Chapter 9: The Public Display
The dress was new, a slip of black silk that hung from her shoulders like a shadow. Marcus had laid it on the bed that afternoon. “Try it on,” he’d said, already knowing it would fit. It did, but in a way that was different from how clothes used to fit. It didn’t cling to curves; it draped from bone to bone, hanging straight down from her collarbones before whispering over the stark geometry of her hips. When she moved, it swayed around her, a loose sheath.
“Perfect,” he’d breathed, circling her. He’d fastened a thin silver choker around her neck. “So you don’t get lost.”
Now, in the restaurant’s dim atrium, she felt the choker like a gentle, constant pressure. The hostess’s eyes flickered over her, a micro-expression of concern quickly masked by professionalism. “Your table is ready, Mr. Vance.”
The booth was a cave of velvet, swallowing sound. Marcus guided her in, his hand a firm brand on the small of her back. She slid across the smooth cushion, the fabric cool through the silk. He settled opposite her, his bulk making the spacious booth seem suddenly cramped. He’d worn a charcoal suit that strained at his shoulders. The candle flame between them guttered in the draft of his movement, casting jumping shadows over the sharp planes of his face.
“Wow,” he said, smiling easily, picking up the heavy menu. “This place is something else. You feeling okay? You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” she said. Her voice was small, matching her frame.
“Good. Big night out. You deserve it.” He didn’t open his menu. He watched her as she lifted hers, her wrists emerging from the sleeves like twigs. The laminated card was weighty in her hands. Dishes described in lush, expensive prose swam before her eyes: truffled parsnip velouté, confit duck leg, chocolate fondant. Her stomach, a tight fist of emptiness, gave a faint, sick roll.
The waiter appeared. Marcus didn’t hesitate.
“I’ll have the ribeye. Rare. The duck fat potatoes, and the grilled asparagus. For the lady,” he said, leaning forward as if sharing a confidence, “she’s got a very delicate constitution. We’ll just have a sparkling water, and the butter lettuce salad. Dressing on the side.” He paused, winking at Louise. “Actually, no dressing. She’s disciplined.”
The waiter’s pen hovered. “Nothing else, sir?”
“That’ll be all.” Marcus’s tone was pleasant, final.
When the waiter left, Marcus reached across the table. His fingers enclosed her entire hand, warming her cold skin. “See? Easy. No stress. You don’t have to think about a thing.”
She nodded, looking down at the stark white tablecloth. The other diners were a murmur of color and life. A woman at a nearby table laughed, the sound rich and full. Louise saw her take a generous sip of red wine, saw the gentle curve of her arm. She looked back at her own arm, resting on the table. The ulna bone was a clear ridge under the skin, leading to the pronounced knob of her wrist.
Their food arrived. His plate was a sprawling landscape of seared meat, glistening potatoes, vibrant green stalks. Hers was a minimalist composition: a small, chilled bowl of pale green leaves, one cherry tomato halved like a droplet of blood.
“Go on,” he said, cutting into his steak. Juice bloomed across the plate.
She picked up her fork. The tines speared a leaf. It was crisp, cold, and utterly devoid of flavor. It required chewing, a dry, fibrous process that felt loud in her head. She took a sip of the sparkling water. The bubbles were sharp and punitive in her throat.
He ate with robust pleasure, talking between mouthfuls. “Great sear on this. You should taste it. Well, maybe not.” He smiled. “How’s the salad?”
“It’s good,” she whispered.
“You eat so elegantly. Like a little fawn.” He nodded past her shoulder. “People are looking. They’re admiring you.”
She didn’t turn. She could feel the glances, the subtle pauses in conversation. She knew what they saw: a hulking, virile man feasting, and across from him, a wraith in a black dress, picking at leaves. The contrast was a theater piece. Marcus was the director, and she was the set dressing.
He finished everything on his plate. Her bowl was still half-full, the leaves wilting.
“Full?” he asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
She nodded, relieved.
“Good. Me too.” He signaled for the check. When it came, he tucked his card away without glancing at the total. “Let’s get you home.”
The night air was a shock after the restaurant’s cloistered warmth. He didn’t let her walk. He pulled her into his side, his arm wrapping around her ribs, his hand splayed so his fingers could press into the intercostal spaces below her breast. She was tucked against him, her steps two to his one. She saw their reflection in the dark windows of passing shops: a giant and his doll.
The car was in a dim corner of the parking garage. He opened the passenger door for her, buckled her seatbelt with a click that echoed in the concrete silence. He got in the driver’s side but didn’t start the engine. The only light came from a distant, flickering fluorescent.
He just looked at her for a long moment. Then he reached over and unclicked her seatbelt. The retractor zipped back into the housing.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low.
She understood. She shifted across the console, the silk of her dress sliding on the leather. He helped her, his hands on her waist, lifting her as if she were made of balsa wood. She straddled his lap, facing him. The steering wheel pressed into her spine. He pushed her skirt up around her hips.
“Everyone saw you in there,” he whispered, his breath hot against her neck. His fingers hooked into the edge of her underwear, pulling them aside. He found her wet, and a low laugh vibrated in his chest. “They saw how little you are. They saw me feeding you. They knew.”
He didn’t bother undoing his own pants, just freed himself and guided her down onto him. The stretch was intense, a filling of that hollow he loved so much. Her arms went around his neck for balance.
“Look at me,” he said.
She opened her eyes. His face was in shadow, but his gaze was a physical touch.
“Show me,” he murmured, his hands clamping on her jutting hip bones. “Show me how my little bird rides.”
She moved, a slow, tentative rocking that made her dizzy. He let her set the pace for a few moments, then took over, thrusting upwards, driving her body down onto his. Her head fell back, knocking against the window. The car didn’t rock; she was too insubstantial to move it. The only sounds were their breathing, the soft slap of skin, the creak of the leather seat under his weight.
“You’re nothing,” he panted, his voice guttural. “You’re air. You’re mine.”
He came with a sharp, bitten-off groan, his teeth sinking into the flesh where her neck met her shoulder. The pain was bright, clarifying. She felt him pulse inside her, the final, possessive claim.
For a minute, they stayed like that, joined in the dark. He softened inside her. Finally, he lifted her by the hips and set her back on the passenger seat. He rearranged his clothes, then leaned over and gently pulled her underwear back into place, smoothed her skirt down. He touched the bite mark on her shoulder with a kind of reverence.
“My little bird,” he said again, starting the car. The engine roared to life, flooding the interior with faint light from the dashboard.
On the drive home, she leaned her forehead against the cool window. The city lights streamed by in neon streaks. The ghost of the lettuce was a dry memory in her mouth. The ache between her legs and the throbbing on her shoulder were real. They were proofs.
He reached over, his large hand covering her knee. “You know,” he said conversationally, as if discussing the route home, “I was thinking. That dress is beautiful. But soon, it might be too big. We’ll have to take it in.”
She watched the lights blur. She saw the reflection of her own face in the glass, superimposed over the passing city. Gaunt. Ethereal. His.
“Okay,” she whispered to the ghost in the window.