Page 44 of Split

The first thing I see is a shiny black handgun. I pause to consider whether I should take it, but then something else catches my eye– a photograph resting just beneath the barrel of the firearm. Reaching into the drawer, I carefully shift the gun aside, lifting the picture to get a better look.

My blood turns to ice in my veins the moment my brain registers what I’m looking at. It’s a woman– blonde, petite, and around my age. A woman who looks startlingly likeme.

My breath catches, pulse taking off at a gallop as I shove the photo into my pocket and spin back around, rushing for the door.

I need to get out of here.

Everyone refuses to talk about the former Mrs. Volkov, but she clearly met some untimely demise.

This must be her.

She looks like me.

Am I next?

I’m two steps from the threshold when Roman suddenly appears in the doorway, his towering form casting a long shadow and blocking my retreat. I stop in my tracks at the sight of him, mouth popping open in shock.

“What are you doing in here, Eliza?” he demands, his voice a low, eerie monotone.

My heart trips over its valves, lungs seizing. “I-I thought you were out for the night,” I sputter, slinking back a step.

He swipes a hand over his chin, his intense green-eyed gaze slowly raking over me from head to toe. “Change of plans,” he murmurs. “Didn’t Clara tell you?”

FuckingClara. As if I didn’t already despise that bitch.

“N-no,” I reply feebly, my hands trembling as I wring them in front of me.

There’s a handgun in the top drawer of the desk. If I can just get ahold of it…

“You know you’re forbidden from entering this wing of the manor,” Roman sighs, shaking his head in disapproval as he advances a step closer.

I match it with a step of my own backwards, preserving the distance between us while remaining acutely aware of just how far I am from the desk.

Maybe I can make a run for it. I’ll just have to hope the gun’s loaded…

“Since you broke the rules, I’m afraid I’ll have to punish you,” he drawls, eyes sparkling in twisted delight as he dips his chin. “On your knees, pet.”

My breath hitches, a fresh surge of adrenaline spearing through me. I have two options– take my chances with the gun or take my chances with his punishment. Both are equally as dangerous, yet only one excites me.

Holding my husband’s gaze, I slowly lower myself to the floor in surrender like the obedient, docile wife he thinks I am, praying that my compliance will spare me the worst of his wrath. The corner of his mouth lifts in satisfaction when my knees hit the hardwood, as if he wasn’t expecting me to obey so easily.As if he hasn’t been trying to condition this exact behavior.He thinks he’s in control, but I’ve learned that there’s power here on my knees.

Roman closes the remaining distance between us in two long strides, reaching out to rest a large hand atop my head. “Good girl,” he murmurs, stroking my hair back gently.

I release a breathy exhale as his praise washes over me like a drug, my internal scales tipping from fear to arousal on a dime. It’s amazing how quickly the tides can shift nowadays, as if my body has become attuned to his signals. I don’t need to be afraid of him when he’s looking at me like he is right now. That’s lust for my body in his eyes, not for my blood.

It’s exhausting to put on an act for my husband every day, but this is the only time I don’t have to play pretend with him. I like it when he uses me as his own personal fuck-toy. When I’m lost to the sensations of pain or pleasure, my mind goes gloriouslyblank and I forget that I’m trapped here; forget that I married a monster. There’s a freedom in letting go that I’ve come to crave.

He nods to his belt and I reach for it, unfastening the buckle and popping the button on his slacks. It’s evident how hard he is from the bulge straining against the fabric, but I still draw a short gasp when I reach inside and my palm meets the velvet of his skin, his breath hitching as I wrap my fingers around his steel and pull him out. He’s hot and heavy in my hand as I stroke him, licking my lips and gazing up into his eyes demurely.

“Open up,” Roman commands, his fingers tightening in my hair to tug me closer. “Stick out your tongue.”

I instantly comply, tasting the saltiness of his precum as the tip of his cock presses against it. Licking it away, I swirl my tongue over his broad head, still pumping him in my fist while awaiting my next directive.

“Suck.”

Closing my lips around his tip, I hollow out my cheeks, sucking hard as I glide down his shaft to take more of him in my mouth. He groans in pleasure, pinpricks of pain breaking out over my scalp as the hand in my hair tightens. Then he drives his hips forward, forcing me to let go and swallow him deeper, my hands landing on his thighs to brace myself for the onslaught as he starts roughly fucking my throat.

I choke around his girth, fighting for air as tears spring to my eyes and spit dribbles down my chin. My distress only seems to heighten his arousal, those piercing green eyes turning molten as his tip punches at the back of my throat with every brutal thrust. He shoves his cock in deeper until my lips are kissing the base, keeping me there with his tight hold on my hair while I gag around him. My lungs seize with the need for oxygen, hands clawing at this thighs, black spots dotting my vision.

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