Page 9 of Split

“Are you really going to watch me eat?” I ask, casting her a wary glance.

“Mr. Volkov said…”

“I don’t care what he said!” I blurt, slamming my coffee cup down on the table so hard that it rattles the silverware. I bury my face in my hands, memories of last night’s horror show in the dining room pummeling my brain. “Just go, please,” I groan, my voice muffled behind my palms. “I want to be alone.”

“But I need the laundry, ma’am.”

I pick my head up, narrowing my eyes on her in question. “What?”

She gestures to me. “Your pajamas.”

I push up from my chair with an exasperated huff, grasping onto the lace-trimmed hem of my sleep tank and rucking it up over my head. Then I yank my shorts down my hips, stooping down to gather them from the floor before crumpling both silk garments in my hands. I march over to Clara in all my naked glory, shoving them at her chest with an irritated, “Here.”

She averts her eyes as she reaches out to take them from me, keeping her expression neutral. “I’ll be back for your tray shortly.”

“Great,” I mutter, turning away and stomping toward the stack of clothes she left at the foot of my neatly-made bed. I hear the click of her shoes against the floor as she retreats, the door creaking closed behind her.

Still fuming, I pull on the clothes she laid out for me– a bra and underwear, black leggings, a white cotton camisole, and an oversized gray cardigan– all brand new. I sweep my hair up in a messy bun, then grab an apple out of the fruit basket on the table before walking over to the glass French doors that lead out to the balcony.

The crisp morning breeze billows into the room as I pull them open, stepping outside onto the wide stone terrace. In any other context, a setting like this would seem almost romantic. The balcony outside my room gives off Romeo and Juliet vibes,though I somehow doubt I’ll ever find a lovestruck boy standing beneath it, spouting poetry. I suppose it’s fitting to have that particular story come to mind, considering they both die in the end. That’s what love is in my world:a death sentence.

I’m not sure if I loved Wesley. Ilikedhim, though, enough to sneak him into my room late at night and climb beneath the sheets with him. It was awkward and clumsy and nowhere near as satisfying as I imagined sex would be, but at least it was my choice.

Evidently, it was the last one I’d make for myself.

Stepping up to the wide stone railing, I lean my elbows against it, raising the apple to my mouth and sinking my teeth into the fruit as I look out over the sprawling property below. My eyes drink in my surroundings as I chew, flitting from the pristinely clipped lawn, to the meticulously maintained hedges, to the tangle of forest beyond. I mentally catalog every detail, mapping out possible escape routes in my mind until a blur of movement catches my eye.

I perk up at the sight of the large black dog trotting along the border of the lawn, as if he’s hard at work doing a perimeter check. I smile as I watch him for a few seconds, still munching on the apple as the seed of an idea begins to take shape in my mind.

Pushing off from the railing, I spin around and head back inside, grabbing a blueberry muffin from the basket of pastries on the table and tucking it into the pocket of my sweater.

If I’m going to escape, I’ll need a sound plan. And the first step is familiarizing myself with the security around here.

5

Itug the sleeves of my sweater down over my hands, a chill settling in my bones as I glance up at the crumbling stone façade of the castle-like structure of my new home. I have to admit, the ghoulish appearance of this house suits my new husband’s demeanor like a glove. As scary and imposing as I thought this mansion was when we first pulled up to it yesterday, it’s not nearly as terrifying as the man himself.

Part of me is surprised that I wasn’t tackled on my way out the front door and forced back inside. Then again, the only place I’ve been expressly forbidden from entering is Roman’s wing of the house. Nobody has said anything about going outside, so I may as well take my chances and try to get a handle on the layout of the property while I can.High risk, high reward, right?

Much like the interior of the home, it’s eerily quiet out here, too. There’s no sign of the aged groundskeeper I saw yesterday pruning the hedges, and the dog I spotted from the balcony earlier doesn’t appear to have stuck around, either. Even the birds seem to have fled the trees, off singing their songs somewhere else. Probably someplace where the air isn’t so damn suffocating.

Treading a path across the lawn, I make my way around the west side of the manor, aiming to identify the balcony connected to my bedroom. I find it easily enough since it appears to be the only one on the second floor of the west wing, but before I can go about scouting potential footholds in the stone to get from the balcony down to the ground level, a blur of motion across the lawn catches my attention.

The dog!

“Here, boy!” I call eagerly, crouching down and making kissy noises in an effort to entice the animal closer.

He freezes, turning his head in my direction and staring me down.

Okay, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.The dog suddenly looks a whole lot bigger than he did from the vantage point of my balcony– and a whole lot meaner, too. His body is thick and muscular, the tan markings around his face standing out in contrast to the rest of his black fur. I think he’s a Rottweiler or some other similarly intimidating breed.

Before I have a chance to rethink my approach, the dog comes running toward me at a dead sprint, eating up the distance between us in a matter of seconds. He skids to a stop mere inches away, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a snarl as he eyes me warily.

“Hi, boy,” I say sweetly, boldly extending a hand for him to sniff. “Look how pretty you are! Such a handsome fella…”

The dog moves closer, nose twitching as he sniffs the tips of my fingers.

“I’m not scary, see?” I sing-song, slowly retracting my hand. Then I reach down into the pocket of my sweater, brandishing the muffin from breakfast and holding it out to him. “How about a special treat for a special boy?”

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