Mother Before Wife (The Compound #2) (4 page)

I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to sound dismissive. Clearly this was something he’d thought about, but I didn’t understand why.

Months ago, Brinley and I had discussed sex. She was wrapped up in the idea of it all, that it could be something you “lost yourself” in. But I didn’t want to lose myself in anything but my faith. Sex, orgasms, and sensual pleasure were nothing compared to my desire to serve Heavenly Father.

“Thank you,” I finally answered. “But my job is to please you, and I’ve done that.” When he said nothing, I became concerned that I hadn’t done my job as his wife. “Haven’t I?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then that’s all I need.”

He pressed his hands into the mattress and rose to sit cross-legged, staring at me with his mouth agape.

I shrugged, impervious to his shock. “I can’t be your only wife who doesn’t—”

“I said all right,” he said tersely as he grabbed the covers and slid beneath them. “Good night.”

“Paul, please don’t go to sleep angry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended, I just . . . I just misread you. That’s all. I’ll get over it.” He huffed, pulling the covers up to his chin. “Good night, Aspen.”

Misread me? Because of my lack of desire for a physical release?

I didn’t understand, but decided not to press the issue. Clearly, Paul was upset with me, and I could only hope that he would learn to accept my lack of desire to be pleased, and accept my desire to please
him
.

Because that was my job as his wife . . . not to lose myself in my own pleasure, my own selfish needs. It was my job to honor, to obey, and to please. And that was exactly what I planned to do.

Not even Paul Black could convince me otherwise.

“Never suppress an obedient thought.”

—The Prophet, Clarence Black

Aspen

Three weeks later

Things were different—Paul was different—and I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t care. His eyes were pained, his words short. At family dinners, he barely made eye contact with me. It was isolating. Awful. And I had no idea what to do about it. I was losing him.

After three long, painful weeks of tension between us, I made the decision to confront him, to ask my husband how we could fix the gaping hole in the fabric of our relationship. Although I already knew the answer, I chose to ignore it, hoping that there would be some other way. The thought of betraying Heavenly Father to please my husband weighed heavily on my heart.

Paul came to my bedroom late in the evening after his meeting with the men of the priesthood. I’d stayed awake, waiting for him and hoping to talk, but his eyes once again revealed his pain in being near me. I’d rejected him, hurt him, and he was making no effort to hide it.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” he said, his voice cold.

I hopped to my feet and crossed the room to greet him, placing a kiss on his pursed lips. “I wanted to speak to you.”

“All right,” he said as he loosened his tie.

Quickly, I grabbed the silk fabric and pulled on the ends to remove it from his neck, and he sighed in response. After placing the tie on the bed, I ran my hands over his shoulders, but he closed his eyes.

“My dear husband, please. Please talk to me.”

He shook his head, focusing on a point past my shoulder. “There’s nothing to say.”

“You’ve barely spoken to me for weeks, ever since that night.” Looking up at him beseechingly, I said, “I want to fix this.”

Averting his gaze, he shrugged and said, “You can’t.”

“So, you’re angry with me?”

He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. “Of course not. I’m disappointed. I thought we had a connection.”

He wasn’t wrong. I’d felt a connection with Paul that I hadn’t had with Lehi. A mutual respect, a friendship, a kindness that could one day grow into love. At least, that was what I’d hoped. I didn’t know what Paul expected.

“We do.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, stepping away to put distance between us. “How do you feel about me, Aspen?”

“I—I’m devoted to you. I want to please you and make you happy. That’s my job as your wife.”

“Your job?”

I nodded emphatically. “Yes.”

“Do you love me?”

That word . . . love. There it was again. Why were people so determined to complicate matters by using that word? I’d only known him for two months. How could I be expected to feel something that, in my mind, should take years?

“I think you’re a wonderful man, Paul. I do.”

At that, he planted his hands on his hips. “Are you in love with me?” he asked, his nostrils flaring. “Because I’m falling for you, Aspen, in a way that I can’t even explain. And I need you to feel the same. Do you? Do you feel anything for me?”

I stepped toward him, my heart pained by his words. I was hurting him, and that was the last thing I wanted to do. But was I in love? No.

“What I feel for you, it’s different than with Lehi. I felt nothing for him.”

“Don’t say his name,” Paul spat at me, his words as sharp as tacks. “Not to me.”

Stunned, I simply stared at him. Reassignment was common in our community, but still complicated. Different men had different expectations regarding what should and shouldn’t be said about past experiences. Up until this point, Paul hadn’t had a problem with my mentioning Lehi.

But things were different now. We’d crossed a line and entered new territory. I was lost.

“I’m sorry,” I said earnestly. “I won’t say his name again. But I need you to know . . . that I feel something. For weeks now, I’ve been uncomfortable and sad.”

“Why?”

“Because you won’t look at me; you barely speak to me. I know I’ve hurt you, and I’m angry at myself for that. But my faith—everything I’ve ever been taught—it conflicts with what you want. Don’t you understand what that does to me? I feel trapped. No matter what I do, I’m wrong. I hurt you or I betray Heavenly Father. How am I to choose?”

Paul stepped toward me and ran a hand down my braid as his eyes bored into mine. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be. Just tell me how you feel when I’m near you.”

“I want you near me,” I said softly.

“Is that the truth?”

“Yes, of course. If there’s one thing I am, Paul, it’s honest. Honest to a fault.”

“True enough.” He sighed. “That’s how we got here.”

It was true. My honesty had led us to this crossroads in our new marriage. But I could never change my desire to always reveal what was true in my heart.

“Indeed,” I said. “But you’ll always know where you stand with me. You’ll always know what’s in my heart, Paul.”

He pressed his hand to my chest, and my heart rate increased with his touch.

“Do I?” He placed a kiss on my exposed neck. “What’s in your heart now?”

“I want to please you, to submit to you. I do.”

His hand roamed under my cotton nightdress. “Because it’s your job? Or because you feel something for me? Do you feel something when I do this?”

He pressed his fingertips to my underpants and stroked. I jumped at his touch.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I would never hurt you.”

“Paul, please don’t,” I begged, my eyes filling with tears.

His lips found my neck once again, and his other hand unbuttoned my nightdress. “Submit to me, Aspen.”

With each stroke of his fingertips, my body responded, but my mind was screaming, begging for him to stop.

This is wrong! Please don’t do this!

A spike of conflicted pleasure rippled through my lower body, and my knees felt weak. The intensity was increasing, building, and I gasped in response. This was like nothing I’d ever experienced.

“That’s it,” he murmured, pulling away from my neck and looking into my eyes. “Let go, Aspen. Just let go.”

Fighting it, I closed my eyes, willing the sinful spikes of pleasure to stop. But my body wouldn’t listen. My hips shifted again and again, submitting to his strokes.

I was a boiling pot of water, one that had started with tiny bubbles reaching the surface. Those bubbles grew and intensified, and with each stroke of his nimble fingers, the water threatened to boil over. And when it did, I was overcome with the release that rolled through my entire body.

I screamed. Not a shout of terror or fear, but a cry of something primal within me, something yearning to break free. It was a sound I’d never made, and one I didn’t know I was capable of.

Paul pressed his forehead to mine, then kissed me passionately as tears slid down my face.

Forgive me, Lord. Please, please, forgive me.

My husband cupped my face with his hands, wiping away my tears with his thumbs. “How do you feel?”

I shook my head, unable to answer him. My guilt was all-consuming.

“Aspen, talk to me.” His fingertips tickled my neck.

“I didn’t want that,” I whispered, my voice hoarse, shaken. “I didn’t.”

He shook his head.

“What have I done?” I asked him as more tears streamed down my cheeks. “Why did you do that? Heavenly Father will never forgive me. Never!”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m your husband and I
want
to please you. When you allow me to please you, you’re submitting to me. Don’t you see? You’re pleasing me in return. You’re doing your . . . well, to use your word . . . your
job
as my wife. You’re pleasing me.”

Sniffling back my tears, I said, “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

I looked into his blue eyes, feeling naked although my nightdress still hung from my body. As angry as I was at him for forcing me to achieve an orgasm I’d never wanted in the first place, I felt a connection to my husband through that act of intimacy, as if we had a secret no one else could ever know.

Once again, he placed kisses on my neck. “Let me teach you . . . please.”

“Teach me?” I asked, confused.

“To not only let go, but to enjoy yourself with me. Here in this room. If we have that, no one can break us. It’ll bond us, Aspen. It will cement our marriage, our union. Please, trust me. What you just felt, that’s only the beginning. As you trust me, as you let go, it’ll only get better. I promise.”

“All right.”

I wiped the last of my tears from my burning cheeks and wrapped my arms around my husband, falling into his embrace. And when I did, I felt him sigh against me. A sigh of relief.

My body was unwinding, settling into a relaxed, almost euphoric state, and I couldn’t argue with him any longer. Paul was my husband, and I wanted to please him. I wanted to believe his logic—that if I allowed him to make me feel that way, to achieve a release, I was pleasing him in return. And if I could feel that way again, and release my guilt, I sensed that I could fall in love with Paul the way he was clearly falling for me.

My brain told me that was a foolish notion to entertain, but my body once again betrayed my mind. My body wanted to feel that way again, to revel in the intimacy I felt with Paul as he held me tightly.

Please forgive me, Lord. I only want to please him. Please, please, forgive me.

“If you are faithful, I will be immortal.”

—The Prophet, Clarence Black

Aspen

One of my earliest memories was of my mother’s lap. I was small, most likely four or five years old, and I was huddled inside a nest she’d created with her crossed legs, waiting for our Lord to call us up to the heavens.

Our Prophet had said it was time, the end of days, so we spent the entire day in an open field, singing songs with hands clasped, grasping one another for dear life. Fear overcame me as my mother rocked me back and forth, assuring me that our Prophet would lead the way to eternal salvation. But Heavenly Father changed his mind and gave us more time on this earth.

In the back of my mind, I’d always wondered when he would call us back, when the end of days would return. And this morning, I thought I had my answer. While I was in the middle of helping Beatrice into her sneakers, Flora rapped on the bedroom door.

After offering general morning greetings, Flora requested a word with me in the hall. The deep-set wrinkles above her nose telegraphed her distress.

“What is it?” I asked, smoothing down my dress.

“The Prophet has called the faithful.”

Adrenaline surged within me. We’d always been told that one day our Prophet would choose the most faithful of the ten thousand residents of our community, would call them together to wait for Heavenly Father; to wait for salvation.

I forced myself to breathe deeply before responding. I had to remain calm. My mother’s words danced through my mind.
Keep sweet. The Lord is bringing us home.

“Has he called us?” I asked.

With another surge of adrenaline, my brain flashed a reminder of the orgasms I’d had with Paul. Four, in fact. I had made the decision to submit completely and wholeheartedly, to obey his wishes, and because of that decision, our private time together was extraordinary. As a result, I was counting down the days until my period was due, praying it wouldn’t come. I was ready for life to grow inside me once again.

But the thought of not being called, of not being deemed part of the faithful was, in my mind, a fate far worse than death. To be left behind on this desolate earth without any chance of salvation was ghastly.

Flora’s forehead relaxed. “Yes, all of us.” She paused, looked up to the heavens, and said, “The Lord is good.”

“The Lord is good,” I repeated.

“Gather your girls and a few belongings, and meet us in the field. We must be there by nine o’clock. Paul is there with the Prophet; he needs us by his side.”

“I understand,” I said with a nod. “We’ll be there.”

• • •

“I’m scared, Mama. I don’t want to die.” My youngest child’s face was ashen, and trails of tears stained her cheeks.

Cradling Beatrice in my arms, I pulled her tight and kissed her forehead. And just as my mother had said twenty years prior, I said to my daughter, “Keep sweet. The Lord is bringing us home.”

She fell asleep in my arms while Ruthie and Susan played with their new brothers and sisters, only pausing to join me on our small blanket for sustenance. Dozens of ladies were gathered in the center of the field, hands clasped together as they prayed to Heavenly Father. As the hours passed by, their voices continued, but the fervor they’d maintained throughout the daytime hours was dimming along with the setting sun.

Our Prophet was nowhere to be found. Paul had explained that he needed an hour for self-reflection and communication with the Lord. But that was hours ago. Where was he?

My gaze wandered the field, kissed by twilight and darkening clouds. Hoping it wouldn’t rain but enjoying the cool breeze the looming storm would offer, I pulled Beatrice closer to my chest as she snored softly.

And then I saw a face I didn’t recognize, a face that made my pulse race and my fingers tremble. My focus no longer lingered on the storm that approached; it remained on him, this stranger. This man who didn’t belong.

Although I wasn’t familiar with every resident of our community, we had only a dozen major bloodlines, and most of the men were honored members of the priesthood. Our Prophet explained that our Lord was weeding out the wicked and so, even if I didn’t know a man personally, I recognized his face as the brother, cousin, or uncle of another man with whom I was familiar.

But not this man. No, this was a face I’d never seen, a face that didn’t belong. A face of pure evil.

He leaned his stout body against an imposing oak tree on the outskirts of the field. Dressed just like the men in our community in a plain buttoned-down shirt and trousers, he shoved his hands deep within his front pockets. If his goal was to fit in, he was succeeding.

I glanced around at my sister wives, but none of them seemed to notice this mysterious figure against the old oak tree. I watched him for what felt like hours, tempted to ask Paul if he knew the man’s identity, but I couldn’t find my husband either.

My thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice. A soft, timid voice I’d left behind months ago.

Rebecca. My former sister wife was standing a mere two feet away, cradling a newborn to her chest. Of course; this must be the baby who had sealed Rebecca’s fate with the Cluffs. She forced a smile on her wan face.

“My goodness, Rebecca, how are you?” When I patted the spot next to me on the blanket, she obliged and sat cross-legged, clutching the babe who was wrapped tightly with blankets. “And who is this . . . blessing?”

Rebecca pinched her eyes shut. “Margaret. My first girl.”

“I see.” I pursed my lips in understanding. Rebecca wore her conflict like a mask for all to see. “Is Lehi pleased?”

She shrugged. “He speaks to me only when necessary.”

“I imagine you’re just fine with that?” I pressed.

How could Rebecca possibly want to spend time with the man who had murdered Burt, the only man she ever loved? My feelings for Paul were ever increasing as we spent time getting to know each other, so I could only imagine how the death of Burt still haunted Rebecca, knowing how devoted she was to him, and he to her. He’d wanted them to run away together, to be happy, to be a family with their four boys. But it didn’t work out that way.

“Yes.” She nodded. “And you? Leandra informed us of your new family with the brother of the Prophet. That’s wonderful.”

“He’s a good man.” I paused. “I wish you could’ve come with me. He’d love Margaret and the boys; he really would.”

“I’ve accepted my fate,” she said with a shrug. “And honestly, I don’t mind the solitude. My children and I reside on our own island within the house. The other sister wives don’t bother with me, and I like it that way.”

Forgetting my manners, I grimaced. Clearly, she was finding a way to survive in the Cluff home, but despite our differences in the past, I didn’t want her to be miserable. She was a servant of the Lord and of our Prophet. She deserved better than the Cluffs.

The stocky man who remained against the oak tree allowed me to change the topic. I leaned in closer to Rebecca. “That man by the tree . . . do you recognize him?”

Rebecca studied the man with dark eyes and deep wrinkles in his tanned skin before shaking her head. “No, should I?”

“I don’t know. Something in my gut tells me he doesn’t belong, and I plan to get to the bottom of it.”

“Be careful,” Rebecca said. “Some things are better left buried.”

We locked eyes, and I sighed. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I pray that one day you’ll see the world differently.”

She laughed under her breath as she rose to her feet and gestured toward the sky. “Well, if our Prophet is correct, there’ll be no time for that. We’ll be called by day’s end.”

Good point.
“I can’t argue with that. Keep sweet, my friend.”

Rebecca offered a polite wave as she left me on my blanket, joining her boys at the other side of the field.

An odd sensation came over me, making me certain I was being watched. Without thinking, I turned my attention back to the tree, and gasped to find my suspicions were correct.

He’s looking at me, or through me. I can’t be sure.

My heart raced as I searched for Paul. Once I’d placed Beatrice on the blanket, I stood and saw my husband speaking to other men in the priesthood. Our eyes met, mine telegraphing my panic.

He quickly excused himself and joined me at the blanket. “Are you all right?”

I turned my back to the tree and the man who was still leaning against it. “That man by the tree, the stocky one with the leathery skin.”

“What about him?”

“Do you know him?” I asked, hopeful that I was mistaken. I prayed that this was a well-respected man in our community I’d simply never noticed before.

“I don’t.” He paused, shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”

“So you can understand my concern. If he’s not one of us, then why is he here?”

He leaned in, kissed my forehead, and pulled back, his eyes locked with mine. “I’ll find out; don’t worry. I’ll speak to the Prophet immediately.”

When I turned to look back at the oak, the man was gone.

But the Prophet had returned. He walked calmly to the center of the field, holding a microphone.

“Children of Zion,” he began, his tone and expression melancholy. “Moments ago, Heavenly Father spoke to me . . . and I’m afraid there is nothing to rejoice, nothing to celebrate here today. There are too many sinners, even amongst our most faithful, too many men and women of our faith who are seeking the pleasures of this world instead of planning for the eternal treasures of the celestial kingdom. To say I’m disappointed in you all would be a grand understatement, my children. If you are faithful, I will be immortal.”

He paused and pulled a penknife from the pocket of his trousers.

No, please, not in front of the children.

“And clearly—” He raised the knife for all to see before pressing it to the palm of his hand. He winced as blood poured from the gash in his skin. “I am mortal. Until you are faithful enough, this is how I’ll remain, a man among you. But, my children—if you cast away your sins, if you resist the wicked urges the devil has placed within you, then Heavenly Father shall welcome us into his kingdom. Until then, you must repent, repent and strive for my immortality.” His shoulders slumped, he hung his head. “You are dismissed. You may go home now.”

The Prophet’s first wife, Janine, ran to his side, falling to her knees to wrap his wound with gauze. He stood, watching us all with disappointment as people gathered their belongings to head home.

Ruthie and Susan fell to the blanket, clutching my arms as Beatrice sobbed, terrified by the Prophet’s speech.

“Mama, we didn’t sin, I promise,” Susan insisted, her eyes wide with sincerity and glistening with unshed tears. “I didn’t hit Ruthie today, not even once.”

“Shhh, keep sweet,” I whispered. “No tears. Harness your strength and serve the Lord. That’s all we can do, be the very best people we can be. One day he’ll be ready for us.”

If only I could believe my own words. I couldn’t help but panic that I was one of the chosen who’d kept us from ascension into Heavenly Father’s kingdom. Were we being punished for my sins in the bedroom? For betraying my belief system to please my husband, and admittedly, my own body?

I had to keep sweet, to push those thoughts away as much as they tried to insinuate themselves into my brain, into my heart. I had to remain strong and vigilant for my girls. I had to lead by example.

Secretly, I was relieved that my next night with Paul was not for several days. I would use that time to connect with Heavenly Father, to pray and repent and beg his forgiveness for my transgressions. And even though I knew Paul would be disappointed, I needed to retreat from the pleasures of the flesh. Sex between us would only be for procreation. That was all. I could only hope he would agree.

Exhausted, we walked back to the house, but when we passed the oak tree, my heart leaped into my throat as an image of the dark eyes of the man who’d leaned against it took hold of my mind once again. Even when we reached the safety of our home, I couldn’t get those eyes out of my head, and I mentally searched the bloodlines of our people again and again, hoping to recall a cousin, a brother, an uncle.
Someone
.

Was he a Barlow? No. A Jessop? Definitely not. A Cluff? Not a chance. And he certainly wasn’t related to the Prophet.

I could only hope Paul would have answers for me. And if he didn’t, I’d just have to get them on my own.