Split

Chapter 11

11

I wake with a start. My bedroom is shrouded in darkness, shadows clinging to the corners and eating up the space beyond my bed, but I feel someone there. I dart a glance toward the door to find that it’s closed, the chair I pushed in front of it still in place with the chairback tucked beneath the handle. By every indication, nobody has entered, but I swear I can sense someone else’s presence in here with me.

I hold my breath, straining my ears to listen for any sound. The silence is deafening, but then there’s a creak of the floorboards, a flicker of movement in the shadows.

I dive beneath the covers, pulling them up over my face.

Nobody’s there. This isn’t real. Maybe I’m dreaming.

My heart races, my breath coming out in short, ragged pants.

Nobody’s there. Just go back to sleep, Eliza.

I regulate my breathing and slowly, my pulse calms. Some of the tension drains from my muscles. I lower the covers from my face, peering into the darkness again.

There’s nothing there.

T he next morning begins much like every other one has since I moved into the devil’s mansion. I’m woken by the sound of a key scraping in the door lock, followed by Clara grumbling under her breath in annoyance as she struggles to push it open. The legs of the chair I placed in front of the door screech against the hardwood floor as it swings wide, Clara casting an irritated glance toward the offending piece of furniture as she enters with my breakfast tray.

She crosses the room to set the tray down on the table, then proceeds to throw open every damn curtain, bathing the room in light. I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes with a groan as she pours my coffee. Then I force myself to get up, lured out from the comfort of the fluffy bedding by the promise of caffeine.

Clara retrieves the chair from behind the door and drags it back over to the table, proceeding to set up my breakfast while I stretch my limbs and wander closer. Today’s breakfast is an omelet and cubed potatoes in addition to the typical baskets of fruit and pastries. I’m only interested in the coffee.

As I take my seat at the table and reach for the mug, I notice there’s something else on my breakfast tray today that hasn’t been there in the past– a little white paper bag with the top folded over. Clara ducks into my closet to select my outfit for the day before I can ask her what it is, so I proceed to investigate myself, carefully picking up the bag, opening it, and peering inside.

Dog biscuits.

I’m not sure if it’s meant as an insult, since Roman keeps referring to me as his pet , or as a gesture since he’s caught me feeding his dogs twice now. Either way, I fold the top of the bag back over with a smile, glad to have something to offer the pups that I won’t get in trouble for.

“The doctor is coming to see you this morning,” Clara informs me as she breezes out of my closet with a neat little stack of clothes in her hands, her Mary Janes clipping against the floor as she strides past me toward the bed.

“For what?” I ask, twisting at the waist to watch after her.

She places the stack on the end of the bed. “Just a checkup, I’m sure,” she murmurs as she spins back around to face me with a bland expression. “He’ll be here soon, so you might want to get dressed,” she adds curtly, looking me over. “I’ll be back for the laundry.”

Before I have a chance to question her further, she’s already halfway to the door, making a hasty exit. The latch snicks closed behind her, and I’m left alone to wonder what fresh hell awaits me with this unexpected doctors’ visit.

My mind runs wild as I gulp down my coffee, then hastily get myself ready for the day. I took a long bath before bed last night, and my hair’s still a little damp as I slip out of my pajamas and put on the clothes from the stack at the end of my bed. I’m combing my fingers through the strands to try to tame them when there’s a knock at my door, Clara reappearing with an aged man in a white coat.

“This is Doctor Hargrove,” she provides, gesturing toward the old man as he follows her into my room.

He’s short and stout, with a full head of white hair and a pair of wire-framed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. His dark eyes are kind, crinkling at the corners as he offers me a warm smile. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Volkov,” he says, extending a hand as I approach cautiously.

I place mine in his, giving it a shake. “Likewise.”

“I’ll leave you to your exam,” Clara quips as she hastily shuffles out of the room again.

As soon as she closes the door, my eyes snap back to the doctor, narrowing in suspicion. “What’s this all about?” I ask.

“Mr. Volkov asked that I examine you,” he states, shifting his leather medical bag in front of him. “It’s just the usual tests, ma’am. I’ll be taking your vitals, drawing some blood, checking for STD’s, pregnancy…”

“He thinks I’m pregnant?!” I screech, eyes flying wide.

“It’s just standard, ma’am,” Dr. Hargrove reassures.

“Standard for what ?”

He stares back at me, deadpan, and realization slams into me like a ton of bricks.

“How many other women has he had you examine here?” I question, my shrill tone betraying my mounting agitation over this situation.

“That’s really not for me to say, ma’am,” he replies quietly, the leather handle of his bag creaking beneath his knuckles as he adjusts his grip on it uncomfortably. “I’m just here for the exam and the testing. The sooner we get that completed, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Fine,” I huff, folding my arms over my chest indignantly. Though rage is simmering beneath my veins, if I pitch a fit, it’ll undermine any progress I’ve made thus far. I need to play along with whatever sick game my husband is playing if I’m to have any hope of escaping him. “Let’s just get it over with, then,” I grit out.

Dr. Hargrove visibly relaxes, his shoulders sagging as some of the tension drains from his muscles. “Excellent,” he breathes, the warm smile he entered with returning to his face as he turns at the waist and gestures toward my bed. “Shall we?”

Following his directive, I stomp over to the bed, conveying my dissatisfaction with every heavy footstep against the wood floor. I sink down to sit on the edge while the doctor drags a chair over and places it in front of me. He takes a seat and opens his medical bag, pulling out a clipboard before returning his gaze to me, clicking his pen and sitting back.

Dr. Hargrove proceeds to ask me some basic information about my age, height, weight, and medical history, jotting down notes as we go. Then his questioning takes a sharp turn.

“Prior sexual partners?” he asks absently.

“One,” I answer.

“Male or female?”

“Male.” I shift my weight on the bed, frowning. “Is that information really necessary?”

“It’s all standard, ma’am,” he replies blandly, the tip of his pen scratching against the paper as he records my response. Then he shifts the clipboard over to rest on one knee, reaching down into his bag to pull out a long object and handing it over.

I take it from him, staring down at the branding on the wrapper. First Response. It’s a damn pregnancy test.

“I assume you know how those work,” he says, gesturing toward it. “Go ahead to the restroom, hold the tip under your urine stream for a few seconds, and…”

“Seriously?” I interrupt, teeth clenching as I tighten my fist around the test stick.

His blue eyes meet mine, rounded in sincerity. If I didn’t know better, I’d think this guy might feel sorry for me right now. “I can’t place your birth control implant until I confirm you’re not currently pregnant.”

I flinch back, furrowing my brow. “I don’t need birth control, I’m not-”

I snap my mouth closed, my blood running cold as a chilling realization sinks into my bones.

Roman intends to fuck me.

That’s the real reason the doctor is here.

I’m not sure why I deluded myself into thinking he wouldn’t make me his wife in every sense of the word; that he’d spare me from the physical act of consummating our marriage. Roman Volkov is a man who’s used to getting what he wants. He will fuck me if that’s what he desires, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

“I… fine,” I concede with a resigned sigh, feeling a little lightheaded from the stress of the situation as I push up from the edge of the bed, clutching the pregnancy test tighter in my fist as I force myself to walk to the bathroom. I close the door for privacy, pee on the damn thing, then wash my hands and bring it back to the doctor, not even bothering to look at the result. I already know what it’s going to say.

I hand over the stick to Dr. Hargrove pee side first– though he doesn’t seem particularly bothered, as he’s now donning a pair of blue latex gloves. He reaches out to take it, lowering the test in front of him to read the result on the window.

“Not pregnant,” he confirms.

“Obviously,” I mutter.

“We can place the implant, then.” He rises from his seat, peeling off the latex gloves to replace them with a new pair and gesturing to the bed. “Go ahead and sit back down. It’ll go in your left upper arm, so just slip off that sleeve for me.”

I shuffle past him, sinking down onto the edge of the bed and slipping off my cardigan. Dr. Hargrove bends over to rummage in his bag, then straightens, turning back toward me.

“I’ll be placing it in your inner bicep,” he says, pausing as his gaze drops to my arm. His eyes widen slightly as he takes in the grotesque scar, but he quickly schools his expression, continuing. “It goes between the muscle, so there’s some mild discomfort when placing it, but in a day or two, you’ll forget it’s even there.”

Dr. Hargrove has me lie down on the bed, arranging my arm so it’s up beside my head with the underside of my bicep exposed to him. Then he uses the applicator to place the implant, draws three vials of blood from my inner elbow, and moves back, peeling off his latex gloves.

“Now I’ll step out for a moment,” he says, slipping his supplies back into his medical bag. “Undress from the waist down and cover yourself with the sheet, then call for me when you’re ready.”

“What?” I screech, jerking upright with a start.

“I need to swab your cervix.”

“No!”

Doctor or not, I refuse to willingly spread my legs for any man in this house.

He frowns. “Ma’am…”

“I’ve had sex with one person, one time,” I say, folding my arms over my chest protectively and pinning Dr. Hargrove with a glare. “We used a condom. If my husband is so concerned about catching something from me, then he can keep his dick to himself.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “I’m not trying to upset you, Mrs. Volkov. I’m just following your husband’s orders. If you don’t let me complete my exam…”

“No!” I repeat, raising my voice louder. “I’m not doing it! So, unless you plan on holding me down and forcing me to submit to your examination , we’re finished here.” I lift my chin with a scowl. “You can go, Doctor .”

He heaves another sigh, but must realize that there’s no talking me into it, because he doesn’t make another attempt to try to convince me. Dr. Hargrove just shakes his head, casting me a resentful glance as he stuffs the rest of his things into his medical bag and closes it, lifting it off the floor.

“I’ll go, but I’m sure I’ll be back,” he comments bitterly as he turns away and strides toward the door, his movements stiff as the tension returns to his muscles.

I bite back my retort, still fuming over the entire ordeal as I watch him leave.

Good riddance.