Page 46 of Split

“Ow!” I shriek, jerking away from him and rolling over to sit up.

Roman flops back on the bed, bringing his arms up behind his head and reclining against the pillows with a sated smirk. “Go on,” he drawls, tipping his head toward the door. “Back to your wing.”

My jaw goes slack. “But…”

“Butwhat, you didn’t get to come?” he scoffs, lifting a brow. “I did say this was a punishment, didn’t I?”

I blink at him disbelievingly, my lower lip trembling in fury. I’m so tightly wound that every muscle in my body is tense, my heart beating a riot in my chest.

“Maybe next time, you’ll think twice about defying me,” he adds smugly.

I suddenly understand why female black widow spiders eat the male after mating, because right now, I want nothing more than to rip my husband’s head off his shoulders and bathe in his blood. My chest heaves as I glare daggers at Roman, fingers itching to wrap around his throat and squeeze the life out of him.

It takes everything in me to swallow my vehemence and climb off the bed. I strut across the room and gather my clothes from the floor, balling them up in my arms and marching for the door without so much as a backward glance.

I half expect the dogs to be waiting for me when I emerge from Roman’s room, but they’re nowhere to be found when I step out into the hall and scurry back toward my own wing of the manor. If I wasn’t naked and suffering from being edged within an inch of my life, I might go looking for them, but there’s a more pressing need I have to tend to.

I return to my room and go right for the shower, cranking it on and jumping underneath the spray before it even has a chance to get warm. The freezing water sluices over my skin, punching the air from my lungs as I drop a hand between my legs and frantically rub my clit, needing to come more than I need oxygen. Visions of my husband dance through my mind as I work to grant myself the release I so desperately need, shame setting in when the image of his naked body makes me unravel.

Because I hate him.

And I hate myself for not fully believing that I do anymore.

20

My cardigan is still hanging in the back of my closet, the key and photograph safely hidden in the pocket. I tucked it away the night Roman caught me, figuring that if he came looking for the items I stole, he wouldn’t likely think to rummage through my clothes. He hasn’t come looking yet, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been on my best behavior in the days since he caught me snooping so I don’t draw further suspicion.

I’m just too curious for my own good.

I’m definitelynotactively plotting my escape.

Maybe once I make my getaway, I’ll pursue work as an actress somewhere. I have no formal training, but I’ve been putting on an Oscar-worthy performance for my husband.

Unfortunately, my plans are currently on hold so I don’t run the risk of getting caught again. Once can be written off as a mistake. Twice, and he’ll know I’m up to something. I’m sure Roman would jump at the chance to dole out another one of his punishments, but I’d rather not be edged within an inch of my life again. Or worse, if my theory about what happened to the former Mrs. Volkov proves true.

Now, when I feel the shadow in my room at night, I think ofher– the woman in the photograph. And I’m honestly not sure which is more unsettling; the fact that I now know what she looked like, or that she looked likeme.

I guess my husband has a type.

All the more reason to lay low and bide my time until I can escape him.

The trouble is, as much as I despise the man, some part of me inexplicably craves his attention.

Call it boredom.

Call it madness.

Whatever it is, the thrill of capturing and holding that attention has become like an addiction I can’t kick– I keep right on chasing the high despite knowing it’s hazardous to my health. My morbid fascination with tempting the devil is the reason I’m wearing my red robe over my pajamas tonight instead of my black one. It’s the reason I’m wandering toward the study before bed to exchange the poetry book I’d borrowed for something new, knowing full well that he’s lurking inside.

Even after weeks of cohabitating, the sight of Roman still gives me pause when I enter a room. He’s disarmingly handsome; deceptively appealing to the eye. But I’ve become well-acquainted with the monster hidden beneath that beautiful skin.

I don’t catch him in the act of doing anything nefarious. To the contrary, he’s more relaxed and unassuming than I’ve ever seen him, settled on one of the sofas by the fire with a book in his hands. He glances up from the pages of the novel in his grasp as I enter the study, the two of us holding eye contact for a beat before his gaze drops to the poetry book I’m carrying.

“Interesting choice,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

I make a scoffing sound in my throat. “You’ve actually read it?”

“Why else would I own it?” he replies, arching a dark brow.

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