Chapter 8—The Devil You Know
Gemma
to experience a profound change in roughly thirty minutes.
Alfred is on his way to take me to dinner, and I’m a nervous wreck. He thinks we’re heading out to celebrate my first big story. When, in actuality, I’m ending our engagement in a public venue.
After my evening at The Ranch with Sheriff Silverton, my immense attraction to him solidified my doubts about Alfred and me. From the beginning of our relationship, his good looks, kindness during my recovery, and worldly experience were all qualities that fascinated me and drew me to him like a magnet to metal.
When he escalated our connection to a more intimate nature several years ago, my young crush altered, becoming more immense than I could handle. Besides a few awkward make-out sessions as a young teen, Alfred’s cool demeanor and unflappable control enthralled me. It also made me nervous as hell.
Despite my attempt to appear mature and experienced, my lack of confidence was evident. I behaved rashly and impulsively. Alfred’s smoldering gaze made me feel unique and sexy despite my scars and ugliness.
But eventually, the bubble burst. It became clear that we were polar opposites, and he was as far from the idealized version of him that I had placed on a pedestal for so long. The caring and protective hero I had constructed in my mind wasn’t a fair expectation for any real person. And deep down, a nagging sense of shame and wrongness began to stir. It had nothing to do with Alfred’s age and everything to do with his true character and my shifting emotions.
Hidden beneath the layers of our relationship was a constant undercurrent of fear. I longed for the passionate and all-consuming connection I found in the romance novels I devoured each night. It needed to be a bond that eclipsed everything, leaving nothing else to matter. And even though my teenage hormones were curious and eager to explore, Alfred’s persistence and skill weren’t enough. It felt inherently wrong. Moreover, as time passed, I realized that his devotion to me went beyond love—it bordered on obsession. His protectiveness wasn’t solely for my safety; it was a method of controlling my every move.
Deep within the foundation of our relationship, my fiancé instilled fear in me. There was something dark lurking beneath his polished, charismatic political image. If I were to present my case in a court of law, I would fail miserably due to the lack of substantial evidence to support my claims.
I’ve only glimpsed his ruthlessness twice in the last eight years. Not exactly a giant red flag waving in my face.
The first instance was after our initial intimate encounter when I turned twenty-one. Without so much as a gentle word or caress, he pushed me away, making me feel unworthy—as if I wasn’t good enough for him. He had orchestrated the entire encounter, yet he blamed me for his pleasure. I was merely an unwitting participant following the lead of a flawed idol.
Over a year has passed since I decided to move out of the ranch and into my apartment. It marked a turning point for me, an eye-opening moment when the man behind the facade emerged. Although my heart resisted, I couldn’t deny what I had discovered.
“Why are you leaving Mom and Dad’s? We had a deal,” he demanded, trapping me against the wall in the hallway, his voice laced with aggression and control.
“I’m twenty-three, Alfred. It’s time for me to embrace adulthood and live independently for a while,” I shrugged, shifting the box of paranormal romance books in my arms between us. “Besides, commuting to Devil’s Lake during winter is impractical. I need to be closer to work.”
“Then marry me, and we can build a life together,” Alfred pressed urgently. “I’ll talk to the owner of the Bismarck Tribune. He’s a friend of mine and owes me a favor. I can’t protect you if you leave me.” A surprising panic tinged his words, momentarily softening my tone.
“I’m not deserting you, Alfred. I’m searching for my own path, forging my way as a responsible adult. And I want to earn my career on merit, not through shortcuts.” I strained to make him understand that independence mattered.
But my comments merely fanned the flames of his anger. He knocked the box out of my arms, scattering my addiction across the carpet, then shoved me against the wall with a hand around my throat. Shocked by his aggression, I froze.
“You belong to me, little Gemma. I’m the one who guides you through this world,” he declared, his touch causing a strange mix of excitement and fear to course through me. Yet, the fury burning in his dark eyes temporarily stopped my heart. “Halt this foolishness. Marry me. Make me happy, sweetheart.”
“Dude!” Wenonah hollered, stomping down the hallway, her long black hair flying out behind her. “Back off, perv.”
In a misguided attempt to rescue me, Wenonah grasped Alfred’s arm, unleashing another wave of anger and disgust on his face. He forcibly shoved her away, causing her to tumble to the floor. “Don’t touch me, Indian bitch.”
“Alfred!” I scolded, shoving at his chest, appalled by his behavior toward my friend. He turned his aggression on me, shocking me further by cupping my sex. His fingers shoved hard, pinching the seam of my jeans against my clit.
“This belongs to me,” he hissed into my ear, tightening the grip around my neck. “Be careful you don’t forget that, Gemma.” He eased back a bit, and I gulped a breath. “We belong together.”
Shaking off the unsettling memories of the past, I take a sip of my wine, more determined than ever to confront Alfred tonight. I planned to return his ring and end our relationship discreetly, away from prying eyes, until Wenonah’s concern for my safety gave me pause.
“Are you out of your mind? Don’t face that psycho alone,” Wenonah admonished, her voice filled with worry. “Either I’m by your side when you drop the bomb, or you do it in a public place, surrounded by others.”
Considering my friend’s perspective, I realized that Wenonah’s words added another item to the already lengthy list of reasons to sever our engagement. Could Alfred change once we were married? My logical side suspects that his anger and controlling nature would only intensify once the ink dried on the marriage certificate.
When my phone gives off an eerie wolf howl, indicating a text, I snatch it off the kitchen counter. I expect it to be Wenonah with another pep text about tonight. Instead, Sexy Sheriff pops up on the screen, and my heart skips a beat.
Come to my senses? Arrogant ass. My mouth quirks with delight. The remembered heat of his stare tightens my lower abdomen.
I watch the three dots bouncing with nervous excitement.
What the hell am I doing? I slam the phone down on the counter as if it were on fire and reach for the glass of wine. I need it to calm my raging hormones and rapid heart rate regarding Drake The Beefcake.
My phone howls again, and instead of walking away, I snatch it up, desperate to see his reply.
Oh shit. Do I? And what does that even mean? No. Wait. I will not pant after another man on the heels of ending my two-year engagement. No way. No how. Not gonna happen.
I frantically scroll back up because all my frazzled brain can think about is the sensation of his warm, rough fingers on my shoulder.
Oh right. He asked if I wanted to find out if he was a brat tamer.
As I’m about to shoot back the super intellectual reply of, ‘maybe?’ a loud knock jerks me out of the erotic fantasies firing through my brain like a speed dating round-off.
I can’t deal with the sex god and Alfred at the same time. With a huff, I turn off the phone without answering and head to the door. As much as I want to respond and continue this titillating conversation with Sexy Sheriff, I have more pressing matters to tackle first—like ending my long-term relationship.
When I open the door, Alfred’s arms envelop me, whisking us into my apartment. The door slams shut behind us as his lips hungrily find mine.
“I’ve fucking missed you,” he murmurs amidst the passionate kisses. “Why do you taste like wine already?”
“I’ve only had a few sips,” I mutter, hoping to stall his tirade about my alcohol consumption. “Alfred, we’ll be late for our reservation. Please put me down.”
“At that podunk steak house? Who cares? I’ve had a long day, a tiresome drive, and all I need is to be with you.”
“Aren’t you hungry?” I argue, wriggling free from his embrace as he finally relents.
“Yes. Famished. But not for food,” he replies, his smile appearing strained.
Anxiety coils in my gut. Alfred is in a bizarre mood. His demeanor is almost manic in its intensity.
“Alright then,” he pouts. “What about a quick blow job before dinner? It’s been a tiring day, and being with my stepsister always makes me feel better.”
Uck! I despise when he calls me that. It makes my skin crawl.
“You know very well we aren’t related, Alfred. What’s really the matter?”
“You,” he retorts but provides no further explanation as he reaches for his belt buckle. We might have to have this conversation here instead of at the restaurant.
“Alfred, stop. We need to talk.”
“No talking. Kneel, my precious Gemma.”
“No,” I declare, lifting my chin defiantly, anger welling up inside me at his behavior. “I’m done.”
“You haven’t even started.” His fingers dig into my skin as he grips my arm tightly, the fake smile still plastered on his face. “On your knees.”
With each twist and turn, his hold on my arm drills in deeper, and the pain becomes more intense. Bruises in the shape of his fingers will form on my arm in a matter of hours.
“You’re not listening,” I persist, even though my belly tightens with apprehension. “Please, Alfred. Don’t make this ugly.”
Finally, he stills, his dark eyes narrowing as he truly looks at me for the first time since he barged in.
“I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry, but... we are over, Alfred.” Before I can slide the ring from my finger to hand it back to him, he releases my arm and crushes my fingers in his fist. “Please, can we end things amicably? You’ve always been there for me, and I still care about you. Don’t... can we settle this like grown-ups?”
Alfred glares at me for several tense moments, his nostrils flared. The softness I’m used to seeing in his eyes hardens to stone, and a sneer lifts his lip. I’m shocked when he backhands me across the cheek. Pain explodes in my eye, and I stumble back. His grip on my hand prevents me from falling. Wide-eyed, with my palm over my right cheek, I glare at the stranger before me.
Alfred can be domineering at times, well, most of the time, but he has never laid a hand on me. Oh, he’s been angry enough on numerous occasions, based on the vein bulging in his forehead. And while he’s been forceful with me, it wasn’t until tonight that he crossed the line and hit me.
“You think you can simply end things between us?” he questions, his voice a low, furious whisper. His eyes harden to shimmering onyx, and honest-to-goodness fear churns in my stomach. “Your life means nothing without me, Gemma.”
As suddenly as his rage appeared, it dissipates. His bipolar tendencies make reading him impossible. The manic expression smooths out, and he calmly re-buckles his belt. “You owe us. For your life. Your education. Your damn job.”
“I owe your parents. Not you. Which I fully intend to pay back. The job I earned on my own, you bastard.”
He seizes both my arms, pulling me close against his chest. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that. Who do you think owns the paper, Gemma? It certainly isn’t your loser of a boss, Phil.”
No freaking way!
In a hushed voice, barely audible, I find myself gazing up at him, a mixture of disbelief and devastation no doubt plastered across my face. My carefully constructed world trembles on the verge of collapse. “You...you own the paper?”
“Yes. I bought the money pit so I could keep tabs on you to make sure you were safe.”
“You mean to control me,” I accuse.
“Like I said. Without me, you are nothing.”
I stare at him, feeling like a tornado has ripped through my carefully constructed plans. “You really believe that? Don’t you?”
He grips my neck, his long finger digging into the sides as he shoves me to my hands and knees and hovers over me. Unshed tears burn in my eyes, but I won’t let them fall until I’m alone.
“It’s not about belief, Gemma. I know. And surprise, surprise, I’m also your landlord. For a reporter, you didn’t do much digging, did you?”
My jaw drops in shock. He’s right. I didn’t. Getting the hell out of the Pearce home and landing a job in my field of interest was all I could think about; it didn’t occur to me to delve into who owned the paper or the apartment building. Why would I?
“Because I foolishly trusted you!” I exclaim, my struggle to escape his hold intensifying.
Panic droplets cascade into my heart, one after another, until I’m engulfed in the vast ocean of regret and apprehension. Alfred is essentially declaring ownership over me. If I were to break free from him, not only would I lose my job, but I’d also face eviction—possibly even a lawsuit demanding repayment for college tuition and medical bills. Destitution would become my only companion, leaving me homeless and utterly alone.
Wenonah would take me in, but she lives on the reservation. With no living relatives, I have no one and nothing but my dismal checking account balance.
Damn it to hell. I allowed this man to slip into every aspect of my life, like a thousand spiders laying their eggs in every nook and cranny until his venom spread. He gained absolute control over my life, and I didn’t even see it coming.
What a fool I’ve been. My parents would roll over in their graves if they saw me now.
“Is your reality finally sinking in, little sister?” he hisses in my ear, a term he employs with perverse satisfaction despite us having no blood ties.
Bile threatens the back of my throat.
“I invested a significant amount of money to ensure you’d never leave me,” he says, his knuckles tracing the contour of my cheek. I jerk my head to the side, avoiding his repugnant touch. “Everything I’ve done was to ensure your safety, Gemma,” he pleads, as if such an explanation should warrant the devastation he’s wreaked upon my life.
Anger and fear merge within me, igniting a furious fire that cannot be contained. “Bullshit!” I shriek, rising to my knees to glare up at him. “You basically bought yourself a wife, you sick, manipulative fuck.”
This time, when he backhands me, I’m not surprised, even though the pain is more intense. The force of the blow sends me sprawling on the floor.
“You will learn your place, sweetheart. I intended to keep your circumstance concealed until our wedding night, but your impudence forced my hand, naughty girl.”
“So, all this time,” I hiss, rolling over to my side to glare at him over my shoulder, “everything about you, about us, was nothing more than a web of lies, an elaborate facade concocted to imprison me with a marriage contract?”
“You were destined to be mine.” He shrugs like his comment explains everything. “One way or another.”
At that moment, his words hang in the air, heavy with an unspoken truth, as if the universe conspired to bring us together. His nonchalant shrug suggests a connection that defies explanation—a destiny written in the stars by him.
My voice, barely a whisper, laced with the venom of my wounded pride, I declare, “Never.” The burning tears of humiliation threaten to escape, their fire fueled by the realization that I have no leverage, not yet, anyway.
But he pays no heed to my denial, dismissing it as inconsequential. ‘Freshen up,’ he commands, adjusting his cufflinks with an air of indifference as though he hadn’t just shattered my world with his violent outburst.
“I won’t go anywhere with you,” I protest, my finger trembling as it points to my swollen cheek, a testament to his brutality.
“Either you put yourself together and play your part, or I will beat you with my belt and fuck you right here on the floor.”
My mouth drops open. Jesus. Who is this man? “And if I refuse to play your game?”
“You’ll find yourself destitute, tossed onto the unforgiving streets,” he hisses, the threat stark in his eyes. “With one word from the governor to the press, accusing a certain reporter of plagiarism, your career will be in ruins, your reputation shattered. Without me, you have no family, no job, no shelter. I possess you in every conceivable way, Gemma. Your bank accounts are mine to seize, and I have the power to lock you away.”
As he sneers down at me, adjusting himself without a shred of shame, a cold tremor snakes down my spine as he continues. “I’ve cultivated relationships with the mighty and influential. For your own good, do not test me,” he warns, effortlessly taking a sip from my wine glass before settling onto my couch. “Now, freshen up, or I will fulfill the dark desires I’ve held in check since your innocent hand caressed my cock in the pool all those years ago.”
Feeling the weight of his words crush me from within, I foolishly dare to ask, “And what are those desires?”
His response, dripping with venom, sent shivers coursing through my veins. “To brandish a whip and mold you through pain, to lock you away until you learn your place.”
This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. “If you truly loved me, you’d set me free,” I plead, desperation lacing my voice.
“Love?” he scoffs, shaking his head in disdain. “Love is a weakness, Gemma. We have a higher purpose, and our union will secure your place within it. Obey me, or face the dire consequences.”
“You’re delusional, Alfred,” I hiss bravely, gaining my feet. “We do not work. We will only make each other miserable.”
A predatory grin stretches across his face, sending chills down my spine. “No, my dear. Whether you submit or fight, I’ll relish every moment of breaking you, until your sole purpose is to please me.”
How had I missed this side of him? Wenonah, a voice of caution, had tried to warn me about the darkness lurking within him. But I had turned a blind eye, desperate to believe in the goodness I thought I saw. I foolishly believed he cared, sitting beside me during the darkest days of my life.
Now, the truth seeps into my soul like venom, poisoning my every thought. He took advantage of my grief, using it as a tool of manipulation. His presence, his support, had been a facade woven to ensure my dependency, to force me to rely on him, to love him. And, tragically, I fell into his trap, blinded to his flaws.
Hidden in the bathroom, my mind races to find a way out of this nightmare. Alfred believed that by tightening his grip, I would cower like a wounded animal and submit.
With tears burning behind my lids and my shoulders slumped in defeat, I realize it worked. Until that fateful trip to Grand Forks, where some unremembered miraculous event changed my perspective, I stupidly thought we could settle down and have a beautiful life together. How did I ever believe I could be happy with such a monster?
My choices are limited, and he has driven me into a corner—a cornered prey fights the hardest. It won’t be long before I reveal my claws, seizing the opportunity to make him pay for his sins. Him and his conniving parents, who undoubtedly played their part in this hideous game. Frank and Phoebe—the puppeteers of Alfred’s life.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, my reddened eye throbbing with pain, tears shimmer and cascade down my cheeks, splashing onto the counter. The woman staring back at me wears defeat and determination in equal measure, a blend of emotions that define her.
Until this moment, I believed I was a strong, independent woman on the cusp of leaping out of the rut I foolishly assumed I had created. Excitement coursed through my veins at the prospect of living my life as I always envisioned. With maybe a powerfully sexy sheriff by my side?
Tonight proved how completely and utterly wrong I was. Control is a fucking illusion, and the sheriff a fantasy that will never come to fruition.
“How the fuck are you planning to get your ass out of this predicament?” I whisper to the weepy-eyed woman in the mirror.
No. Damn. Clue.
In the depths of my soul, I realize the vital importance of maintaining my act until a solution materializes. I must persuade Alfred, in the most convincing way possible, that I have embraced a new perspective and am willing to cooperate. A scoff escapes me involuntarily as I contemplate the enormity of this task, given the disastrous events of this evening.
If it means leaving everything behind and moving across the country to escape him, I’ll do it. If I have to live in a homeless shelter until I can get back on my feet, I’ll do it. Alfred will not break me, and I will die before I become his wife and punching bag.
With steely determination, I square my shoulders, wipe away my tears, and elevate my chin with newfound resilience. Summoning every ounce of strength, I whisper to my reflection, “Get through tonight, girl. Figure the rest out later.”