"You told me Elena was the love of your life," I said. "And now you're telling me I am. You can't have both."
"Elena was the love of my life. But she's dead. She's been dead for twenty years. And you—you're alive. You're here. You're real." He reached for me again, and this time I let him take my hands. "I loved her. I'll always love her. But I love you too. Is that so hard to believe?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I'm a tool to you. A means to an end. You said it yourself—you're using me to draw out your wife's killers."
"That's not all you are."
"It's enough."
He pulled me closer, his hands cupping my face, his forehead pressing against mine.
"You can hate me," he said. "You can leave. But you'll never find anyone who loves you the way I do. The way we do. You're ours, Monika. You were ours the moment you pulled that bullet out of my side."
I slapped him.
The sound echoed in the foyer, sharp and loud. His head snapped to the side, and I saw the red mark blooming on his cheek. He didn't flinch. He didn't pull away.
He kissed me.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not a tender kiss. It was a kiss of desperation, of hunger, of everything he couldn't say. I bit his lip—hard, drawing blood. He tasted like copper, like salt, like the tears I wouldn't let fall.
He pushed me against the wall, his body hard against mine. His hands were rough, tearing at my clothes, and I let him. I let him because I was angry. Because I was hurt. Because I didn't know how else to feel.
He fucked me against the wall, rough and fast, his fingers digging into my hips. I clawed at his back, leaving marks, drawing blood. The pain was a relief—something I could feel, something that wasn't the hollow ache in my chest.
"I hate you," I said. "I hate you."
"I know."
"I should have left the moment I saw the cages."
"I know."
"I should have called the police. I should have run."
"You didn't." He thrust deeper, harder, his forehead pressed against mine. "You stayed. You're still here. That's love, Monika. That's the only kind of love I know."
I came with a sob, my body shuddering against his. He followed a moment later, his face buried in my neck, his breath hot against my skin.
When it was over, we slid to the floor, tangled in each other, the marble cold against my back. I stared at the ceiling, at the painted angels, at the god who wasn't watching.
"I don't know if I love you," I said. "Or if I'm just too tired to fight."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Does it matter?"
I didn't have an answer.
We lay on the floor until the sun rose.
The light crept through the windows, painting the foyer in shades of gold and pink. I could hear the servants stirring in the kitchen, the distant sound of water running, the soft murmur of voices.
I should have gotten up. I should have gone to my room, showered, pretended this hadn't happened.
But I didn't.
