the touch of duty

FRANCESCA

THERE’S SOMETHING bothering me. Something touching me. Something making me shiver. Not something, but someone.

Teeth nip at my back, jolting me awake. I try to rise, but a hand pushes me back down, my face flushing as I sink into the soft pillows.

His lips kiss my shoulder, pulling down my baggy shirt and unbuttoning a few buttons. A groan threatens to escape my lips.

This feels like harassment, if I’m not mistaken.

The thin white shirt covers my back, but it leaves plenty of my bare shoulders exposed. Even though he’s seen me naked before, I’m uncomfortable.

No man has ever touched me like this, and I’ve never been hugged by a man before. It’s all forbidden because I’m his. I’m not used to this. It doesn’t feel normal.

How can these men just expect us women to be okay? We’ve been deprived of male touch in every way possible, and now they just expect us to deal with it.

I feel a familiar knot form at the bottom of my stomach. It makes me crave something I don’t want. I want him and yet I don’t, if that makes any sense.

I’m not naive. I know what my body wants. But I don’t—mentally, I guess I’m not ready. However, telling him that would be a nail in my coffin and I’m no fool.

I can feel the warmth of his body as his chest grazes my back, his hand on my waist keeping me down. He moves my hair away as he peppers the back of my neck with kisses, his lips abnormally soft.

My eyes close in bliss even though it feels wrong. It isn’t, right? He’s my husband. It’s his right. Or so that’s what I’ve been taught to believe. Consent isn’t the norm here.

A breathy moan slips from my lips, making heat crawl up my cheeks. I don’t want him to know how this affects me. I don’t need him knowing that I can’t control my own body—that I’m weak.

There’s no room for weakness in this family.

His hand moves and pulls at the white shirt more, revealing much more of my skin. The outline of my breasts is visible. It makes me self-conscious and scared.

If he doesn’t like it, will he hit me? My cousins have shared their experiences. They’ve told me about the pain they endure every day because their betrothed don’t like their bodies.

They’ve told me about the insults and punches. They’ve told me about how much it hurt their first time. Some even had to go to the hospital. I don’t want that. I don’t deserve that.

He suddenly freezes but his hand doesn’t move from my head or waist.

“Francesca, you belong to me.” It’s not romantic. He says it purely out of the possession that men feel over women and even though I know that, it still makes me long for something more.

At least he wants me.

I feel him move. I think he’s going to leave me alone for now because it’s morning. I can see the sunshine through the closed curtains. He wouldn’t do anything now, would he?

I’m wrong.

I’m flipped over hastily, my body twisting. Before I can get comfortable his lips are on mine.

I don’t have a Ph.D. in kissing but I try to follow along. If I don’t, he’ll think I’m resisting. I’m not. At all.

His lips are soft, something I never imagined. The kiss at the altar was short and quick. This is more animalistic. His lips mold to mine perfectly.

I’m so busy trying to learn that I don’t feel his hand creep up to my breast until he gives it a small squeeze, earning a moan from me.

He takes advantage of that and thrusts his tongue into my mouth. Tongue is involved in kissing?

I feel stupid. I am stupid.

His kisses start to get rougher before he suddenly pulls away and leans against the headboard. “Go freshen up.”

I don’t need to be told twice. He doesn’t look at me as I quickly get up and run to the bathroom. The mirror taunts me as I stand before it.

It tells me that he’s tainted me and that I’m letting him. It tells me how weak I am. Tears well in my eyes, but I refuse to cry. There’s no point. I can’t change anything. I’m not even trying.

You’re not weak. You are beautiful. You are the Don’s wife. You cannot show any weakness.

But bluffing my thoughts is much easier than believing them. My lips are bruised and even a bit bloodied. I quickly wash my face, but I can’t shake the feeling.

Being touched without consent makes me feel dirty. He’s making me dirty. After a few minutes to myself, I walk out.

I need my clothes. I’m not going to prance around naked, although he might prefer that, probably glorify it even.

My husband is still on the bed, scrolling through his phone. He’s bare-chested, and the duvet covers his thick thighs, only flashing a bit of his gray sweatpants underneath.

He suddenly glances at me, making me cast my eyes down. I’m afraid that he’ll abuse me for looking him in the eye. It’s a sin. Or so I’ve been constantly told.

“Come here.” I’m aware of my nudity. My legs are barely covered, and I know he can see me through the white shirt.

Is this a punishment for wearing his shirt? Why couldn’t I have woken up sooner? I should have never touched his things.

I do as I’m told and stand beside him. He’s still leaning against the headboard.

His raven hair is messed up, and his lips are still a bit swollen, but they’re in better condition than mine. They always will be.

“Francesca, who is Sophia?” My heart stops as I snap my eyes up before quickly looking back down. I can’t stop the tremble in my fingers.

“A-a friend from university,” I stammer. “I swear, I’ve stopped meeting her. She doesn’t know about anything.”

He’s silent, and that makes me even more scared because there’s always silence before a storm.

“Do you still want to meet her?” His voice is firm, commanding. It forces me to carefully consider my response, but I guess I take too long because he suddenly grips my wrist.

My breath hitches as I quickly nod. I don’t want him to hurt me. “Yes.”

He releases my hand, but I can tell he’s not pleased. Why would he be? Men like him tend to keep their women hidden.

He’s no different. He’s the one in charge. He sets the rules, and he couldn’t care less about what I want or don’t want.

“Go make some breakfast.” He places my phone in my hand. “And change. Your bags are in the closet.”

Surprise clouds my thoughts. For one, he’s brought my bags up, and two, he’s given me my phone back. But I’m not about to question it. He’s being kind.

Too kind. It’s not comforting at all. It’s unsettling. Kindness is not his norm, but I decide to soak it in. If he’s being nice, then I have no reason to argue.

But why hasn’t he hit me yet?

Why isn’t he acting like himself?