Page 47 of I Will Mend You

If my blood pressure continues to stay high, I’ll have to spend the rest of my pregnancy in the hospital or even have the baby early.

I can’t let that happen. I’m only thirty weeks along. I had the twins at thirty-five weeks and they turned out fine. Physically, anyway. If I can hang on for another month, then I can give my son the best chance.

Lyle is being supportive as always and has cut down his hours to spend more time at home. He and Charlotte have stepped up with managing the twins and household chores.

They’re a dream team, and I’m grateful they’re picking up the slack. I couldn’t manage without their help. But after the twins go to bed, Lyle spends time with Charlotte downstairs in the lounge.

I can’t hear them talking from our bedroom upstairs with the TV blaring, but I can feel they’re bonding over this shared responsibility. It almost reminds me of how Giorgi flaunted his mistress throughout my pregnancy. Men have urges, he would say, and I’m not doing anything for him when I’m looking like a pot-bellied whale.

Any mention that Giorgi impregnated me against my will would earn me a slap across my face or even a kick to my stomach. I was trapped within the mansion. Trapped in my marriage. Trapped in a maternity hell.

Lyle isn’t Giorgi. He would never hurt me, but I can’t have sex without risking the pregnancy. Men have needs, and Charlotte agreed a little too readily to move in with us at short notice.

I’m being paranoid. Ungrateful. Looking for ways to make my life miserable. But those were the things I’d tell myself when I was Giorgi’s prisoner.

Is history repeating itself or is it all in my head?

TWENTY

XERO

I’m back at the infirmary, with Isabel glaring at me over the writhing reverend. She’s fitting him with a series of subcutaneous devices we can activate via remote control, so he can perform as our Trojan horse.

Tyler messaged me while I was reading through the first entries of Melonie’s diary, which charts the woman’s gradual descent from indifference to her children to hatred. I barely reached the part that hinted at the origin of Amethyst’s trauma when I received some good news.

The money from Reverend Thomas’s church account has cleared, and Father has sent over details of a pre-shoot reception at the Hotel Royale in Helsing Island, New York. It’s one of the destinations we identified from the private jets that departed the airport around the time we found footage of Dolly and Amethyst.

As one of the investors, the reverend will get a meet and greet with Delta and Dolly at the hotel’s function room, before joining them the next morning for two exciting days of filming.

Father’s words, not mine.

Two days of rape and torture for entertainment and profit. I plan on reaching Amethyst before Father and his film crew even get the chance to say,Action.

The reception is tomorrow afternoon at four, followed by a viewing of exclusive footage. There’s no mention of the shoot’s exact location, as transportation there will be provided the following morning at eight.

Jynxson has boarded a high-speed catamaran to the island with a small team of operatives and a large cache of weapons. Tyler and his team are scouring all 150 square miles of the land mass for production studios, abandoned warehouses, and other venues large and isolated enough to stage an illicit shoot.

Reverend Thomas rears up, his movements barely contained by the restraints pinning him to the cot. “For the love of God, please stop this!”

“That’s it,” Isabel snaps. “I can’t operate under these conditions. He’s going under sedation.”

She turns toward one of the cupboards at the edge of the room, but I place a hand on her shoulder.

“He never showed an ounce of mercy for any of the victims in the snuff movies, so he gets to feel every slice of your scalpel,” I say.

My sister’s features harden. “In that case, you won’t object to a muscle relaxant so I can work in peace?”

I smirk. “Go ahead.”

She pulls away to a trolley and draws a clear liquid into a syringe. I turn back to the trembling reverend, staring into his stricken features. His face is pale, covered in a film of sweat. He’s no longer the charming asshole who tried to impress my little ghost by turning budget groceries into holy water.

“How does it feel to be the one at another’s mercy?” I sneer, my lip curling at his naked cowardice.

“Not too different from the last time,” he replies through panting breaths. “Why are you doing this? I’ve cooperated. Done everything you asked. Isn’t it time to show me some forgiveness?”

Laughter bubbles up in my chest, and I let it spill out, grinning with a savage delight.

His eyes widen. “What did I say?”

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