I let Cole walk me down the hall.
He guides me to one of the stools at the high counter opposite the fridge, eyeing me like a raptor as I take a shaky seat. Only when my palms are spread on the marble worktop, steadying me, anchoring me, does he turn to the pantry.
Frowning, he retrieves a small jar of rosemary-dusted marcona almonds. “Start with these,” he says, twisting off the lid.
“I don’t like?—”
“Eat.”
I fish out one nut and settle it on my tongue. The salt twists something deep inside me. I moan as my teeth shatter the buttery richness.
Cole only takes a moment to gloat. He turns to the refrigerator and lays out a feast. There are bright red strawberries and a pot of paté. A brick of white cheddar cheese and smoked gouda wrapped in red wax. He finds some of the tiny clementines Granny callsChristmas oranges, and apples, and slices of white-flecked red sausage layered between sheets of wax paper. A loaf of Anna’s sourdough waits in the bread box on the counter. Cole slips four thick slices into the Breville toaster before he makes me a cup of strong black tea.
At first I eat because it’s not worth fighting with Cole. But after the first few bites, I eat because I’m hungry. No. I’mravenous.
There’s a gulf inside me that can never be filled. Toast, fruit, meat—I need it all. It drags me away from the confrontation in the parlor. It carries me back from the Bad Men.
But no food on earth can make me forget thatI’mthe reason Pyotr Tarasov got into the house.Iopened the gate.Ibroke the rules. I deserve to be punished as much as Megan was.
More.
The bread knife lies on the counter, sunlight glinting off the ripples of its serrated edge. A paring knife gleams beside the apples. A short, sharp blade is half-buried in the cheddar.
The edges of those knives sing to me—Tarasov, gate, rules. I need the honed metal more than I need food, more than I need tea, more than I need Cole’s forgiveness.
The ladders of scars on my thighs start to itch. No. They burn.Tarasov, gate, rules.
I need to cut.
The sharp pain is the only way to stop my brain’s spiral—Tarasov, gate, rules.The magical flow of blood is the only way I can earn redemption. If I cut, I can make things right.
I can’t cut.
I promised Cole I would never cut again. Not after I lost control last time and let the scalpel go too deep. Not after he needed to call a doctor to save me.
But the knives are so, so bright.Tarasov, gate, rules.And my need is so, so strong.Tarasov, gate, rules.Cutting can win me a moment of feckin’ silence.Tarasov, gate, rules.
Cole can’t hear the knives singing from the counter. He doesn’t know. He picks up my mug and turns back to the kettle.
“Cole,” I whisper.
I thought my voice would be too soft for him to hear, but he whirls like I’ve screamed his name. Immediately, he’s on full alert, as if he needs to save me—from the police or from Tarasov or from my wicked past.
The knives are so perfect in the sunbeam.
“Help me,” I beg my husband. “Don’t let me cut.” And then I realize the one thing that can drown out the knives’ song. My voice reduces to wind shear and gravel. “Please,” I say. “Take me downstairs to the dungeon.”
4
COLE
I’m her Dom. I’m supposed to protect her.
My Kate is a wild creature. I’ve spent the past two months learning that lesson—starting at the Boston wedding where she threw a glass of champagne in my face because I foiled one of her online raids.
Left to her own devices, she’ll gnaw her own flesh to break free from a trap. Not that she’ll literally chew with her teeth… She uses a scalpel instead.
Twice, she promised she was through with that. The first time didn’t take—she cut deeper than ever before, until she needed stitches. I leashed her after, thinkingthatwould keep her safe.
