Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chiara
After we left Edna’s house, Lucas drove me to the apartment to pack a bag with the things I might need for the next twenty-four hours.
‘Movers will come in the morning to pack the rest,’ he decreed in his assured way, not leaving any place for opposition.
Numbly, I packed, or rather I threw random things haphazardly in an overnight bag until it was full, and he took it from me to carry to his waiting car.
Then he drove us to the cottage where I am to be his hostage for the unforeseeable future.
Now I step over the threshold like a prisoner being marched into her cell, Lucas’ heavy hand resting at the small of my back.
He can barely contain his smug smile, and I die to wipe it from his face with violence.
But what good would it do? I’m stuck in this situation until he tires of rural life and returns to Boston on his own.
I grit my teeth and follow him up the stairs to my room.
He stops in front of the door at the far end of the corridor and motions for me to go in. I step in and immediately spot the phone charger on one of the nightstands and the neatly arranged suits and shirts through the open door of the walk-in closet.
I spin around with the intention of marching out, but Lucas is blocking my way. I look into his impassive face. “This is your room,” I whisper in a strangled voice.
“Our room,” he corrects, casually leaning against the doorframe, watching me.
I take a step back, disbelief and fury choking me up. “You can’t—”
He is on me before I can finish the words, and his fingers tangle in my hair to yank my head back. His lips brush against mine, deceptively tender, but I know that underneath lies a threat.
“Don’t assume you have a choice, cara mia,” he growls in a rough voice. “I decide where you sleep, where you live. This”—he makes a sweeping motion with his other hand—“is where you belong. With me.”
I try to pull back but his fingers only tighten in my hair, making my scalp sting from his grip. He leans into me, inhaling deeply as he brushes his nose over my cheek down to my neck as he pulls me closer with his other hand on my back.
“You think you can resist or try to run?” he murmurs darkly in my ear.
“There’s nowhere you can run, nowhere you can hide.
There’s only me, only my hands, my bed.” He starts to kiss his way along my jaw to my lips when a thought has me breaking out in a cold sweat.
I lift my hands to his chest to try to push him back.
“Wait, Lucas,” I plead, “we haven’t talked about protection. We shouldn’t… we can’t…” I scramble for words.
He leans slightly back and gives me a confused frown. “What do you mean? You have an IUD.”
I inhale sharply, not wanting to find out how he knows that. “Birth control is not the only issue, we need to use protection if we are...” I trail off, stomach knotting.
“When we fuck, you mean,” he leans in again, kissing the corner of my mouth, “or make love, sleep together, copulate, screw, fuck…have your pick, because I’m going to fuck you, I’ll ruin you until you understand that there is no other option, no one else. Not now, not ever. You belong to me.”
My heart thunders and my breath hitches in my throat as I drown in the dark voids his eyes have become.
He pins me a moment longer with his stare, then leans back so suddenly I catch myself with my hands on his chest.
“As for protection,” he goes on matter-of-factly, “we don’t need any. You’re clean and I’m clean, so that’s it.”
I frown. “How can you be so sure that I am?” I taunt him, although I know I have always used a condom. “I haven’t seen a physician for months.”
He shrugs his shoulders and looks down at me with his arrogant stare. “I know because I had your blood tested.”
My breath stutters.
“You what?” I screech. “How? When?” I frantically try to remember when I might have given him, or anyone sent by him, permission to draw my blood.
“After the first night, when you were sleeping, I drew your blood and had it run through a mobile lab I kept on standby down the street.” He shrugs again, as if it wasn’t a big deal. “Got the results within the hour, you’re clean.”
My jaw drops to the floor and the air punches out of my lungs.
He…stole my blood? Suddenly I remember the small bruise on the inside of my arm that was a bit more painful.
That must have been the spot where he pierced the skin.
How come I didn’t feel the needle prick?
Had I been that exhausted? I am dizzy, unable to wrap my mind around what he just told me so casually.
He stares at me for a beat longer then smiles as if we were discussing the weather.
“Now take a shower, I’ll get dinner ready.
” With that, he presses a kiss on my forehead, goes back to the door to pick up my bag where he had left it and puts it on the bed.
Then he kisses my temple one last time and walks out of the room, humming contentedly to himself.
I stand, rooted to the spot, blinking in shock.
What has just happened? I don’t know this man, I realize with a chill.
Where is the sunny, unbothered, predictable Phoebus I knew back then?
Which version of him is his real face? Has he been hiding this dark, unhinged side of him all along?
Or did he become this demented lunatic because of some… event?
‘Why me, why now? What has changed? I don’t get this, I don’t get this new you.’
‘You left,’ he had said. ‘You left me. And I can’t have that.’
No, that’s not it, there has to be something else, I tell myself. I shake my head to clear my mind and decide to take it step by step. First, I shower, then I need a plan.
When I go back downstairs, clad in a tank top and shorts, I immediately smell the scent of omelet and herbs wafting from the living room and open plan kitchen.
I had debated staying upstairs but it felt too much like hiding.
And besides, I wouldn’t have put it past him to just come up to throw me over his shoulder and carry me wherever he wished.
When I step into the living area, I take in the changes I hadn’t noticed earlier.
The corner sofa is new, the beige leather looks soft and inviting under the golden light of the overhead lamp.
A thick woven rug defines the space and I can’t help but wonder how it would feel to curl my toes into the fibers while sitting in front of the fireplace with a book.
A soft clatter draws my eyes toward the open kitchen and dining area.
There too, the furniture has been changed, the rustic dark wood table has been swapped for a lighter, vintage one surrounded by white-painted chairs that brighten the room and make it feel softer.
The kitchen is still the same, but the cupboards have been painted in sage green, giving the space a cozy, cottage charm.
Lucas is standing in front of the stove, a wooden spatula in one hand and the handle of a pan in the other.
As if sensing me, he turns his head with a bright smile, and for a second, I see the carefree and sunny man I used to know, the Phoebus who lit up a room with a smile.
But I won’t delude myself. I know how dangerous and unhinged he can be.
“You’re right on time, cara mia.” He nods toward the dining table and my feet take me there before my mind can catch up.
I stand by the table, unsure of what to do, noting that it is set for two.
It’s like I am an unwilling actor in a play I haven’t read the script to, shoved onto a stage with no lines nor script.
Lucas, though, is the one directing it, starring in it, building this delusional life where he is playing house.
Does he really believe this is real? For a moment I wonder if he has lost his mind.
No scratch that. I wonder how long ago he lost it.
Because who does this? Trapping someone in his fantasy, acting like we’re some perfect couple building a dream future together.
The thought of being locked in by a lunatic version of him is frightening.
But what terrifies me the most is what will happen when it stops?
When this fantasy collapses and he grows tired of it all, of me?
Because if he can build this entire delusion from nothing, what will he do when he decides to tear it down?
I watch him warily as he carefully plates the omelet, even sprinkling herbs over it.
He turns to set the plate on the table. Then he pulls out a chair for me and I gingerly sit down, not wanting to trigger him.
He sits opposite me, gaze locked on me in an unwavering stare.
He picks up the fork and, without asking, lifts a bite of omelet toward my lips.
“Open,” he murmurs, voice low and commanding.
I hesitate and something dark flashes in his eyes as his hand darts out to grab my wrist hard enough to prevent me from pulling away.
“Eat, cara mia,” he insists, and I shake my head, heart hammering.
“Wrong answer.” His hold tightens a fraction, and he angles the fork closer. “I already told you that you don’t get to decide when it comes to me.”
The darkness in his eyes morphs into something I’ve come to recognize all too well. Unfettered lust.
Shit, my resistance arouses him. Heat coils slowly in my belly as I drown in the dark spark of desire I see in his gaze. God, it even arouses me.
No! No, no, no! My throat constricts and I lower my eyes to hide my confusion and pray that the heat creeping up my neck is not noticeable.
I open my mouth and take a small bite, feeling his eyes burning into my skin, his possessiveness washing over me in waves, pulling me under and drowning me. I chew and swallow.
“Good girl.” His rough praise travels down my spine like an electric current. I instinctively squeeze my thighs together.
Shit.
Once I’ve swallowed the forkful he supplied, he releases my wrist and grabs my jaw to tilt my face up so that I have no choice but to look into his eyes. “See? Even the food you take, your wellbeing, everything that comes to you belongs to me.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. He is clearly unhinged. And still, I can’t deny the shiver that crawls down my spine in a mix of fear and something darker, and I hate that the realization both terrifies and enthralls me.