Page 13 of Split

I don’t even look at him as he retakes his seat beside me, nor when my glass is replenished after the bottle is uncorked.

For the rest of the evening, I sit there beside him sipping my wine, playing the role he told me to ascribe to from our first meeting.

I’m seen, and not heard.

7

I’ve always been a heavy sleeper. Our housekeeper used to tease me about it, saying she could run the vacuum around my bed and it wouldn’t even rouse me.

Since I moved into Roman’s haunted mansion, however, I don’t sleep as deeply. Maybe it’s the fact that the house is so quiet to begin with, but every creak has me cracking my eyes open, casting a way glance toward my door through the pitch black.

My first night here, every noise was a false alarm, and thus my restlessness was in vain.

Tonight, that’s not the case.

I wake with a start to the sound of the lock on my bedroom door turning over, the hinges creaking as it’s slowly pushed open. Jolting up in bed, I clutch the covers tightly to my chest, staring into the inky darkness.

For a second, I’m not sure if I really heard the door open or if my mind’s just playing tricks on me in my exhausted delirium. Then I hear the soft thud of footsteps moving across the room toward me, the little hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as I see Roman emerge from the shadows in front of my bed like a specter.

“What are you doing in here?” I hiss, both frightened by his sudden intrusion and angry that he just barged into my room uninvited.

He doesn’t respond. I eye him nervously as he approaches the opposite side of my bed, dressed in a simple dark t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. It’s a little jarring to see him without the suit, his usually coiffed hair in a state of rugged dishevelment. I’m so caught off guard by this entire situation that I just watch in a suspended state of shock as he reaches down to pull back the covers, sliding into bed next to me.

My whole body tenses as he shuffles closer beneath the blankets, his arm darting out to clamp firmly around my waist and yank me back down to lie beside him.

“W-what are you doing?” I sputter, my back going rigid as he pulls it tight against the solid wall of muscle that makes up his broad chest.

“Sleeping with my wife,” he murmurs, his hand tucking up underneath my silk camisole, palm splaying wide against my belly.

My heart races, mouth going dry. His warm breath skates over the back of my neck, his hard body firmly anchored against mine. With the way he’s pinning me, his hand pressed to my stomach and his leg locked over mine, I can barely move an inch.

“I don’t want you in here!” I whisper-shout, trying in vain to wriggle free from his iron grip.

“Well that’s too damn bad,” he chuckles, grinding his hips forward.

My breath catches as I feel the hard ridge of his cock riding against my ass, his hand on my belly sliding up higher beneath my camisole, fingers toying with my nipple.

“Stop!” I grit out through clenched teeth, grabbing onto his forearm and digging my fingernails into his flesh.

It doesn’t deter him in the least. Instead, it seems to encourage him. His chest rumbles against my back with something that sounds like a growl, low and demonic. Rather than fear, heat licks up my spine.

It has to be a biological response, nothing more. I don’twantRoman in my bed, I don’twantto feel his hands on me. I know for a fact that this isn’t something Iwant, yet my back arches to chase his touch, my teeth sinking into the cushion of my lower lip to stifle a whimper as he pinches my nipple hard.

“I can feel how fast your pulse is racing, hear how your breath keeps hitching,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as his hand leaves my breast and glides up to wrap around my throat. “And you might not even realize it, but you’re pushing your ass back against my cock right now. You may say you want me to stop, but your body is telling me something else entirely, pet.”

I’m stunned to silence, throat bobbing beneath his palm with a hard swallow.

I should kick, fight, scream, bite… but instead, I whisper, “Did you fuck that waitress?”

Roman goes quiet for a long moment, the silence stretching between us endlessly as his fingers flex their grip around my throat. He’s not applying pressure to restrict my breathing, but his hand remains locked in place, almost as a warning of how easily he could.

“Yes,” he finally utters, and a wave of white-hot rage spears through me.

“Get off!” I grunt, clawing at his hand on my neck and fighting in earnest to get free.

It’s almost laughable how effortlessly he keeps me restrained. “No.”

With one hand still firmly locked around my throat, he wrestles the other down the front of my shorts, shoving it between my legs to force them apart.

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