Page 62 of Split

Then again, if I’m going to be subjected to his company, a buzz would make it less unpleasant.

I take the drink.

Roman raises his own to his lips, sinking the vodka in a single gulp. I sip at mine as I watch the dogs sniff around for a comfortable spot to lie down, trying my best to ignore the way my pulse flutters at my husband’s proximity.

Did he bathe me, or was that a dream?

The lines of reality are blurring lately, as if Roman’s unstable nature is somehow rubbing off on me.Is mental illness contagious?I should consult those psychology textbooks again to find out.

I throw back the rest of my drink, wincing at the burn as I swallow the liquor down. “I wanted to talk to you about something,” I murmur, flickering Roman a side-eyed glance.

“What’s that?” he asks absently.

I worry my lower lip between my teeth, struggling to piece together the best way to confront him about his obvious case of Dissociative Identity Disorder. Whether consciously or not, he acknowledged his alter last night. He’s clearly sick and in need of help.

“I’ve been doing some research, and I think you’re mentally ill,” I state, holding his eye contact.

He snorts in amusement. “I assure you I’m not crazy, but it’s starting to sound like you are.”

“Roman, I’m serious,” I breathe, reaching out to set a hand on his arm. “I’ve read up on this condition called DID, where people have multiple personalities. There’s medications you can take, therapy you can do…”

He barks a laugh, the sound of it so shocking that the crystal tumbler slips from my grip, crashing to the floor. I immediately crouch down to pick up the shattered glass, the sharp edge of a shard slicing into my ring finger.

“Shit,” I hiss, clutching the injured digit with my other hand.

Roman drops to a knee beside me, snapping out a hand to grasp onto mine. He holds it up in front of his face, examining the cut on my finger as a crimson drips onto the diamond resting at my knuckle.

“It’s a bleeder, but it doesn’t need stitches,” he murmurs, plucking the silk pocket square from his suit jacket and wrapping it around my finger to staunch the flow. His gaze lifts, emerald eyes meeting mine. “You need to be more careful,” he growls sternly.

“Yeah, like you?” I scoff, reaching for his left hand and lifting it in demonstration, expecting to see the bandage he’s been sporting.Except it isn’t there.And when I flip his hand over, the skin of his palm is unmarked.

“Wha…?” My brow furrows in confusion as I grab for his other hand, turning it over and finding the palm just as pristine. “You had a cut.”

“It healed,” Roman replies dismissively.

I shake my head with a scowl, blonde hair swishing around my face. “No, it couldn’t have, not that fast…”

Shit, did he bleed on me a day ago, a week ago?

I’m starting to lose track of time, the profound isolation of life at the manor warping my reality.

How long have I been here? Weeks? Months?

No, it couldn’t have been that long since he injured his hand. And regardless, a cut that deep would surely leave a scar.Did I misconstrue how deep it was?But if it was minor, he wouldn’t have continued to wear a bandage…

My heart pounds, short, panicked breaths sawing from my lungs as I jerk my wide-eyed gaze up to Roman.

Shit, what if he’s right? What if I’m the crazy one?

I stumble backwards, shaking my head. “No, it’s not possible…”

“Calm down, Eliza,” Roman murmurs as he steps toward me.

“No, don’t!” I shriek, frantically jumping out of his reach.

His lips turn down in a frown as he continues his advance. “I think you need to lie down, wife.”

“No, stay away from me!” I choke, throwing out my hands as panic takes hold.

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