"You bloody prick, you disgusting wanker! Damn your good wits and those magic fingers of yours! I hate you, I hate everything that falls under your name! Couldn't you fucking use a condom, you devil?!"
Freya did say those words in her troubled, thoughts-spinning head, but she promised to be his shelter. What came out of her mouth was, naturally, a word of encouragement – despite her aching heart.
"We shall sort this out, Julian. I will not leave your side. Someone probably tipped the press, therefore we need to ensure our people that our bond is strong regardless of any storm we are facing. We are strong, Julian, we really are."
Freya drew soothing circles on her husband's quivering hand. They were both standing in the Main Hall, waiting for the arrival of the so-called mistress.
Her name was, as Julian read from the subpoena, Angela. He felt slightly ashamed for not remembering her name, but his past - as an irresponsible man in matters of heart – needed to shade itself. He could sense Freya's discomfort and that was literally the last feeling he desired to experience.
The stream of thoughts was interrupted by Angela's clicking shoes. Right from the moment she stepped in, almost screeching the marbled floor, the Duke could notice something was off. For a pregnant woman who was expecting a child, she behaved too much like a diva preparing for a catwalk session.
"Good morning, milord, milady." She half-bowed, winking sassily at Julian, who narrowed his eyes in utter discontent.
"John, escort yourself out." Julian ordered with a brisk hand movement.
John bowed respectfully and left the royal couple in front of the scandal-making woman.
"I will be speaking now. I would call you a madam, but we are both aware that you are most definitely not. Do not think, even for a fraction of a second, that you can fool me. I have dealt with numerous uptight situations, therefore I know for certain that there is someone else patting your back.
After having a paternity test, if it proves to be positive, I shall give you a sum of money to raise your child. Be careful with this nuance. It is your child, not mine. You cannot blackmail me, but I can threaten you without bearing consequences. Be vigilant. Drop your accusations, make whatever excuse your limited head can produce and leave the country. Yes, you heard me correctly. Not the Duchy, but England itself. Have I made myself clear?"
His voice was petrifying. Freya admitted internally that he was much more terrifying than his enraged self. That calmness, the uniformity of his voice, the constant tone were skin-tousling. He perfectly resembled a twilight sea right before a shack-ripping storm occurred. His menacing tongue brought not only prickles of fear down Freya's spine, but also a flash-back of him - her husband matched the man that abused her a few years ago and she instantly felt like crawling underground.
She could never confess that to Julian, but all the positive prospects she had imagined so far vanished into thin air. She was truly afraid of the man she married, simply because he took over her abuser's demeanour.
"He forgot to mention how tough you were." Angela said, fidgeting uncomfortably.
"He?" Julian furrowed his eyebrows and wanted to approach her, but Freya captured his wrist. He refrained from yanking his hand off her grip, took a few deep breaths and shifted in his seat.
"He?" The Duke repeated his question, for Angela realized she made a mistake by mentioning her "employer".
"Your father."
Julian's pupils doubled their size and his knuckles turned white. Freya heard the screeching of his teeth and the peril of losing his self-control. She stood up and told Angela to leave right away. Fortunately for the mistress, she conformed to the Duchess' indication and left.
Julian turned around to follow that twat, but his wife tripped him and he landed on the marbled floor, taking her down as well. She was then on top of him, a tight grip holding both her wrists.
"You tripped me, you bloody..."
"Bloody what? I am your wife, I reconcile conflicts. Was I supposed to let you add another hot subject on the front page of all newspapers?" She rhetorically asked, absconding herself from his grasp.
Julian laid his head on the marbled floor and heaved deeply. How could he lose his temper so easily?
"I am sorry. You probably think of me as a monster, which I incline to accept as an undeniable truth." His voice changed dramatically, its modulations turning soft.
"You bet I am, milord."
Whenever Freya called her husband by his title, he knew something was terribly wrong. He immediately stood up and invited his wife to accompany him on the couch.
"What have I done? I know I hurt you, but what exactly did I do?" His gaze was filled with much concern, but Freya only saw her abuser's eyes.
A few tears glided down Freya's cheeks and she broke into a cry that could wake up any corpse. Julian felt his heart narrow, constrict and tighten, but above all, he wanted to pluck out fistful of hair. He hurt her. The only question was: "Did he hurt her beyond repair?"
"I hate to see you cry and suffer, please tell me what's wrong. Please!"
Was it the appropriate time for confession? Freya found herself wondering. It may contribute to the increase of turmoil, but it may also set her free. Not sharing her secret with anyone else but the police – that "kindly" turned her complaint down – left her with a bitter taste.
"You... you sounded exactly like my abuser. I was sixteen at that time. I know most teenagers are already pros at sleeping around, but I was honestly pure and unstained. My friend Cory had a brother who spent time in the most unfortunate cliques – your typical drunk, sex-driven, lousy students. Yes, they were in college. One of them..."
Freya stopped for a few seconds, inhaling the scent of fleurs-de-lis on the table. She was hiccupping due to the heavy crying, but Julian's reassuring hands tempered her agitation for that moment.
"One of them abused me on my way to the taxi after a party. My friend, her brother, and the other college students left in one direction, and I was heading towards the other. I have watched so many movies with situations like that, so you can imagine I struggled to escape. I was no fool. I even bit his hand, but that dark alley was... was beyond any movie depiction.
It felt horrible. His hands were all over me, squeezing every bit of my flesh, from my lips to my nipples, from my thighs to my core. His fingers were sticky, sweaty, and so big, even bigger than his... his... his member. When he thrusted his cock inside me, I wanted to scream loudly and kick the hell out of him, but he immobilized me. I had no choice but to surrender to the constant waves of excruciating pain that filled my tormented body.
After my back hit the cold wall for a few times, an old woman peeped in and saw us. Because it was night, she was unable to see clearly and even smiled. The guy, however, had other plans. He launched himself at the poor lady and told her in a voice that matched yours: <<Leave right now, m'am. Have I made myself clear?>> She nodded and left, and he turned around to face me again. I thought he would repeat the abuse, but he just snickered and departed the alley.
I was left there alone, on a cold night, trying to clean the blood that covered my thighs and rub off his semen. It was so self-breaking that I even considered dropping school. I went to the police, but I was somehow a fool, because I had already cleaned myself. I had no proof. They did not believe me. I could not tell my friend, for I was afraid he would find out and punish me. I called in sick and stood home for a month, getting my assignments from my colleagues. None of them asked why I took that break. Not even the teachers.
I was all alone. You are the first one to whom I ever confessed, Julian."
The Duke embraced her tightly, leaving her no choice to protest. His palm touched the back of her head and rubbed it tenderly, praying that she would let him earn her forgiveness.
He wanted to suck in all her sorrow, to strip her of grief, misery and despair. He wanted to find her abuser and torture him to the point of broken limbs and shrieks of pain. He wanted... to love his wife.
"Can you trust me right now without any complaint?" Julian asked featherly, extending his arm.
Freya quirked her eyebrows, but nodded nevertheless. Despite her reticence, she was more curious than afraid at that point.
He led her to the bathroom, removed his coat, rolled his sleeves up and faced his wife with a scrutiny that could melt mountains. She did not feel safe yet, but she was about to. He unzipped her burgundy dress with a tranquil movement of fingers, steadily revealing her goosebump skin.
She tried to block any negative thought that may stain her already perturbed mind. What was he doing, anyway?
His petal-like touch warmed her shivering arms, her rounded belly, and her plump thighs. He engulfed his wife in a unique tenderness of which he thought was incapable. But he was. For that beautiful, good-natured woman, he would do anything, as preposterous as it may seem. Anything.
He removed her lingerie, but did not touch her sensitive parts, for he knew that her flashbacks were too fresh and stinging.
He turned on the water, and while waiting for the bathtub to fill, he simply watched Freya. No words entered the thin layer of air between them. Their eyes spoke on their behalf. Just their eyes.
Freya climbed in the bathtub and let the warm water glisten on her skin. Julian kneeled down, grabbed a sponge, poured some vanilla-scented shower gel and began scrubbing his wife. Scrub was too harsh of a word – more like caressed. He left no fleshy spot untouched, no groove unwashed, and no skin unworshipped.
When he reached her core, she flinched, but soon succumbed to the feeling of unadulterated comfort. She was safe. His touch was safe. Julian, the Duke of Eastbroke rendered her a peace of mind and body that she could never portray. The demons perished.
After cleaning the foam from her body, Julian grabbed a towel and immersed Freya in the soft, plumy fabric. He helped her step out of the bathtub and gazed at her one more time before giving her a soothing peck on her lips. It may have been a brisk kiss, but it held the entire universe in it. Their universe.
"Now you have my touch as your sole companion. You can write poetry with it, you can exploit it as much as your heart desired. I am yours, Freya. I am yours, my love."
She smiled brightly. "I know." She answered. "Thank you."