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Nicholas used to always visit me on nights like this…
Miranda looked out of the window at the shimmering moon from where she laid and sighed, turning the page of her book. Her eyes fell back down to the words—which were illuminated by the candle on her bedside table—but nothing registered to her… everything she read seemed dull, saddening, or rage-inducing.
Her son was dead, and Mr. Van Ryn did not seem to love her anymore because of it—if he ever did at all. She missed her brief happiness at Dragonwyck, it’d gone astray so fast it gave her whiplash. So many days spent crawling through her mind, trying to pinpoint what exactly she’d done wrong—reading the Bible in search of what sin she’d committed to deserve all of this.
Her husband’s reaction couldn’t be any more different. He found it more suitable to lock himself up in his room of secrets for weeks at a time. He rarely ever came down, and on the rare occasion he did, he never dared to speak to Miranda or anyone else but the servants waiting on him.
This terrible burden was on her shoulders alone, with no one to soothe or love her in spite of it. Dr. Turner had been forbidden from entering the manor, and she put on a brave face for Miss Peggy when she could.
When Miranda looked in the mirror each morning, she couldn’t recognize herself. Internally, she was still Miss Wells, though not exactly, and outwardly, Mrs. Van Ryn… but as of late, it felt like she wasn’t her anymore either. The two women inside of her clashed every day, fighting to make their presence known.
When the servants came to get the plans for her next party at Dragonwyck, she was the dutiful wife of a former patroon…
…and when she cried into her pillow, sought comfort in God’s words and prayed to him each night, she was just the daughter of a preacher again.
Crickets were buzzing outside of her window in celebration of another summer day without rain. The little bugs knew nothing of her pain. Her gaze flickered, looking out into the darkness beyond the manor walls. Suddenly, her heart started to thump and her throat tightened.
They continued to sing, rubbing their cricket legs together in a happy dance for the insect ceremony. Her eyes started to sting with tears. With shaky hands, she shut her book and set it aside.
Miranda pulled back the covers and stepped down onto the wooden floor, her slippers cushioning her feet from the hard surface. She walked over to the window and moved the curtain further to the side.
When she did, she could see them all sitting there, the glow of the moonlight making their glossy brown bodies more obvious. Despite the loose teardrops falling from the corner of her eyes, she smiled. They looked so innocent, their only fear in life being a little downpour. She put her finger on the window and let another tear soak into the fabric of her nightgown.
“Can you dance the waltz?” Miranda whispered, resting her face on the glass. It used to mystify her, those intricate steps and the delightful music that accompanied it… but now it’s more commonplace to her than the old playful farmer dancing she used to do back in Greenwich.
They didn’t answer, of course, but their buzzing got louder which made her laugh. “Don’t worry, even if it starts to rain, you’ll be safe there.” They curiously wiggled their antennas at her.
Then, out of the blue, there was a loud knock at the door.
Miranda’s eyes widened at the sound, dashing away from the window.
The crickets hopped away, too. Their music abruptly ended, and they likely wouldn’t have survived their descent down from the windowsill.
She climbed back into her bed, calling out in her airy voice, “Who is it?” The evidence that she’d been crying was quickly rubbed away.
Rather than giving an answer, the guest opted to slowly open the door. She saw his rust colored robe swing through the gap in the door, then heard the clop of his loafers.
He looked nothing like she’d ever seen before, with his hair in a mess of short curls and the patchy stubble growing in on his cheeks and chin. His eyes were utterly vacant even when they were on her. It was hard to believe he was her husband at all.
“Nicholas?” She said in disbelief, watching him sluggishly enter the room.
“Miranda.” He replied, leaning into the door to close it behind him before descending further into the room.
There was a lethargic smile on her husband’s face, his voice rather tired—and almost pathetic to hear, “I’ve missed you.” He proclaimed, crawling up onto her bed. She averted her eyes, pouting her lips.
“As have I, very much.” Said as half lie, half truth. Miranda struggled to love him, but hating him wasn’t easy either. He’d given her so much, made something out of her abysmal life—shaped her into who he needed her to be. Without him, she would hardly be able to tell who she’d managed to become. Her need for him was rarely reciprocated though. It made her simmer with both anger and bitter sadness.
For weeks on end, Miranda spent her nights crying for him to no avail. Nicholas couldn’t be bothered to visit or even say a word—but now that it was him who desired a thing, he’d come to grovel before her.
He grasped the side of her face, rubbing her smooth skin. Her eyebrows furrowed, but she leaned into his hand anyway. Any and all signs of affection from him made her brain turn to utter mush. Even in his unkempt state, he was terribly handsome and terrifyingly good at manipulating her. Nicholas kept her like a loyal lapdog, and she curled up to him every time.
Then, just as suddenly, he let go.
“I’ve been thinking,” He began to say, toying with the hem of her nightgown and twisting the fabric between his fingertips. “About what Dr. Turner said.”
She looked at him now, opening her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Miranda knew exactly what he was implying.
She pet the gold-black embroidery on his robe quietly, it was a scary prospect, one that she didn’t particularly want to consider yet.
“I’m not sure...” Miranda said quietly.
He wasn’t so willing to hear her out.
“But I am.” Nicholas snapped carelessly, “Besides, it’ll be different this time.” He said more calmly.
…
Her eyes fluttered shut and she pulled him closer, nestling her forehead against his. “I believe you, Nicholas.” A sigh. It was her invitation for him to continue, as much as it pained her to allow it.
A sly grin crossed his face, the scruff of his short beard scratching her cheeks. He tucked his hand underneath the cotton of her sleepwear and ran it up her bare leg. Their noses rubbed against one another.
Her stomach twisted when he began to kiss her, but it was hard to determine if it knotted out of pleasure or fear, “You do?” He asked between the kisses, as if he was actually surprised at her compliance.
They both knew fully well that she would never deny him anything, no matter how cruel he’d become. He practically created her, if you took him out of her… she would be nothing else. There would be nowhere to go, living on a farm wasn’t her business anymore. Not after him and all he’d done.
The least she could do for such a divine act was let him have her wholly.
Miranda’s breathing hitched as his fingers reached her inner thigh. He pressed his lips to her forehead, inhaling her, afterwards he went to the side of her face—kissing her jaw—then back up again. All she could manage was a short mhm.
He pulled away from her, his icy blue eyes full of a renewed intensity… it was entirely different from his weary attitude as of late. He said nothing, only watching all of her little expression changes as he began to pry her leg open.
Miranda gripped his shoulder, flinching as she felt a finger slide inside of her. Meanwhile, he buried his face into her neck, biting at her skin, suckling at it to ensure he left plenty of bruises. Each one hurt more than the last, and it was sure to make for an embarrassing display in the morning. Below, his finger moved back and forth—causing her to gasp and shudder.
Her hold on him tightened each time she could feel his canines jab into her flesh or the hairs of his mustache tickle.
The next bite was particularly painful, causing her to yelp and dig her fingernails into him. “Shh.” Nicholas muttered lustfully before licking up his saliva off of her throat.
He apologized by pushing another finger inside of her, which produced more of an actual moan. She felt a deep-rooted shame that came with any and all of her pleasure, but he liked the way she averted her gaze each time she made a sound, and the bright blush that appeared on her face when he quickened the pace that he fucked her with.
He wanted to make her feel dirty, perhaps then she’d never run away—for fear that everyone would know what they had done.
“You’re as beautiful as the day we first met.” He soothed when she let out another pained yelp at the curl of his fingers. “How could I be so foolish to ignore you?” Miranda bashfully looked down to his chest, huffing for a full breath. She would be equally stupid to believe that he’d magically become more attentive towards her… still, the possibility made her wetter—which made him laugh.
Without letting her finish, he pulled his hand out from under her nightgown and before she could complain, he began to kiss her again. She let him do whatever he wanted, whether that be nibbling at her tongue or biting down on her bottom lip. The marks on her neck all felt like they had heart beats of their own, and her lips began to sting as he pulled at them and made them swell.
Their lips pulled apart and then he pushed her backwards, her dark brown curls flourishing around her head on the pillow. Her heart was beating fast, the prospects of carrying another child terrified her—if he’d left her room now, it would’ve been enough to keep her satisfied.
But nothing would satisfy him like having a male heir would, and the security that he was living for something.
She watched as Nicholas—who had her trapped underneath him—pulled his robe off fully, tossing it down onto the floor with a thud.
When he started to tug off his pajama pants, Miranda reached out and grabbed one of his wrists. “Wait—“
He exhaled, looking at the headboard rather than at her. “Hm?”
Her voice became pathetically quiet, “What if this doesn’t work?” She asked genuinely, which made him peer down, seeing her ocean blue eyes suddenly gloss over. It was his chance to be tender with her, for their pain to mesh together and be healed together—as a couple.
Instead, he yanked his wrist out of her grasp and replied, “Then we’ll just have to keep trying.” And then immediately went back to undressing with newfound focus, as if she hadn’t said a word at all.
Nicholas pulled one of her legs up, smiling cruelly, “Again,” he pushed into her, a rugged groan accompanying it. “And again.” He thrusted, biting back a pleased huff. “It’ll be good—oh—for the both of us.”
Everything he said was so far removed from reality, yet his assertiveness made even the most nonsensical things seem possible. She hugged one arm around him, the other resting on the back of his head. She kept her watery eyes to the ceiling, her body rocking back and forth with every move he made. Miranda hummed between winces when he went too deep, but he never apologized for it.
In contrast, even as tears fell down her cheeks, she didn’t dare to dig her fingernails into him. Her hands lightly laid on him, with—at most—a quick squeeze in response to his more animalistic fucking style.
Between moans, Nicholas started to devour the clean side of her neck, biting at her skin, licking up the puddling tears, and scratching her up more with his facial hair. She cried another string of shameful sounds into his ear, which only made him stroke with even more force. Her mouth dropped, unable to keep it shut for any substantial time.
He pressed his face into her hair and took a few deep breaths, inhaling the smell of freshly blossomed roses. Her fingers twirled between his messy curls, every single one of her body parts feeling awfully tender and sore because of him. At last, he started to come—whispering a string of heavy, “I love you.”s with more kisses on the face as his semen emptied inside of her.
She didn’t reply, body twitching and her brain feeling foggy. He meant nothing he said, maybe they had married for love—but since the day he’d placed that ring on her finger, Nicholas had become an entirely different man. Obsessive, always wanting more, he couldn’t be any more of her opposite.
He crashed down into bed next to her, groggily massaging his sweaty forehead while side-eyeing her. In the time they’d spent coupling, dozens of bruises formed along her neck and shoulder in shades ranging from puckering red to wineberry purple.
“Do you really mean that?” Miranda questioned, laying a hand over her chest.
He closed his eyes, taking a few more breaths to compose himself.
“We’ll see.”