Page 20 of Split

Roman turns on a heel, and I begrudgingly follow him out of the circular room at the top of the tower, down the spiral staircase, and back into the room below. When we emerge from the eerie stone stairwell, he closes the door tightly behind us, pausing to pull a brass key from his pocket and turn it in the lock. Then he just passes by me as if I’m not even here, whistling for the dogs to follow as he leaves the room.

This time, I don’t join them in obeying his command. I remain frozen in place, heart pounding, lungs aching in my struggle to catch my breath.

No matter what it takes, I have to escape this place.

Iwillescape.

10

Clara has me dress in black again for dinner tonight.

I’m not sure what to make of that after the fuss about dressing in red on my first night, but I’m too emotionally drained to put up a fight for the sake of asserting my independence. So, I just go along with it like a good wife, playing the role I’ve been ascribed to.

There aren’t any specific instructions for my hair or makeup this time, so I just apply a little bit of bronzer and mascara and sweep my hair up into a long ponytail, which actually looks killer with the one-shoulder gown she picked out for me. There’s a slit cut up the left side almost all the way to my hip, flashing an obscene amount of leg as the fabric shifts with my strides. The heels Clara selected to go with the dress are sky-high and uncomfortable as hell, but I put them on nonetheless, and when she glances over to survey my appearance as I descend the staircase and gives her nod of approval, a wave of relief washes over me.

I’m still a little shaken after the way Roman handled me in the tower today. I won’t be stepping a toe out of line during this dinner for fear of meeting his wrath. It’s become abundantlyclear that my husband holds all the cards, and he won’t hesitate to make me suffer if I don’t learn to play by his rules.

Clara scurries off– presumably to resume dinner preparations– while I make my way through the halls of the first floor to the dining room. The doors are pulled open, but the room itself is still vacant. I pause in the threshold for a moment, swallowing past the lump in my throat as I stare at the place settings on the table, remembering how Roman roughly bent me over the surface last time we dined here together.

Will he force me to sit on his lap for our meal again tonight?

I clutch a hand to my chest, swaying slightly on my high heels as I fight to shore up my composure.

Play along, Eliza.

That’s all I have to do until I can find a way out of this nightmare. I’ll play the role of the good little wife that Roman wants me to be, just so I can survive long enough to find the means to escape him.

The soft sound of voices draws my attention further down the hall, and I glance in the direction they’re emanating from to find one of the doors that was locked earlier now standing ajar, a soft light spilling from inside. And because I’m far too curious for my own good, I back out of the dining room and pivot to continue down the corridor, stepping as quietly as I can in my heels as I creep up to the door and strain to hear the hushed voices from within.

One of them is definitely Roman’s– I’d recognize that deep, gravelly voice anywhere. I can’t tell who he’s talking to, but it’s apparent from the harshness in his tone that he’s arguing with whoever it is.

There’s suddenly a loud thud from inside the room and I jump, skittering away like a frightened mouse. I nearly trip over my own feet in my haste to flee down the hallway, heels clicking against the marble floor all the way back to the dining room. Idip inside the doorway as soon as I reach it, tucking around the corner to sag back against one of the doors and pressing a palm over my chest in an effort to calm my racing heart.

Though it’s difficult to hear anything over the blood pounding in my ears, I listen intently for the sound of footsteps in the hall, wilting in relief when I realize nobody’s coming after me. I take a few seconds to catch my breath, then push away from the door, crossing the room to take the seat I occupied last time.Before my husband forced me to sit on his lap and be fed like a pet, that is.

I stare down at the wooden surface of the tabletop, my fingers twitching nervously in my lap as I wait for Roman to join me. My eyes trail over the knife on the right side of my place setting, continuing up to the glass of white wine resting just above it.Decisions, decisions.After another few minutes pass, I reach for the glass and take a few big sips of wine to steady my nerves, draining half of it. Time slips by agonizingly slowly, and the wine in my glass is almost gone when my husband finally appears in the doorway, barely even glancing my way as he strides into the dining room.

Roman Volkov is the kind of man who commands a room as soon as he steps inside. There’s just this powerful aura about him that immediately draws your attention and holds it– and despite my growing disdain for my new husband, I can’t look away as he sweeps in and heads for his seat at the far end of the table, beside mine.

The first thing I notice is that he’s changed his suit– or at least the shirt beneath it. I’m certain he was wearing a black shirt earlier, but the one he has on now is a crisp white. He must change his clothes for dinner each night, too, and something about that thought endears me to him, albeit slightly.

The second thing I notice is the look on his face. His brow is furrowed, his lips pinched together in a scowl. He’s obviouslymad about something, which doesn’t bode well for me if our prior interactions are anything to go by.

He takes his seat without a word, unbuttoning his suit jacket and straightening his cuffs. Then Clara breezes into the room with a plate of food in each hand, rounding the table to set one in front of Roman, the other in front of me. He doesn’t thank her– just gives a curt nod of dismissal after the food is placed before us, arranging his napkin on his lap and picking up his silverware.

His continued silence is unnerving.

I carefully lift my own napkin, my mouth watering as I take in the meal on the plate in front of me. There’s a beautiful filet of roasted salmon, spears of asparagus, and a hearty portion of whipped potatoes, sprinkled with chives. Roman has already started digging in, and after placing my napkin on my lap and lifting my fork, I start to do the same.

The silence persists, though. The scrape of our silverware against the plates is the only noise echoing through the large room, my anxiety spiking higher and higher until even my appetite is affected. I start pushing the food around my plate with my fork in an effort to appear occupied, trying to breathe past the tightening of my throat and the impending feeling of doom twisting in the pit of my stomach.

“What happened?” Roman asks, and I’m so startled to hear him speak that I flinch, snapping my head in his direction to find him eyeing the burn scars on my left bicep studiously, as if it’s his first time seeing them.

“Car crash,” I answer simply, my voice coming out strained. I clear my throat, tightening my grip on the fork in my hand as I watch his eyes skim over the mottled skin. “I know it’s ugly,” I mutter. “If you’d prefer I cover it up, I can wear sleeves.”

“I assure you that your scars don’t make you any less appealing,” he replies curtly. His gaze lifts, those piercing greeneyes locking with mine. “Your attitude, however…” he trails off and I feel a blush rise to my cheeks.

“I’m working on it,” I say, quickly dropping my gaze back to my plate. “This is all new to me. I’m trying to…adapt.”

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