict with kale and tomato. Sabina kissed her housekeeper on the cheek. “Morning, Gloria.”
“Morning, missus. Tea or coffee this morning?”
Sabina was quite susceptible to caffeine but hated decaf. She took coffee when she needed extra energy. This morning, she needed extra calm. “Tea. Lemon zinger?”
Gloria nodded, and Sabina sat at the table, hoping that James would not be back from his run until after she’d eaten.
He had no need for her to eat with him—he usually worked at the table as he ate—but he had an absolute need to ensure that she had eaten. Gloria was supposed to keep track for him, and she did. Sabina didn’t try to make poor Gloria complicit in any of her small rebellions. She had a family to take care of, here in Providence and in Ecuador as well.
Though both women were native Spanish speakers, they never spoke together in their mother tongue. James did not speak Spanish, and he could not abide the thought that people were saying things he could not comprehend. At first, years ago, she and Gloria had spoken Spanish together when they were alone; Sabina had been thrilled to have a chance to speak her home language in her own home. Now, after almost thirty years away from Argentina, and more than fifteen years without family of her own, she was losing that important marker of her identity. But after one slip, an evening when, standing in the kitchen pouring a glass of wine as Gloria was pulling a roast from the oven, Sabina had mumbled something totally harmless about needing to pick up her dry cleaning the next day, James had been incensed. He had not believed her when she’d translated what she’d said.