Page 47 of Split

I roll my eyes as I advance into the room, the lace hem of my red silk robe tickling my thighs with every step. “You can’t possibly have read all the books in this house.”

“All the ones worth reading,” he mumbles, his gaze touring my form as I draw closer.

“And this one is?” I ask dubiously, stopping in front of him and holding it up.

He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Do you not agree?”

I look down at the book in my hands. “All of the poems seemed pretty sappy to me,” I mutter.

“Maybe you’re not reading them with the right inflection,” Roman muses, closing his own book and setting it down on the cushion beside him. Then he relaxes back against the sofa, patting his thigh and beckoning me with a lift of his chin. “Come here, wife.”

I grit my teeth against the urge to refuse.This is all part of the game, right?I’m playing a role; shifting my pieces around on the board until I can call checkmate. Every move is a means to an end.

At least that’s what I tell myself as I step between his spread knees and sink down to rest on his thigh. As always, he immediately shifts my position to his liking, his arm circling my waist and pulling me back against his hard chest. The heat of his body leeches into me, my breath hitching when he plucks the poetry book from my hands and begins flipping through the pages.

It’s not an arbitrary perusal; it’s noticeably intentional, as if he’s looking for a particular poem. When he finally lands on it, he clears his throat and begins to read the words aloud. His chest vibrates against my back as he speaks, the deep hum of his voice practically lulling me into a trance.

I’ve already read all the poems in this book, but hearing the words from Roman’s tongue is a different experience entirely. The inflection he reads with breathes life into them, adding a flourish of color to the black and white print. I’m mesmerized.

A stab of disappointment spears through me as he reads the final words on the page, but then he begins flipping through the book again in search of another poem. The particularity with which he selects each one tells me that he’s quite familiar with this book, and I’m not sure which is more surprising– that, or the way his fingers begin idly toying with the strands of my hair while he reads aloud, as if there’s some modicum of affection between us.

I immediately dismiss that ridiculous notion, reminding myself of all the reasons I despise this self-righteous prick. Still, it’s strange to have a moment like this with him, when he’s being tender.

In moments like this, I wonder if I could grow to love him.

I startle at the sound of scratching against the back door, jerking my head up in alarm to see two pairs of warm brown eyes peering in at me through the pane of glass. It’s drizzling outside, and I’ve been liberal lately about inviting the dogs in to take refuge from the weather. I turn to look at Roman pleadingly, those emerald eyes locking with mine.

He dips his chin in a nod. “You can let them in.”

I spring up from Roman’s lap eagerly, my bare feet padding against the tile as I cross the study to open the door for Vesper and Nox. The two of them trot in happily and I drop down to a crouch and ruffle their fur, greeting them like I always do before rising back to my full height. When I swivel back around, I find Roman watching me intently, rubbing a hand over his chin in quiet contemplation.

I hate that I never know what he’s thinking, and I hate how much I want to know. I’d never ask, though. Maybe I’m better off not knowing.

The dogs advance further into the room, curling up by the fire for warmth, and for some inexplicable reason I return to my husband, climbing back on his lap of my own volition. He settles me against his chest and begins reading from the poetry book again, the deep octave of his voice lulling me into a trance once more. I don’t even flinch when he slips a hand inside my robe and slides it up underneath my shirt, massaging my breast as beautiful words flow from his lips.

“Have you ever been in love?” I wonder aloud when he reaches the end of a particularly sappy poem.

Roman suddenly snaps the book closed, a frown creasing his brow. “No.”

I sit up, twisting to face him. “But you were married before.”

“I was.”

“And you didn’t love her?”

“Men like me don’tlove, Eliza. You should know that, growing up in this world. Love has no place in it.”

“Then why even get married?” I scoff.

He slips his hand out from underneath my shirt, setting the poetry book aside. “You already know the answer to that.”

“Alliances.”

He dips his chin in a faint nod.

“Why bother with me, then?” I question. “Our fathers were already on friendly terms.”

Roman lifts a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Maybe I just enjoy collecting beautiful things,” he muses.

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