Page 25 of Split

Good riddance.

12

Following Dr. Hargrove’s departure, I don’t leave my room to wander the manor grounds as I’d originally planned. I don’t bring the little bag of treats to the dogs or explore the hedge maze I spotted from the tower. Instead, I just lie in bed, my stomach twisted in knots and a feeling of revulsion taking root inside me as I consider the true purpose of the doctor’s visit and what it means for this sham of a marriage I’ve found myself trapped in.

My husband wants to fuck me.

Hewillfuck me, and there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it. When I signed that marriage license, it was as good as a transfer of ownership from my father to Roman Volkov. Once he confirms I have a clean bill of health, he’ll claim what’s his– whether I like it or not.

Iwon’tlike it. Despite my body’s betrayal the night he snuck in my bed and forced his hand between my legs, IknowI won’t, because it’shim. I’m as terrified of Roman as I am attracted to the man, and while I may be required to perform my wifely duties for him, I won’t be deriving any enjoyment out of dancing with the devil.

The door to my room creaks open, and I glance over to see Clara coming in with a laundry hamper grasped in her hands. Her eyes widen in surprise when she sees I’m still in here wallowing, then her lips turn down in a disapproving frown as she marches toward me.

“Get out of bed, it’s almost noon,” she scolds, stooping to pick up my silk pajama set from the floor at the foot of the bed. “You’re having lunch with Mr. Volkov today in the dining room, he’s expecting you in ten minutes.”

My throat tightens in panic, my fingers twisting the bedsheets in my grip. “Ten minutes fromnow?” I rasp, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.

Clara straightens, flicking me an annoyed glance. “Yes, you’ll be dining atnoon,” she replies impatiently. “Now go on, I can’t make your bed with you still in it.”

I’m not sure what crawled up Clara’s ass today, but she’s even more prickly than usual and I don’t have the energy right now to fight back. With a heavy sigh, I force myself up and out of bed, striding past her to the bathroom to freshen up before heading downstairs.

When I emerge, Clara’s lingering right outside the bathroom door with a hanger in her grasp. “Change into this,” she directs, thrusting the crimson-colored garment at me. “Red lips.”

“I threw away the red lipstick,” I mutter as I eye the dress dangling from the hanger, my nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Who do you think empties the wastebaskets?” she scoffs, shoving the hanger into my chest so I have no choice but to take it from her. “I put them back in your vanity.”

I grind my molars as she turns on a heel and walks away, fighting an internal battle with myself over whether to comply. Bucking the system didn’t work out too well for me the first night. If something as simple as putting on a dress and lipstickmakes my life here a little easier, I’d probably be wise to choose my battles.

That doesn’t mean I don’t curse his name while changing my clothes and painting my lips.

I’m immediately on edge when I leave the safety of my bedroom, anxiety sinking its claws in deep and refusing to let go. With each step down the stairs, my heart thumps harder, my palms going clammy against the stone banister and a shiver racing up my spine.

We haven’t had lunch together at the manor before. Roman’s typically gone during the day, and I’ve taken to eating lunch alone in the parlor, watching the dogs run around the lawn through the large picture windows. The dining room is dark and windowless. Nothing about it is inviting, and as I make my way from the foyer down the hall, every step closer only ramps up the urge to turn and run.

Iwillrun, just notyet. Notnow.

Now,I’ll join my husband for lunch, dressed exactly how he likes. I’ll sit in the chair beside him and engage in polite conversation, and I won’t talk back or even give him grief about the unwelcomed doctor’s visit. I’ll do what I have to in the name of self-preservation until I can make a clean getaway.

Finding my resolve, I step into the dining room with my head held high, only for every ounce of confidence to drain out of me as soon as I lock eyes with the man seated at the head of the table. My husband’s penetrating green-eyed stare is harsh and unwavering, and I immediately know this isn’t going to be a quiet, uneventful meal like our last one together was, because the man sitting there isn’t the Roman from last night.

It’s the Roman from the tower. The angry, volatile fracture of his personality that makes my blood turn to ice in my veins with a single glance. I grind to a halt in the doorway, my breath catching and my heart stuttering in my chest.

The corner of his mouth quirks up in amusement at my reaction. “Come here, pet,” he commands, leaning back in his chair and patting a palm against his thigh.

Though everything inside me is screaming to turn around and run, I drag in a deep breath, shore up what’s left of my bravado, and begin striding over to the far end of the table where he’s seated. I falter a step when the grandfather clock in the hall begins to chime, the ominous tone creating a fitting backdrop for my death march. Roman’s eyes drop to tour my form as I draw closer, mapping out every inch of me until I come to a stop beside his chair and his gaze pings up to meet mine.

I barely move. Barely breathe. I just stand there frozen, waiting for him to tell me what he wants.

He pats his thigh again, dipping his chin in command.

I cringe internally, physically unable to force myself to move. This is all too familiar, far too reminiscent of that first dinner here in this room. I remain frozen, rooted to the spot I’m standing in, paralyzed by the mental whiplash.

Roman reaches out to snatch my wrist with an impatient grunt and yanks me down onto his lap. All the air leaves my lungs on impact, my muscles going rigid, but he ignores my obvious discomfort as he effortlessly repositions me to his liking, shifting my body around like his personal ragdoll until I’m sitting sideways and he can see my face. He stares into my eyes intently, reaching up to thumb my lower lip as his own part to speak.

“You didn’t cooperate with the doctor today,” he muses, his gaze dropping to track the sweeping movement of his digit against my lip.

“I submitted to the pregnancy and blood tests,” I say quietly, my lips brushing the pad of his thumb with every hushed word. “I allowed him to place the implant. I just wasn’t comfortable with the…otherexamination.”

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