Page 34 of Split

Am I destined to meet the same fate and become one of the manor’s many ghosts?

That’s the macabre thought keeping me from falling into a state of complacency as I go about the same routine, day afterday. I wake up to Clara delivering breakfast and daydream about escaping as I sip my coffee. I feed the dogs biscuits and conjure up plans to gain my freedom while walking the grounds with them trotting happily alongside me. Sometimes I stop by the garden shed to chat with Lev, hoping he’ll slip up and give me some nugget of information to use against my husband, while others, I just aimlessly wander the estate, committing every detail of the layout to memory.

Fourteen steps from the front door to the driveway. Sixty-four steps from the southwest corner of the manor to the hedges. Seventy-six steps from the back door off the study to the dog kennels.

I’ve given up on the hedge maze for now, but I did finally work up the courage to explore the family cemetery plot beside it a few days ago. The crumbling, decrepit gravestones and eerie mausoleum are straight out of a horror movie, so I didn’t stick around long. It’s not as if the dead can offer anything to aid in my getaway– they’re just as trapped here as I am.

Despite Roman’s warning to keep out, I’ve been checking the door to the tower every time he leaves the house.Still locked.A handful of the other doors in the manor have remained locked, too, but that doesn’t mean I don’t test the handles each time I pass by. I’ve heard that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different result, and if that’s true, then maybe I’m slowly going insane.

In a quiet lagoon, devils dwell.That’s what my grandfather used to say, and the silence around the manor lately makes me uneasy. I’m constantly on guard, living in a perpetual state of fight or flight. Tonight, I’m so jumpy that even the crackle of the fire burning in the study’s hearth has been making me flinch. Clara lit it with the promise that it’d put off enough heat to chase away the autumn chill, but nothing can alleviate the cold sense of foreboding that’s settled in my bones ever since Roman failedto appear in the dining room for our nightly meal. According to Clara, he’s just working late, but the break in routine has me feeling even more on edge than usual.

In an effort to distract my restless mind, I’m once again buried in the brittle pages of Jekyll and Hyde, cocooned beneath a cashmere throw blanket while curled atop one of the sofas beside of the fire. I’ve just gotten to the big reveal in the novel– that Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde are one and the same– and though I know it’s a work of fiction, I can’t help but draw parallels between the book’s characters and the man I’ve been living with. Much like Jekyll and Hyde, my husband seems to have a split personality. But unlike the story, I somehow doubt Roman will off himself to spare the world his dark side.

As if summoned by my thoughts, the familiar thud of his approaching footsteps sounds from the hall, rousing Nox and Vesper from the nap they’ve been taking in front of the fire. They perk up and look toward the open doorway of the study while I cast my own nervous glance in the same direction, breath catching when Roman steps through and our gazes collide.

He looks more exhausted than I’ve ever seen him. Dark circles rim his eyes, and his typically well-groomed hair is in a state of dishevelment, like he’s been running his hands through it nonstop. As my eyes drop to take in his appearance, I notice his designer suit is rumpled and the crisp white dress shirt underneath is splattered with crimson, telling of what sort of ‘business’ kept him out so late.

For most women, seeing their husband arrive home with bloodstains on his clothes would be cause for alarm. I grew up in this world, though, and this is far from the first time I’ve seen someone enter a room wearing the blood of their enemies.

“Rough day at the office?” I ask, arching a brow as my gaze lifts to meet his again.

“You could say that,” he murmurs in response, stepping over to the bar cart. Glass clinks as he goes about pouring himself a drink, and I take that as my cue to leave, tossing the blanket off my body and sliding my bare feet down to the floor.

Right as I’m pushing up to stand, Roman speaks again.

“Have a drink with me.”

It’s spoken in such an even tone that I’m not sure whether it’s a question or a command. I’ve become somewhat adept at navigating Roman’s mood swings, and I’ve been adjusting my own behavior accordingly to suit whichever version of him I’m dealing with. Right now, I can’t get a good read on him, though. I’m not sure which monster I’m facing or how carefully I need to tread.

I’m still perched on the edge of the couch, frozen in indecision when he turns back around with a crystal tumbler in each hand, evidently deciding on my behalf. Eating up the distance between us in long strides, he thrusts one toward me in offering.

I reach out to take it, observing how Roman’s gaze lingers on the purple bruising decorating my right wrist. He always seems strangely unsettled when he sees the bruises he’s left on my skin, like he’s caught off guard by his own strength. They didn’t hurt when he inflicted them, though. As he was pinning my wrists to the wall above my head, pounding between my thighs, all I knew was soul-sucking, mind-numbing pleasure. The kind that I have no right feeling with a man I despise.

I’ve decided that my penchant for pain must be some sort of trauma response to the abuse I’ve endured in the past. My father liked to smack me around, and somewhere along the line, my wires must’ve gotten crossed in my brain. I shouldn’t enjoy feeling pain, but in the right context, some part of me does. I shouldn’t get off on the thrill of it, but I do…and so does Roman.

We’re a match made in hell.

Dropping onto the sofa across from me, he turns his gaze toward the fire, popping the top button on his collar with one hand and lifting his glass to his lips with the other. I raise my own drink, the pungent scent of vodka tickling my nose. I’m sure it’s expensive, but I typically prefer my vodka chilled. Then again, I suppose it’ll steel my nerves either way.

Right as I touch the rim of the glass to my lips, a muffled thump sounds overhead, making me flinch. “Is Clara still here?” I ask tentatively, eyes darting up to the ceiling.

Roman takes another swallow of vodka before lowering his tumbler to rest on the arm of the couch. “She left when I arrived,” he replies curly. “It’s just the manor settling.”

“Seems to be a lot of that,” I mutter, taking a sip from my own glass to tamp down my anxiety. “I’m starting to think this place is haunted.”

The corner of his mouth lifts infinitesimally, his piercing green eyes meeting mine. “Do you believe in ghosts, Eliza?”

“I think so,” I quietly admit. “I never thought much of stuff like that before, but since moving in here…” I roll my lower lip between my teeth as I trail off, darting a nervous glance around the room.

“Well, this is a very old house,” he states cryptically.

My brows shoot up, eyes pinging back to meet his again. “Are you saying itishaunted?”

He shrugs a shoulder, trailing a fingertip along the rim of his glass. “In a sense. There’s a lot of history clinging to the walls of this place. And in a house this old, there’s bound to be creaks and groans, shadows…”

“There’s a shadow in my room,” I blurt.

Roman stares back at me, his jaw set tight.

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