Page 7 of Split

His condescending tone sets my teeth on edge. “I’m not your pet, I’m yourwife,” I grit out.

He waves a hand dismissively, green eyes sparkling. “Semantics.” He taps his thigh again in command. “Now, wife. You’ll find I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

I want to scream at him, to tell him thatIdon’t like to be kept waiting either, but I doubt he considered that when he showed up at lunch twenty minutes late or strolled in here thirty minutes after I was told to arrive. It’s becoming very clear that this is Roman Volkov’s world and now I’m just living in it. I’d be smart to pick and choose my battles if I’m to have any prayer of survival.

Begrudgingly, I push my chair back from the table, easing to my feet.

He leans back in his own chair, swiping a hand over his chin as he takes in the sight of me in the gown he bought, eyes touring my body as I step closer. My cheeks burn in humiliation as I step around his spread knees and lower myself down to sit on his thigh, Roman’s hand landing on the small of my back to steady me. My breath catches in my throat at the sensation of his callused fingers grazing my bare spine, and I mentally cursemyself for choosing the backless dress over one of the other options.

With his other hand, he reaches out and drags one of the plates closer to him, picking up his fork to spear a roasted baby carrot. Then he lifts it, bringing it to my mouth.

“I don’t need you to feed me,” I grumble in protest.

Roman angles his head, meeting my eyes. “But it would please me.” He moves the fork closer to my mouth. “Don’t you want to please me?”

I narrow my eyes on him. “Do you want an honest answer?”

He lowers the fork with a sigh, resting it on the edge of the plate. The silver clatters against the china, the carrot still secured in the tines of the fork. “Sure, let’s be honest with one another, shall we?” he muses, the low tenor of his voice making the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“Fine,” I declare with a newfound surge of confidence, swiveling on his lap to face him and meeting his harsh glare with one of my own. “No, Roman, Idon’twant to please you. I don’t want you to feed me like a pet, and I don’t want to be told what to wear or how to act. This marriage wasn’t my choice, but we’re both stuck in it now, so we might as well get this all out in the open so we can figure out how to move forward amicably.”

A wave of relief washes over me as soon as the words tumble out of my mouth, like a weight I didn’t even realize I was carrying has finally been lifted. My whole life, I’ve been too afraid to stand up to my father, constantly allowing myself to be stepped on by the only man in my life. But that’s not how it has to be anymore. I can be braver.Stronger.

My shot of courage is laughably short-lived.

Before I even realize what’s happening, Roman abruptly shoots to his feet, the arm banded around my waist taking me with him. He swipes the plates aside and bends me over the table in their place, slamming my front against the hard woodensurface. Wrenching one of my arms behind my back, he fists my hair tightly in his opposite hand, using his grip on it to press my cheek against the table and pinning me down with his weight against my back.

“Let’s get one thing straight,wife,” he growls, his face inches from mine as he hovers over me like a savage beast. “Your sole purpose from here on outis to please me. If I tell you to sit, you’ll sit. If I want to feed you, you’ll swallow every goddamn bite I put in your mouth. And if I want to fuck you, you’ll bend over, spread your pretty thighs, and take my cock like a good wife. Do you understand me,pet, or am I not making myself clear enough?” He punctuates that last assertion by grinding his hips forward roughly, the hard ridge of his cock rutting against my backside.

“Yes!” I whimper, the fingers of my free hand scrabbling for purchase against the tabletop as I pant for breath. His body is crushingly heavy on top of mine, squeezing all the air from my lungs.

“Yeswhat?” he snarls as he jerks my head back, tugging the strands of my hair so hard that tears spring to my eyes.

“Yes, sir!” I choke, assuming that’s what he’s seeking.

He abruptly releases me, rising to his full height and taking a step backwards to smooth the front of his suit jacket and straighten his cuffs. “Good girl.”

My body sags against the surface of the table, a tear sliding from the corner of my eye and across the bridge of my nose.

“Get up.”

This time, I don’t hesitate to do as I’m told. I press my palms to the wood, pushing up from the table to stand on shaky legs. The pearl clip that was holding my chignon in place hangs pathetically from the back of my head, my coiffed hairstyle ruined by Roman’s rough hands.

He doesn’t seem fazed by my disheveled appearance. He sinks down into his chair again, tapping his thigh in command.

I sit.

“Now,” he says, reaching out for one of the plates and sliding it back over in front of him. He picks up the fork, the carrot he tried to feed me earlier still held securely in its tines. “Eat.”

He raises it to my lips, and I open them obediently, taking the food into my mouth. As I chew, Roman reaches up to remove the clip from my hair with his other hand, combing his fingers through the long blonde strands and stroking them down my back. I suppress a shiver of disgust as I swallow past the lump in my throat, only for him to bring the fork to my mouth again, feeding me a piece of potato.

Even though I’m starving, I can’t bring myself to enjoy it. Bite after bite, with humiliation burning through me, I eat his food and endure his gentle stroking of my hair like the pampered pet he wants me to be. All the while, the rage burning inside me only grows, every morsel tasting like ash in my mouth.

4

By some miracle, Roman doesn’t make any attempt to consummate our marriage the first night. After dinner, the two of us part ways at the split in the staircase, him continuing on to the east wing while I retreat to the west. My sleep is fitful, and as soon as I wake the next morning, I begin plotting my escape.

I may not have anywhere to go or a dime to my name, but I’m willing to endure a life on the streets begging for scraps if it means never being subjected to another one of my husband’s dehumanizing power trips. A little piece of me died at the dinner table last night, somewhere between him force-feeding me bites of steak and stroking my hair down my back while calling me his good girl.

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