The Hate Vow by Nicole French

Twenty-Three

At approximately seven o’clock, there was a sharp knock on the bathroom door in Eric’s and my suite.

“Jane, you all right in there?”

The bookstore had cast another awkward glaze over the remainder of the afternoon, and so after Eric purchased the mythology book and Poetica Erotica, we drove back to the house in relative silence without commenting on so much as the fine weather.

The poem continued to echo. Teach me to sin? This man had taught me to do so much more than that, many times over. And I couldn’t shake the look in his eyes when he’d asked to talk. He was scared. Almost mournful. Like he didn’t know what I was going to say.

The thing was, I felt the same.

What if this conversation didn’t lead to the beginning of something, but the end?

Upon our return, Eric was swept off by some of his family to talk more business (it appeared to be impossible to leave the office in Manhattan). The caterers, band, and valet had been setting up all day, and most of the women—Skylar included—had already disappeared to prepare for the party that was about to happen, and Celeste had also adjourned for a nap.

And so, just as I was watching from the bathroom window as car after car bearing white-clad guests arrived in the front drive, I was also running very late. I had retreated to my room for an hour after arriving, staring at the boxes of dye, trying to make a decision. I didn’t want to embarrass Eric. And I had some things to say too. And when I said them, I wanted to put my best foot forward. I just didn’t know what that was.

Finally, I closed my eyes, stuck out my finger, and jabbed.

Well, sort of.

“I’m fine!” I called out as I clutched my newly rinsed hair in its towel. “But I’m going to be a while. You might want to use another bathroom.”

“What?” Eric called. “Jane, you’ve been in there for over an hour. This thing with my uncle took for fucking ever and I need to shower too.”

“Well, you’re going to have to wait, de Vries,” I called back as I unwrapped my head and shook out my newly dyed locks. “Perfection takes a minute.” I still need a haircut, I thought with satisfaction, but this should shut some mouths.

“Jane!” There were several more knocks. I tried to ignore them, but when he didn’t stop, finally, I stomped over to the door.

“What?” I snarled. “You can’t use one of the other forty-five bathrooms in this palace?”

I flung open the door to find Eric standing with his forearm balanced against the top of the doorframe like he owned the place. Which, I guess, he did. Motherfucker. What was it about men that made them look so hot when they stood that way? Was it a genetic thing? Did they have a secret orientation in ninth grade where they were taught how to light women’s panties on fire with posture? Mine were already done for, thanks to this bastard. He didn’t need to keep driving me to the point of frothing.

The thought made me irrationally angry.

Eric’s cocky smile dropped immediately to a frown. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”

I touched the still sopping wet locks that dripped all over my shoulders and tried to ignore the horror on the man’s face. “Well, thank you for noticing. Yes, it does look good, thank you. God, you’re such a fucking gentleman, Eric.”

I turned back into the bathroom and faced myself in the mirror. Yes, I did look different. Or, I guessed, more like myself? At least the self of the last five years.

“It’s black.”

“Observant too.”

“Let me rephrase,” he said as he strode into the bathroom with me. “Why did you do that?”

He pinned me against the counter with his interrogation. And, of course, reminded me acutely just what he had done to me last night. What was it about us and bathrooms?

I toed one foot into the tile. “I just… Yeah. Well. I just thought… I needed a touch-up anyway, and…listen, I just don’t want to ruin your business with my Candyland hair, all right? Between my big mouth and my weird clothes, I’m embarrassing enough as it is.”

It was hard to admit. I’d been plowing through my life for the last twenty years doing my damnedest to embarrass anyone stuck-up enough to care about things like hair or dress codes. But the women were right. As much as I liked streaking my hair with five different colors or the idea of wearing combat boots with vintage Mugler, it wasn’t going to do me any favors in this world. Not as a lawyer. And not as Eric’s wife either. If everyone acted like the women in Eric’s family, it was only going to push people away. And for some reason, I didn’t want to do that with Eric. Not this time.

We need to talk, he’d said. Yeah, I had some things to say too.

So long, tie-dye hair. It was nice while it lasted.

“Jane.”

Eric’s hands clasped my shoulders, fingers slipping a little on my damp skin. He pulled me close enough that I could see the flecks of gold embedded in his brown-gray eyes. Huh. I’d never noticed that before. So that’s why they always shined like coins.

He raised a blond brow. I bit my lip.

“For the record,” he said. “I liked the hair.”

“Um, okay.”

“I never asked you to change it.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“But you did anyway.”

I took a deep breath. “Yes. I did.” No. For the love of God and your own fucking dignity, keep the next question to yourself, Jane. But I couldn’t help it. “Do you like this too?”

For a long time, he just looked at me, his gaze searing my skin with that unreadable mask of his. But then, just as I was about to turn away, he reached out and took a lock of wet hair, trapping it lightly between his fingers and pulling. Just a little.

Then, instead of answering, he blinked. “Jesus, Jane. You’re not even dressed.” He dropped his hands and checked his watch—a shiny, unobtrusive Rolex that was quietly expensive. “We have to be downstairs in about thirty minutes. People are arriving, and you’re not even close.”

I opened my mouth to tell him not to nag, but I knew better. Eric knew exactly how long it took me, on average, to do my makeup. He was well within his rights to worry. I still needed to blow out my hair, do my makeup, and put on my dress. Not to mention I probably needed to double check that my mother’s room was ready before she arrived in a few hours.

We stared at each other for a long time, and it was only then that I got a really good look at him. Eric wasn’t the only one who had gotten cleaned up for tonight. He was still wearing the shorts and casual T-shirt from earlier, but while we were out, his blond hair had been trimmed and shaped to his scalp, and the extra sun he’d gotten this morning had mellowed into a sun-kissed glow. Behind him, a pristine white suit hung from his bedroom door. I shook my head at the mere idea of him in it.

“Jane.”

“Hmm?”

Eric looked me up and down. “You, um, going to put some clothes on?”

I glanced down and realized I was still in nothing but my towel, which was dangerously close to slipping off, and sopping wet hair. “Oh. Crap. Yeah, of course.”

But instead of leaving or stepping aside so I could get to my room, he took a step forward, backing me up against the counter.

“Eric, what are you doing?”

“Sometimes,” he said in a low, foreboding voice, “sometimes I think you do this on purpose.”

“Do what?” I asked, unable to keep the quaver out of my voice.

“It’s like you know,” he says. “You know when I’ve had the kind of day or week where everything goes wrong. Where everyone at work or the penthouse or somewhere has something to say about how I’m supposed to live my fucking life. And then just when I think I have you figured out…you completely change directions.” He picked up a piece of hair again and fingered the wet strands. “Like this.”

“What-what’s so bad about dying my hair?” My voice had faded to a whisper.

“Nothing.” My back was touching the counter as he crowded me against the marble. “Except that it drives me crazy.”

His gaze dropped to my lips.

“Eric,” I said. “You said we need to talk.”

“We do,” he said. “But I need to do this more.”

And then he kissed me. But it wasn’t a kiss like the other night, some desperate attempt to distract. Nor was it like this afternoon, when he was overcome with gratitude and had to get it out.

This was a kiss that was filled with only one thing: desire.

He kissed me, and I kissed him back, opening my mouth, my tongue, my neck, my face, everything to him. And then his hands were also everywhere, pushing my flimsy towel to the floor and clasping me against his body so he could run his calloused palms up and down my slick, bare back, slide over my ass, run up my waist and over my breasts and stomach until I moaned, loud and animal, into his mouth.

“Jane.”

His mouth dipped, teeth grazing my neck, and he dropped lower and pulled one nipple between his teeth. This time there was no cotton barrier. He pulled.

“Ah!” I cried at the sudden pain, but arched into it nonetheless. A shock of desire ran from my chest directly between my legs, and when Eric pressed his large body between them, I bucked into him, eager to welcome him, however I could.

“Fucking hell, Jane,” he grumbled against my skin as his hands memorized every inch of me they could. He grabbed my ass and lifted me back to the counter, back to the spot where we had been only twenty-four hours before.

His mouth found mine once more, sucking, biting, tormenting until we were both out of breath, gasping into each other’s mouths like we were drowning in the same small ocean.

“You have no idea,” he said hoarsely. “No fucking clue the kinds of things I want to do to you right now.”

“Oh, don’t I?” I said, eyeing him. One touch, and I’d probably melt. But I felt like some kind of wild animal, like I was just as likely to bolt as to break.

He seemed to know it too. Slowly, one of his hands left my waist and traveled up my torso, hovering over my naked skin but never completely touching. It floated over my stomach, my breasts, sternum, and finally up to my neck. But skin only met skin again when his fingers encircled my neck, holding me in place with an offer that was also a threat.

I own you, his touch seemed to say.

Yes, you do.

I reared further, but only in expression. Because he did own me. I couldn’t move.

“No,” he said with a calmness that was nowhere to be found in the stiff, tensed posture of the rest of his body. “You don’t.”

Still holding me perfectly still, he bent down, and his mouth brushed over mine. His lip wedged between my teeth, and I bit it. Hard.

“Ahh!” he cried, but didn’t pull away. Instead, the hand around my neck squeezed.

“Ssssss!” I hissed, but I practically came right there. My legs splayed open. I had never wanted him—or anyone else, for that matter—more.

The kiss continued as we bruised, punished each other. But his hand didn’t move from my neck, keeping me firmly in place, squeezing more tightly whenever I wriggled or if I even touched him. It was a hint of what was to come, if nothing more. A threat. A rejoinder. A promise.

And then, just as suddenly, he released me, leaving me panting there on the counter as he dragged his gaze up and down my naked body.

“Selkie,” he whispered, almost resentfully.

“Wha-what?” I was almost too out of breath to say anything more.

Eric shook his head, but didn’t stop staring. “Mythological creatures. Keats writes about them. Others too. Seals in the water, but women on the ground.” He gestured vaguely at my wet form, the water that still dripped from my sopping hair. The damp stain on his shirt. “They bewitch their lovers.”

We stared at each other while the drips hit the floor.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I bit my lip. Eric exhaled heavily.

He opened the bathroom door.

“I’ll get ready in another room,” he said. “But tonight, Jane. Tonight, we will talk.”

And then the door closed, leaving me to touch my lips, close my eyes, and imagine once more what that conversation would entail.