Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
Hours later, after being cradled in Rowland’s arms, I wake to the scent of wildflowers.
My eyes flutter open, still heavy from sleep.
Moonlight streams through the balcony doors, creating pretty patterns on the walls.
The bath drained me more than I realized.
Or maybe it was that chase through the grounds, followed by the extreme breath play.
Either way, my body hasn’t felt so relaxed since before the evening Gil woke me up for that murderous encounter.
A bouquet sits on my dresser, bursting with color. Wild poppies and cornflowers, field scabious and red campion. They look like they were just picked from the estate grounds, still damp with dew. The arrangement is artful. Careful. Like someone took time creating a thing of beauty.
Beside the flowers rests a note with my name written across the front in a familiar script. I pad across the room on bare feet and pick it up to read:
Dinner is at eight. I hope you like what I’ve made for you.
- R
The neat script fills my chest with a ripple of warmth. I glance around the room, searching for something new. That’s when I spot a dress hanging from the wardrobe door.
It’s a cornflower blue that matches my eyes, made of soft cotton that makes my woolen uniform feel like a Brillo pad. It looks exactly my size, with a curved neckline and a nipped-in waist to accentuate my figure.
I cross the room, lift the dress from its hanger, and hold it against my body. The fabric slides through my fingers like water. I turn it inside out to find neatly hemmed stitches that remind me of Mom’s home sewing.
Shit. I shouldn’t be so touched. Or feel so at ease in the home of a killer, but I do. This is perfect. I can’t remember the last time anyone gave me something so beautiful and thoughtful.
I slip it over my head, and for the first time since arriving here, I don’t have to fight with buttons or crush my boobs into something too tight. The dress flows over my curves, resting above my knees. This must have been tailored specially for me.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks fresh and carefree. Like she’s a guest at Rochester Manor instead of confined to scrubbing its floors.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts.
“Come in,” I call out.
The door opens, and Rowland steps inside.
His hair is still damp, combed back from his face. His beard is still full, but shaped to accentuate his strong cheekbones. My stomach does a little flip. In his black pants and white shirt, he looks almost civilized.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice breathy with awe.
Cheeks heating, I squirm under his admiring gaze. “Thank you. I love the dress. Where did you get it?”
“I made it,” he replies with a tiny smile.
My jaw drops. “You? How?”
“Mrs. Fairfax said sewing would keep my mind sharp. She taught me when I was locked in the attic.” He ducks his head, suddenly bashful. “I’ve been working on it since you waved back. I had to guess your measurements from... from watching you.”
“Just watching?” I ask with a smile.
He grins. “And by feel.”
Picturing him crafting this dress while trapped in the attic makes my heart ache. Rowland still thought of creating this gorgeous gift for me while being tortured by a psychopath.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
“Come. I have something else to show you.”
He holds out his arm, and I take it, feeling like a lady. He escorts me out into the hallway, and we descend the main staircase.
Instead of heading to the dining room, Rowland leads me outside. By now, the sun has set, casting shadows across the lawn. We pass the pond where Blanche died and the orchard where he chased me down like prey. At the very edge of the trees stands a gazebo illuminated by candles.
A table sits in the center, set with china and crystal, and rose petals scattered across the white tablecloth.
“Rowland,” I say, my voice breathy. “This is...”
“For you,” he replies.
We step inside, and he pulls out my chair with a courtly bow. Did he learn that move from Rochester or his father? The dress fabric pools around my thighs as I sit, making me feel as elegant as Blanche. I study the dome-covered plates, wondering what he prepared.
Rowland lifts the metal covering, releasing a swirl of fragrant steam. Inside waits roasted chicken speckled with herbs, surrounded by colorful steamed vegetables and buttery new potatoes.
“How did you make all this?” I ask as he fills my glass with white wine.
“Have you forgotten already?” he asks back.
I gaze up into his dark eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Edward forced me to take on the role of Mrs. Fairfax.”
In between victims. Rowland leaves that unsaid. My insides roil at the reminder.
“I’ve had decades to learn to cook,” he adds as he settles into his seat. “Sometimes, when Father was away on business, Mrs. Fairfax would let me out to use the kitchen.”
“Why didn’t she set you free?”
He lowers his gaze. “I already told you. In the end, she was just as much of a prisoner as me.”
I drop the subject, not wanting to ruin this beautiful moment with talk of his captivity.
We eat in comfortable silence. Rowland fumbles with the silverware, his fingers clumsy, like he’s been forced into a lifetime of eating with his hands.
Apart from his strange table manners, this feels like a real date.
Like a normal man courting a normal woman.
But we’re not normal. And neither is this situation.
“Do you really think it will work?” I blurt.
His gaze snaps up to meet mine. “What?”
“You plan to impersonate your brother,” I reply. “Do you think you can make it work?”
He shifts his expression, straightens his posture, and smooths his features into a slight sneer. “Of course I can, Miss Burlington,” he says, his voice cultured. Clipped. Cruel. “I’ve observed Edward Rochester my entire life.”
My spine stiffens. Every nerve in my body screams danger. Even knowing it’s Rowland, that superior expression still triggers my urge to run.
Rowland’s smirk drops, his eyes widening with alarm. He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I’m sorry.” When he speaks again, his voice is familiar. Warm. Safe. “I won’t use that tone unless it’s necessary.”
I shudder. “That was terrifying.”
He nods. “But I’m convincing enough to fool Edward’s associates, especially his lawyer and the local priest.”
“Right. Of course.” I settle back into my chair, trying to shake off the chill.
We keep eating, but the mood dulls. The air feels heavier somehow, like a shadow has fallen over our perfect evening. Maybe it’s the impending reality that this moment was never going to last. Maybe it’s the reminder that Rochester will soon return.
“Can I ask you something?” I say during a lull in conversation.
He nods.
“What made your brother so evil?”
Rowland sets down his fork and bows his head to think. “I can’t even remember when it began. He’s always been twisted.”
“But why does he do it?”
He tilts his head, chews his lower lip. “Edward used to trap animals when we were boys. It wasn’t enough for him to kill them. He liked giving them the hope of freedom then watching them break.”
“What does that mean?” I lean forward, my breath quickening.
“Edward isn’t just a hunter. He’s more like a keeper.
The kind of sick person who puts people through psychological experiments just to watch them die inside.
” Rowland falls quiet for several heartbeats, candlelight flickering across the scars peeking out from his collar.
“Sometimes I wonder if he left you here as bait.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
“Think about it. He left us alone together. He had to know I’d sneak out of the attic, either to warn you or let us fall in love. Maybe he planned the whole thing. There’s no telling if he’s watching us right now, waiting to see how we’ll react.”
The food settles in my stomach like a stone. “Why would he do that?”
“Because I’ve been getting better at escaping my bonds. And more resilient to his punishments. Maybe he fears I’ll become a real threat.” Rowland’s jaw clenches. “But if he has you, he can control me. Use you as leverage.”
Panic claws through my chest. I try not to think about Rochester observing us from afar, playing us both like chess pieces. But it’s so plausible, I can’t help glancing from side to side into the darkness.
“Are you sure?” I whisper.
Rowland rises from his seat and pulls me to my feet. “I don’t know. But if this is all some elaborate game, Edward will die before he involves you in his sick fantasies. I promise you that.”
I place a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
These words should be comforting, but why do I feel like prey caught between two predators?
I gaze into Rowland’s eyes. Eyes that burn with defiance, determination, and devotion.
He despises his brother as much as he admires me.
That resolve is what will keep us both alive.
It no longer matters that Rowland is damaged, or that he couldn’t tell the difference between lovemaking and rough sex. It doesn’t matter that parts of him are monstrous. Because he’s mine.
“Enough talk about Edward,” Rowland says, his voice turning low and rough. “It’s time for dessert.”
“What are we having?” I whisper.
“You.” He lifts me onto the table, sweeping aside plates and glasses. China scatters to the edges, smashing as he kneels between my parted thighs and pushes up my dress.
My breath catches. The air thickens, heavy with heat and anticipation. My heart slams behind my ribs, caught in that place between panic and hunger.
“Spread those pretty thighs for me. I’m going to eat this pussy like it’s my last meal.”
“Rowland, what are you—”
His lips descend between my legs, his tongue finding my clit through the cotton of my panties. I gasp, my muscles twitching. Rowland slides the fabric to one side, exposing my heated flesh to the elements. The cool air hits my pussy, making me jerk like I’ve been shocked.
“What a pretty little cunt. You’re already soaked. Is that all for me?” he growls, his hot breath making me tingle.
“Yes,” I murmur.
“Tell me what you need?”
I roll my hips. “You. Your mouth.”
He swipes his tongue up the length of my slit, working me with the same careful attention he put into making my dress. My breath quickens. My thighs quiver around his head. Just as I’m about to moan, he suddenly stops.
“I want to hear you beg. Tell me how much you want my mouth.”
I fall backward, gripping the edge of the table with one hand and grabbing his hair with the other.
“Please,” I say with a gasp.
“Good girl. Lying back for me with your legs spread. Tell me something, little pet. How much does that pretty pussy ache for my tongue?”
“Fuck,” I moan. “Give it to me, Rowland. I’m begging.”
He builds me up with slow and steady strokes. His beard tickles my inner thighs, triggering little bursts of electricity that ripple to my core. I whimper, trying to stay still, but my hips keep chasing his mouth. My body doesn’t know how to resist him.
“You taste so good. And you’re mine. Say it, little pet, if you want to come.”
“I’m yours!”
“Louder. Don’t hold back. I want everyone to know whose pussy this is,” he rasps before sucking hard on my clit.
I throw my head back and moan. The pleasure is so intense, I can barely breathe.
“You like that?” he snarls. “You like me ruining you on the table?”
My mouth opens and closes, but I make no sound. My toes curl, my eyes roll to the back of my head. I grip his hair so tight I swear I hear him groan.
“That’s right, my pretty little pet. I want to feast on you all night. Drink every sound. Savor every tremble. Make you come until dawn. But first, I need you to make a mess all over my face.”
He doesn’t ease off. His mouth stays relentless, keeping me pinned.
Every lick, every suck, every flick of his tongue makes me writhe beneath him.
When I come, it’s gentle. Safe. Warm. Nothing like that brutal explosion.
His hands tighten around my hips as I tremble, and he keeps licking until I’ve given him everything.
When the pleasure fades, and my breathing slows, I loosen my grip on Rowland’s hair. He lifts his head from between my legs, his beard glistening with my arousal. His eyes catch mine, still shining with reverence and hunger. Then he licks his lips as if he’s just enjoyed a feast.
“Look at you. Utter perfection.”
“R-Rowland,” I say with a gasp.
“Do you like baked Alaska?” he asks with a playful grin.
I blink at him, still fuzzy from the orgasm, wondering what he’s talking about. “What?”
“I made you a dessert. Are you ready for it?”
When I give him an eager nod, he helps me down from the table, straightens my skirt, and settles me back into my chair. My breath shallows. No man ever made me dinner, let alone dessert.
“I’ll be right back.” he says with a kiss to my temple and strides toward the house.
I sit back in my seat, marveling at his confident strut.
The man who was terrified of being called a monster just hours ago now moves like he owns the world.
As he disappears into the house, I release a happy sigh.
Everything looks hopeful. Rowland is determined to get rid of Rochester, and his impersonation was impeccable.
If we stick together, we can make this work.
Chuckling, I rise off the seat and pick up the plates, glasses, and silverware that fell on the floor. Some of them smashed on the way down, and I’m careful not to cut my fingers. I set right a bottle of wine that’s lost half its contents and drink the dregs.
After several minutes, a breeze blows through the gazebo making the candles flicker. I twist around in my seat and look across the lawn toward the lit kitchen. What’s taking him so long?
Worry gnaws at my stomach. Maybe the dessert is more complicated than he thought. Maybe he’s having trouble finding something in the kitchen. Maybe he’s just searching for a tray.
But the silence feels wrong.
My survival instincts are pinging. After everything that’s happened, I can’t just sit here and wait.
I rise off my seat, cross the lawn, and head toward the house.
Even from this distance, I can't see movement from behind the kitchen window.
The back door stands open, spilling light onto the gravel.
I quicken my pace, squaring my shoulders, readying myself for the worst. Then I step through the doorway into chaos.
The kitchen chairs are overturned. Pots and pans litter the counters. A knife glints on the floor, its blade smeared with something wet and dark.
“Rowland?” I call out, my voice echoing in the empty kitchen.
No answer.
Just silence.
And the metallic tang of blood.