Were I to play by Robert’s rules, my next action would be to huddle on the middle of the bed and wait for his return. Only then could I bathe, and change the sheets, and finally rebuild my armor piece by piece. He’d break me down all over again, but that was the point. He liked me cleanly refreshed like a reset game board.
Now…
I run the bath, turning the water to scalding. Lying in the center of the tub, I wait until the water reaches my chin, bathing sore, battered limbs. I let time wash the pain away while my heartbeat settles into a gentle rhythm. In this sliver of peace, I try to forget both the man I was taken from and the man still inside me.
One dies quietly, his memories easily silenced.
The other…lingers. I smell him, even here. His flavor develops on the tip of my tongue, making it impossible to forget that I don’t crave him how a woman should want a man. I don’t want softness. No, I’m addicted to the sting of his poison. I like the way it feels when it’s dribbled into my open wounds. The pain is different from what I’m used to. A distraction.
A drug.
My heartbeat flutters even before I sense that I’m no longer alone. I feel his breath first, ruffling my damp hair and basting my wet flesh. Alarmed, I fling my eyes open to his hardened expression. His narrow as they take in my half-submerged body. Is he surprised by my deviation from our usual script?
If so, he hides his shock well. The muscles in his arms ripple as he crosses them over his chest and cocks his head in an animalistic manner, like a wolf sizing up half-eaten prey. Does it deserve a killing blow yet? Or should it suffer a little longer?
“I want to know who you are,” he says without revealing his final decision. “Not that bullshit you spewed before. Who you arereally.”
What a question. I draw my knees beneath my chin, wrapping my arms around them. Hot water continues to flood in, causing steam to waft from the surface. “I…I don’t know what you mean—”
“Start with your parents,” he suggests gruffly, “Who were they?”
“I never knew my father,” I admit. “And my mother was a maid—”
“Don’t.” Suddenly, he’s crouched beside the tub. The shadow he casts over the water reinforces his presence without him even having to touch me. “Don’t lie to me, Little One,” he warns. “You think I haven’t shown my mercy when you have before? You thought I didn’t notice?”
A shudder runs down my spine, making the water slosh against the sides of the tub. It’s not fear of him that triggers the reaction, but of the words he wants to hear. The ones I’ve locked away for over twenty-three years.
Slowly, I draw in a ragged breath and brace the whole side of my face against my knee, eyeing the wall opposite him.
“My mother’s name was Marnie Winthorp,” I say haltingly. There’s no point in holding anything back, so I don’t. “Yes,that Marnie.Yes, Robert Sr.’s second wife.Yes, Briar’s mother.”
Our mother.
“But,” I add haltingly. “I am not Robert Sr.’s daughter.”