Chapter 26
26
I ’m cocooned in warmth, safe and content. Pleasant scents of rose and jasmine tickle my senses as a soft cloth glides over my skin, the soothing sound of lapping water gently rousing me to consciousness.
“Welcome back,” Roman murmurs as my eyes flutter open, colliding with the striking green of his own.
Strangely enough, the sight of him beside my bathtub isn’t disarming. It’s oddly comforting to find him here, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows as he runs a washcloth over my naked body beneath the water.
My husband has never cared for me like this before.
This can’t be real.
I must be dreaming.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his jaw clenching as he trails the washcloth over a dark bruise forming on my upper thigh.
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to speak. I’m so, so tired, exhaustion weighing down my limbs.
“Rest now, wife,” he commands in a low, even tone that brokers no room for argument. “Let me take care of you.”
I release a long exhale, my eyes sliding closed. It’s a nice dream, so there’s no harm in lingering here a little while longer.
T he familiar sounds of Clara setting up breakfast pull me from the dark haven of sleep, the bright light streaming in through my bedroom windows assaulting my retinas as I squint my eyes open. I’m not sure how I slept through the housemaid’s daily ritual of throwing every damn curtain open, but as the soreness in my body registers when I shift positions, everything suddenly begins flooding back. The chase. The maze. The grave.
No wonder I slept like the dead.
“Good morning, Mrs. Volkov,” Clara greets perfunctorily as I force myself to sit up in bed, throwing the covers back to stretch my aching limbs and take stock of the fresh bruises dotting my skin.
“Good morning,” I sigh, sliding out of bed with a wince. It feels like I’m in a haze as I limp over to the breakfast table and snatch up the steaming coffee mug, my thoughts sluggish and disjointed.
My body is sore but clean, my hair still slightly damp. I must’ve showered, but I have no recollection of it, nor do I remember returning to the manor or getting into bed.
Clara heads into my closet while I stare out the window sipping my coffee, hoping the caffeine will jumpstart my brain. For all the things I hate about the manor, I’ll admit that the coffee here is top notch. Not only is it somehow always the ideal temperature, but it’s also rich and smooth, the flavor bold and delicious.
I’ll miss it when I’m gone.
“They’re calling for rain this afternoon,” Clara informs me as she emerges from my closet with a stack of clothes, crossing the room to set them neatly at the foot of my bed.
“I’ll let the dogs in before it starts so they don’t get the floors muddy,” I murmur, watching the two of them from my window as they troll the perimeter of the lawn.
Clara quietly huffs to convey her disapproval, but she doesn’t verbalize it. I think at this point she’s begrudgingly accepted that there’s no point in trying to talk me out of turning the guard dogs into house pets.
The retreating tap of her Mary Jane’s against the floor signals her departure, the door closing with a soft click. My eyes glaze over as I continue staring out the window numbly, draining the rest of the coffee in my mug. Then I return to the table and refill it from the carafe, sitting down and eating every bite of the veggie omelet and breakfast potatoes on my plate, my appetite ravenous since Roman and I never made it to dinner last night. Not to mention the other strenuous… activities we engaged in.
Why does the memory of him chasing me through that maze excite me?
It’s far too much to unpack right now, so I don’t. I file it away in a box in my mind, shoving it all the way to the back of my consciousness until it’s no more than a distant notion; a detached afterthought. If I don’t acknowledge it, then it isn’t real . If I keep on ignoring the sinister truths about myself, I can remain in denial about how I’ve become just as depraved as my husband.
Maybe I always have been. I’m not sure whether he’s conditioned this response or if something dark has been lurking inside me all along, just waiting to come out to play. On the surface, I’m all pretty smiles and agreeable nods, but I felt the resentment brewing beneath long before my arrival at the manor, my rage simmering like a rising tempest. The very act of rebellion that led me here was borne of wrath.
Did I even want Wesley, or did I just want to retaliate against my father for years of abuse and neglect?
I knew he’d go ballistic when he caught us. I knew it’d undermine his plan to trade me off to Ilya Belov, a man forty years my senior, as a virgin bride. And I knew he was home that day, right down the hall from my room to hear my moans.
It was me . I set off this chain of events.
I sit with the ugly truth of it all for a few minutes as I stare blankly out the window, quietly sipping another cup of coffee. Then I pack it away again, burying the memories so deep in my brain that they cease to exist. I’m the victim, not the catalyst.
When the caffeine finally starts to kick in, I get dressed and throw my hair up in a messy bun, snatching the bag of dog biscuits off the breakfast tray and heading for the door. Vesper and Nox come running as soon as I set foot outside and whistle for them, panting eagerly as I crouch down to reward them with the treats. They devour them and lick the crumbs from my hands, their stubby tails wagging as I scratch underneath their collars and nuzzle into their fur.
“What do you wanna do today, boys?” I ask them as I push up to my feet, glancing around the lawn.
Every day on the estate is the same, the repetition starting to wear on me as they all blur together. Should I count paces? Check if Lev is around the shed? Explore the maze?
Definitely not that last one. I won’t be going anywhere near the hedge maze or cemetery while the memories of last night’s game remain fresh.
I start walking aimlessly across the lawn, Nox trotting off ahead of me and Vesper lagging behind. The garden shed comes into view and I spot Lev tinkering with something on a table beside it, his head down and concentration creasing his brow. Ordinarily, I’d wander over to chat with him, but instead I turn away. I’m not in the mood to fake smiles today.
My apathetic meandering somehow leads me to the gardens, the dogs chasing scents as they roam the paths with me in search of rabbits. The dahlias are dead. Lev clipped the last few blooms after he caught me in the shed, but I haven’t enjoyed looking at them. They’re just a reminder that everyone here is under my husband’s thumb, including me.
I roam the grounds of the estate until the air turns chillier, signaling the impending storm. Not wanting to get caught in it, I coax the dogs back toward the manor and they’re thrilled to be invited in, my twin shadows taking off down the hall as soon as we enter the foyer. I follow them to the back of the house, entering the study to find Roman lurking by the bar cart, pouring himself a drink.
“Little early for that, isn’t it?” I comment as he splashes vodka into a crystal tumbler.
“Not if you drink with me,” he grumbles, reaching for a second glass.
“No thanks,” I scoff, turning up my nose at him as I strut past to join the dogs by the fire. The frigid breeze planted a chill in my bones and being in the same room as my husband isn’t helping matters.
The sound of clinking glass fills the silence as Roman finishes up at the bar cart, his shoes clipping against the marble floor as he crosses the study.
“Here,” he grunts, stepping up beside me and thrusting a tumbler of vodka in my direction.
I turn an irritated glare on him, grinding my molars as my eyes flit between his own and the glass in his hand.
I told him I didn’t want it.
Then again, if I’m going to be subjected to his company, a buzz would make it less unpleasant.
I take the drink.
Roman raises his own to his lips, sinking the vodka in a single gulp. I sip at mine as I watch the dogs sniff around for a comfortable spot to lie down, trying my best to ignore the way my pulse flutters at my husband’s proximity.
Did he bathe me, or was that a dream?
The lines of reality are blurring lately, as if Roman’s unstable nature is somehow rubbing off on me. Is mental illness contagious? I should consult those psychology textbooks again to find out.
I throw back the rest of my drink, wincing at the burn as I swallow the liquor down. “I wanted to talk to you about something,” I murmur, flickering Roman a side-eyed glance.
“What’s that?” he asks absently.
I worry my lower lip between my teeth, struggling to piece together the best way to confront him about his obvious case of Dissociative Identity Disorder. Whether consciously or not, he acknowledged his alter last night. He’s clearly sick and in need of help.
“I’ve been doing some research, and I think you’re mentally ill,” I state, holding his eye contact.
He snorts in amusement. “I assure you I’m not crazy, but it’s starting to sound like you are.”
“Roman, I’m serious,” I breathe, reaching out to set a hand on his arm. “I’ve read up on this condition called DID, where people have multiple personalities. There’s medications you can take, therapy you can do…”
He barks a laugh, the sound of it so shocking that the crystal tumbler slips from my grip, crashing to the floor. I immediately crouch down to pick up the shattered glass, the sharp edge of a shard slicing into my ring finger.
“Shit,” I hiss, clutching the injured digit with my other hand.
Roman drops to a knee beside me, snapping out a hand to grasp onto mine. He holds it up in front of his face, examining the cut on my finger as a crimson drips onto the diamond resting at my knuckle.
“It’s a bleeder, but it doesn’t need stitches,” he murmurs, plucking the silk pocket square from his suit jacket and wrapping it around my finger to staunch the flow. His gaze lifts, emerald eyes meeting mine. “You need to be more careful,” he growls sternly.
“Yeah, like you?” I scoff, reaching for his left hand and lifting it in demonstration, expecting to see the bandage he’s been sporting. Except it isn’t there. And when I flip his hand over, the skin of his palm is unmarked.
“Wha…?” My brow furrows in confusion as I grab for his other hand, turning it over and finding the palm just as pristine. “You had a cut.”
“It healed,” Roman replies dismissively.
I shake my head with a scowl, blonde hair swishing around my face. “No, it couldn’t have, not that fast…”
Shit, did he bleed on me a day ago, a week ago?
I’m starting to lose track of time, the profound isolation of life at the manor warping my reality.
How long have I been here? Weeks? Months?
No, it couldn’t have been that long since he injured his hand. And regardless, a cut that deep would surely leave a scar. Did I misconstrue how deep it was? But if it was minor, he wouldn’t have continued to wear a bandage…
My heart pounds, short, panicked breaths sawing from my lungs as I jerk my wide-eyed gaze up to Roman.
Shit, what if he’s right? What if I’m the crazy one?
I stumble backwards, shaking my head. “No, it’s not possible…”
“Calm down, Eliza,” Roman murmurs as he steps toward me.
“No, don’t!” I shriek, frantically jumping out of his reach.
His lips turn down in a frown as he continues his advance. “I think you need to lie down, wife.”
“No, stay away from me!” I choke, throwing out my hands as panic takes hold.
Is he gaslighting me, or have I finally snapped?
Roman grunts in annoyance as he lunges for me, his hands closing around my waist. My world flips upside-down as he tosses me over his shoulder, carrying me from the room while I kick and curse, pounding my fists against his back. My vision spins, panic intensifying as he carries me up the stairs.
To my room.
To my bed.
To my certain demise.