Sixty-Three

THE van was ready and people climbed in.
The Señor and the Chairman were in front, and Chairman Castro was driving.
There was a separate car for some of the usual men who casually accompanied Eric’s father—her father-in-law now. These were, of course, his bodyguards.
Father and son had bodyguards when they were outside the hacienda.
In the past ten days, she went out with Eric several times to shop or simply dine out on a date.
And though there wasn’t an obvious escort, she could spot the very same men with Eric when he had to go to work loitering not too far away from them as they shopped but surrounding them.
Aside from the bodyguards, Eric bought her jewelry, new clothes, and her own laptop and gadgets.
It was like the moment she accepted the marriage proposal, although she had imposed conditions, there was no doubt she had become the woman of a Quiroz.
A part of her knew that insisting on being her old self would not help her become the wife she needed to be to stay by his side.
She would be judged and would be found wanting. But she was determined to not stay like that.
She was determined to learn.
She wanted the responsibility, and she wanted to earn her rightful place by his side as his wife.
She wanted him to be proud of her.
And most of all, she wanted him to stay in love with her, because she couldn’t imagine how painful it would be if he fell out of love. After all, she couldn’t keep up.
She waved her goodbyes to her family and friends as the van started to ease out of the driveway where it was parked to leave.
She felt Eric’s arm as it pulled her snug to his side as he also waved at them.
And as the gates closed behind the disappearing vehicle, he turned to her.
She turned to him, too.
He was smiling, but with a small frown of worry in his eyebrows.
“How are you holding out, wife?”
Arianna felt something tremble inside her being upon hearing what he called her. Her eyelids felt heavy, as suddenly as her body.
It was as if it was giving an involuntary reaction to the moment.
It was a pivotal moment, the first time he called her his wife the day they were married.
“I feel faint,” she whispered to him. And to her shame, she did feel that.
“I can see that,” he said softly and urgently. “That bad, huh?”
She almost smiled as he lowered his body and scooped her up in his arms, then planted a sweet kiss on her forehead.
So protective and loving, all sweet.
Why wasn’t she even surprised?
He was her Eric before he became her husband. He was her Eric first.
He carried her inside the house and up the stairs, with the house staff making sounds of delight thinking he was following tradition.
She buried her face in his chest to hide her face, because she truly felt faint and cold, and her face might show it.
She didn’t want to worry anyone else.
He brought her inside the threshold of his bedroom—her bedroom now, too, in this house.
They were going to acquire their own house, he had said. But this bedroom, so far, could serve tradition.
He laid her down in the middle of the bed, lost her shoes, and started to help her get her clothes off.
It was still her wedding dress, a simple, strapless knee-length dress with an old-fashioned bodice, sewn with silk, lace, and tulle.
How could something so simple look so beautiful? She was hesitant to wear it after hearing how much it cost, but then when she saw herself in the mirror fully made up and looking, surprisingly, as elegantly and beautifully as the dress, she thought she looked like someone Eric would possibly fall in love with—if others were looking.
Or that it could be possible.
She wanted to look like a bride he would be proud to bring to the altar.
So she carried the dress with as much grace as she possibly could, or hope to know, during the short ceremony, even though the only people there then were people she knew or weren’t in a position to judge her.
She wanted to soak in the feeling as much as she could. She had to. She had to be what she felt.
She had to be his wife in everything, inside and outside appearance.
“It’s a beautiful dress,” she told him as she watched him drop the dress to the side of the bed, his handsome face hovering above hers.
“You made the dress beautiful, my wife,” he told her, then he smiled softly as his eyes devoured her nakedness. She was left with only her lace panties.
Her body responded by curving towards him. But her eyes didn’t relent on watching his face.
He was watching her as carefully as he started relieving himself of his jacket, then he started with the buttons of his shirt.
She moved and pushed his hands away with her hands and continued doing what he was doing. Desire and something else darkened his eyes as he continued to watch her.
“I can’t believe you’re my husband now,” she said.
His hand caressed her cheek. “Baby, I can believe for both of us and the whole world until you can.”
She nodded softly. “You better. You have me now. You insisted, even when I told you it was too soon. So… if you ever, ever dare change your mind—”
“Will never happen.”
One of her eyebrows jumped casually. “Are you sure?”
He frowned. “Something about you is different…” he whispered.
“How so…?” she asked as she pulled his arms from the sleeves of his shirt to throw it behind her, then she started with his belt.
He gulped. “I don’t know… I haven’t seen you like this before.”
“Like what?” she asked, not moving her face, just her eyes, to look up at him as she freed his hips from his pants.
“Like someone who owns me,” he whispered.
She nodded. “You better not hurt me. You better not leave me. And you better not ever desire any other woman but me.”
She heard him make a rough sound under his breath before she was pushed back to the bed and was thoroughly kissed.
Like she was being punished.
Like she was being reminded about what this was all about.
Desire.
Love.
Lust.
And madness.