Chapter 40
FORTY
Edward Rochester is back.
There’s no other explanation. Rowland is missing and there’s blood all over the floor. I race through the manor, clutching a kitchen knife. That sick fuck must have returned early and taken him.
Moving as quietly as possible, I strain to hear a sound: footsteps, voices, anything that might betray their location. The dining room is empty. As is the study. All the other doors are locked.
I need to find Rochester before he finds me.
Nausea roils in my gut as I creep up the main staircase, taking the steps two at a time. My chest burns, each breath coming in ragged gasps. I thought we had more time. That Rochester would be more concerned with covering up Blanche’s murder. It was supposed to be two against one.
Now it’s just me with a kitchen knife versus a man who’s been torturing and killing people for decades.
The first-floor doors are locked. I creep up to the second, testing each step to avoid creaks. The hallway stretches ahead in darkness. Rochester could be inside any of these rooms, but entering them would give away my position.
Instead, I press my ear to the first door and hear nothing but silence. The next room is the same: no sounds of struggle, no muffled voices. Outside, the clouds part, and moonlight streams through the hallway window and hits the panel leading to the attic.
It’s open.
My blood freezes. Rochester must have dragged Rowland back to that torture chamber. Back to the shackles and chains where he spent thirty years of hell.
I climb those narrow stairs, my heart thrashing so hard I taste copper. Rowland said his brother liked to set traps. He could be waiting upstairs for me with a garrote. I could be playing into his hands.
Every instinct screams at me to run. Grab what I can and get the hell out. Rochester’s probably left a car somewhere on the grounds. I can escape while he’s busy with Rowland.
My hands tremble around the knife, and my feet don’t want to move toward the stairs. They want to turn around and race out into the night. Just as I did with Brother Matthew. And with Gil. And every other time my life ever turned to shit. I’ve never walked into danger. Always knew how to survive.
But Rowland is up there, maybe bleeding. Maybe dying. Maybe already dead while I stand here like a coward, calculating escape routes. He made me a dress while in captivity, prepared a beautiful meal, worshipped me like a goddess and gave me meaning.
I am the only thing that inspires him to fight back. How the hell can I abandon him now?
“Fuck it,” I snarl, my feet finally moving. I can’t leave the only man to ever give a damn about me in the grip of a psychopath.
Holding my weapon, I reach the top and freeze at the entrance. With my free hand, I grip the door frame, not wanting to get trapped.
On the right, Mrs. Fairfax’s skeleton sits in her rocking chair, still wearing that black dress, her gray wisps of hair reflecting the faint moonlight. On the left, the narrow cot with its iron shackles sits empty beneath the instruments of torture.
But there’s no Rowland. No Edward Rochester.
Where the hell did they go?
My mind spins through possibilities. The cottage basement where Rochester dumped the other bodies? The cliffs? Some other torture chamber on the grounds? Rowland could be anywhere on this godforsaken estate, and I’m wasting time searching empty rooms.
I race back down to the kitchen, desperate for more clues. Maybe there’s something I missed. Some sign of where Rochester took his poor brother.
But as I scan the overturned chairs and scattered pots, movement across the lawn catches my eye through the window. A dark figure slips between the apple trees, moving deeper into the orchard. My stomach drops. Is that Rowland trying to escape, or Rochester dragging his body?
Either way, I need to get down there.
Gripping the knife, I slip out the back door onto the patio. Fresh air hits my face as I step outside, tasting like fear. I cross the lawn, my feet silent on the grass. The orchard looms ahead, dark and full of places to hide a body.
Or to stage an ambush.
I head toward the trees, ignoring the branches catching at my dress. My feet make no sound on the soft earth, but my heart thuds so loud it might as well be a drum.
Footsteps sound up ahead. I freeze, straining to hear over my own frantic breaths. I weave between the apple trees, through the shrubs toward the snap of twigs breaking underfoot, but then it stops.
A large figure steps out from behind a tree. He’s clean shaven, wearing a black suit and a chilling smile.
My heart plummets to my feet.
It’s Edward Rochester.
“Miss Burlington. You’re still here. What a delightful surprise.”
“You gave me a week to leave,” I stammer, backing away.
“And you chose to spend that time with the family pet.” He advances like a panther closing in on its prey.
My back hits a tree trunk. Rough bark digs into my shoulders through the dress’s delicate fabric. Rochester’s dark eyes drop to my throat. When his lips curve in a sadistic smile, my breath slows to a stutter.
I’m trapped.
“Interesting marks around your neck. Care to explain?”
My free hand flies to cover the bruises. I tighten my grip on the knife with the other. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rochester throws back his head and laughs. It’s a cruel, vicious sound that sets my teeth on edge. “Oh, this is priceless. Did my simple-minded brother finally get laid?”
I bristle. He’s talking about Rowland like he’s defective. Like what we shared was a pity fuck.
“What do you mean?” I snap.
He flashes his teeth. “Rowland was unusually spirited. He fought me like a man protecting something precious.”
My breath stills. My eyes sting with tears. This monster has my Rowland. Before I can stop myself, I blurt, “Where is he?”
“You’ll be reunited soon enough.”
He shoots out a hand, grabs my throat with an iron grip, and slams me back into the tree trunk.
Pain explodes across the base of my skull, making my vision go white.
I clench my teeth, forcing myself to fight back.
My hand shoots up with the knife, but he’s faster.
His hand clamps around my wrist and twists hard, jerking my arm off course.
“Are you flirting with me, Miss Burlington? Bad girls who play with toys without my permission get punished.”
He squeezes my fingers, grinding the bones until the knife falls loose and hits the ground with a thud. I cry out as he drags me through the orchard toward that cottage.
“Let go of me, you psycho—”
“I know what you did in my study. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the stench of your little tryst? Did you think I’d leave an insult like that unpunished?”
We reach the cottage, its windows gaping like dead eyes. With a roar, he kicks open the door and shoves me inside. I stumble into the dark room, my hands flying for balance, and crash into the table. A lantern I noticed days ago knocks to the side, spilling oil across the wood.
Rochester closes the door, encasing us in the semidarkness. Moonlight streams in through the filthy windows, illuminating his monstrous silhouette. After securing the lock, he turns toward me, and bares his teeth.
Terror kicks me in the gut. He’s walking over the graves of all those women he lured to this accursed house, worked half to death and then murdered. Did he add Rowland to the list of corpses?
He takes a slow step forward, his feet creaking on the rotted floorboards. I stagger backward, using the table as a barrier.
“Tell me something, Miss Burlington. What was it like to fuck an animal? How did it feel to take pleasure from a man who spent years writhing in his own filth?”
Rage explodes in my chest, white-hot and consuming. I snatch the nearest thing off the table. It’s cool and round, like a snow globe. I don’t dare drop my gaze to check.
“I thought even you would have better taste after all that salivating you did over me,” he says, his voice lilting with amusement. “Or did my rejection drive you into the arms of my drooling brother?”
“Rowland is twice the man you could ever be,” I yell.
His eyes flash with something inhuman. “That whimpering stray I kept alive out of boredom?”
“At least he’s not a child-killing psychopath.”
Rochester’s mask slips, his features twisting with contempt. He glares at me from across the shack like I’m filth. “Careful, Miss Burlington. You’re in no position to make accusations.”
But I’m beyond caring. This sadistic bastard has done something to Rowland, and I won’t give into fear. Not when the only man who ever treated me like I was precious is locked away, suffering.
Rochester crosses the room, stopping close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne. I cringe into the wall, wishing I could sink through the bricks.
“You really think that sniveling creature can satisfy a woman? He can barely look me in the eye without pissing on the floor.”
I lunge forward and slam the snow globe into his balls.
He doubles over with a strangled scream. “You fucking bitch!”
I smash the globe over his exposed head. His hands fly up in self-defense, reminding me of how Brother Matthew cowered after I’d hit him with that poker. Violence is the only language monsters like him understand.
It was the moment I stopped being a victim and became a killer.
But Rochester doesn’t go down. He staggers, just like Brother Matthew did.
I bring the globe down again, harder, and he groans.
On the third blow, the glass cracks, spilling water over his head.
On the fourth, it collapses. I drop the broken pieces and bolt for the door. The handle turns but it won’t budge.
Shit.
Shit.
SHIT.
“You’ll pay for that, you worthless whore,” snarls a voice from the shadows.
I spin around. Rochester straightens, his face twisting with rage.
Terror reaches into my ribcage and seizes my heart. My knees buckle and I stumble against the door. My hand lands on a chunk of broken timber.
“When I finish with you, you’ll be praying for death,” he roars.
He says that like every controlling bastard who tried to put a collar around my neck.
Like Dad, who used scripture to keep me under his thumb.
Like Brother Matthew, who subdued me with rape, fists, and the threat of keeping me barefoot and pregnant.
Like Gil, who let them put a murder weapon into my hands and make me a killer.
Fuck that. I’d rather die than become another prisoner.
I straighten, my heart jackhammering, my fingers closing around the wood.
Rochester charges at me with a roar. I step forward and bring the timber down on his skull. It hits with a sickening crack, and he jerks, eyes going wide. The sound is beautiful. Wet and final.
He drops to his knees, blood streaming down his temple. I raise the wood, waiting for his next move. But his eyes go unfocused, and he reaches for his head wound like he can’t believe what’s happening.
I hit him again. For Rowland. For Adele. For the original Mrs. Fairfax. For every woman who died at his hands.
Rochester crashes face-first into the moldy boards and goes limp.
I rush to the door and yank the handle again. It’s jammed. Of course, it is. I watched the bastard lock it and pocket the key. Chest heaving, I whirl around, finding Rochester still sprawled face-down on the floor.
My heart thrashes against my ribs like a caged bird.
He’s motionless as roadkill. Now’s the time to search him for the key, but what if this is a trap?
But I don’t have any choice, unless I want to crawl through broken glass.
I edge toward him on trembling legs, my pulse hammering loud enough to drown out all sound.
Floorboards creak underfoot. Each step toward him feels like walking toward my own grave. But as I reach striking distance, his arm lashes out like a cobra.
Panic punches into my chest, stealing my breath. With a scream, I stumble back, and crash onto my ass. Pain shoots up my tailbone, making me hiss through my teeth. Then a hand wraps around my ankle like a steel shackle.
He drags me toward him. My stomach lurches. I kick back with my free leg, my heel connecting with his face in a satisfying crunch.
“You fucking bitch!” he roars, his grip loosening to grab his nose.
I scramble away on my hands and knees toward the table. My dress tears as I claw across the floor powered by desperation. Splinters dig into my palms, but I barely feel the sting.
Just as I reach the shelter, a metallic clink has me whirling around.
“I’m going to strangle you with this belt.” He snaps it between his hands. “Watch you fight for air. Keep you on the edge. Make you beg for death.”
He raises the belt and lashes it down like a whip. I stagger backward, my hand landing on something metallic and cold. The floor drops inward. I tumble backward into darkness with a silent scream.