I hesitated, my fingers digging into my coat as I searched for any sign of a playboy trying to dig his way out of a predicament. But if that was the case, why would he seek me out?
“Fine,” I said, though the word felt like it scraped on the way out. “Start talking. But know that it won’t change a damn thing.”
He flinched.
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, and I started to think he wouldn’t say a word. Maybe he’d changed his mind, but then he spoke, voice rough.
“My wife was committed to a psychiatric facility six years ago.”
I gasped, the raw honesty behind his declaration undeniable.
He stepped closer, his gaze drifting somewhere I couldn’t follow. “She wasn’t ill when we got married. Although she wasalways… different. Then we got pregnant, and everything went south.
“I tried everything, Violet. I mean everything. I eliminated any stressors. Surrounded her with things she loved. I flew in the best doctors. Nothing helped.” His voice turned hollow. “Her episodes worsened. I tolerated them… as long as her violent outbursts were only aimed at me.”
I swallowed, a chill creeping up my spine.
“What do you mean?” I whispered.
He let out a broken, humorless laugh.
“She tried to poison me. Cut me. Kill me in my sleep. No matter. I eventually learned how to watch for signs that she was up to something.” He took a deep breath before he carried on. “Then our son was born. For a while, I thought—hoped—she was getting better.”
Hope.
The word lingered in the air between us.
“Until I found her one day standing over our three-month-old son’s cot, trying to suffocate him.” The image slammed into me, vivid and horrifying, and my hand flew to my mouth before I could stop it. “That was the day I had her committed to a private clinic, and she’d been there ever since.”
The loneliness in his gaze filled the holes in the story I’d been crafting since I left him in that dark penthouse. I understood him and his solitude better than most.
Mental illness was difficult on the patient, but it could be even harder on their families. It often had a ripple effect that extended beyond the patient and impacted psychological, financial, and emotional distress on their close relatives. Families and caregivers often experienced stress, social isolation, grief, and “survivor’s syndrome.”
However, that didn’t excuse his behavior nor my role in it. In fact, one could argue it made us even more guilty.
My chest ached for him.
“Gosh, Lykos. I’m so sorry.”
“Then you came along, after six years of…” He pushed his hand through his thick, dark hair, making a mess out of it. “After six years of loneliness, and you asked me to get out of that bar with you. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t strong enough to say no.”
“Nonetheless, Lykos…” My voice softened, but I held his gaze. “You should have told me you were married before I had sex with you.”
“I know.”
His eyes closed briefly, like the words physically hurt.
I felt sorry for him. I really did. But that didn’t make it right. Even if I understood him better now.
I put my hand on his arm, extending as much physical comfort as I could without my own heart cracking.
He opened his eyes, and I registered the glimmer of hope.
“Be mine, Violet,” he rasped, placing his big palm over mine and stepping closer. “Be my mistress. I’ll be faithful to you.”
I blinked, certain that I’d misheard him. But I hadn’t, and it felt like I’d been slapped.
I reeled back. “No.”
