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“I killed him,” he says, so low that I barely hear him. “With my bare fucking hands.”
I close my eyes against the imagery, but it’s no use. I see Mischa, his hands drenched in blood, his teeth bared, his eyes flashing with crazed menace. And his voice… Something in the cold, satisfied tone he used makes my lips spring apart, rebelling against my common sense warning me to stay silent.
“Is that supposed to impress me?”
“It doesn’t,” he says, sounding unsurprised.
The rag returns to my hip and I jump, anticipating roughness. His pressure, however, never changes, even as his eyes darken.
“One man’s death would never impress the innocent Little Rose—”
“No one’s death would impress me.”
“Oh?” He laughs. “You’re wrong. For all your games, I won’t let you deny it now: All along, deep in your fragile, little soul, you knew he wasn’t dead. You tried resisting it.” He nods to my severed finger. “But you knew. And though you won’t say it out loud, you’re glad he’s still alive. Why?” he asks when I say nothing. “Because for all your fucking insistence to the contrary, you want to see him choke out his last fucking breath for yourself. You won’t believe it until you do. And you don’t want it any other way. Your precious Robert dies when you say he can. Isn’t that right, Little Rose?”
Rather than humor him with an answer, I close my eyes and cling to my one and only escape.Breathe. My nostrils flood with the steam from the running bath and the musk of his sweat, tainted with something sweeter. He scented the water with something. Oil? Soap? It smells like lavender, whatever it is. I can’t ignore it.
That stench makes all of this feel so fucking real. A nightmare wouldn’t be perfumed with flowers. Mischa’s touch wouldn’t be gentle over my bruised, broken limbs.
My heart wouldn’t be swollen with conflicting emotions, and tears wouldn’t be forming behind my eyes, desperate to fall.
I try to breathe, but in the end, all I can do is voice a plea that comes out as a whisper. “I don’t need your help.”
“Fine.”
My eyelids jolt upright as water splashes nearby. He threw the rag into the tub. Without looking back, he stands and marches to the door. Then he wrenches it open and slams it shut behind him. Beneath the pulse of rushing water, I hear myself wheeze as I try to catch my breath. Air is a fickle, elusive thing, rebelliously escaping my lungs.
Maybe I’m afraid. I want to be. Terror is much more preferable to guilt. Shame. Regret.
I attempt to bend for the rag, but it’s too far. I can’t reach the faucet, either—not that I’m left floundering for long. Mischa is like a dog. He’ll run away when spooked, only to circle back snarling, twice as aggressive as before.
“Sit up,” he commands, storming back into the room. He switches off the running water and snatches a new rag from a stack placed just beyond reach of the bench.
As I struggle to haul myself upright, he sinks to his knees and returns to washing me. He’s never too rough or intentionally causes pain. But his shoulders are rigid, his eyes downcast and stormy.
Consoling him feels more like a necessary survival tactic than any form of pity.
“Thank you,” I rasp as he stands and circles the bench. Warm water grazes my back next, soothing aches I didn’t even know I had. “For washing me—”
“For filling in forVanya, you mean?” His nasty tone betrays an emotion I don’t even think he’s aware of. Could it be wounded pride? “Let’s agree on something, Little Rose.”
He throws the rag down beside me and crouches low again, this time right near my side so that every word strikes my throat in a burst of heat.
“I know you want to be the helpless victim, and I am more than willing to indulge you.” He drags his thumb across my cheek, but there is no clinical care this time. He makes me flinch and smiles when I do. Despite the quirk of his lips, nothing reaches his eyes. They’re endless, fiery pits. “You willingly played the part of your husband’s dutiful doll…and now, you’re mine. I’ll make you dance and scream how I want to. I’ll keep you close, Ellen. So fucking close…” He’s nearer, murmuring each word in my ear. “I’ll make you choke on me. You’ll fucking hate me—but not because of him. Because you’ll need me more. You can’t fucking breathe without me.”
He rises to his feet and approaches the tub. After testing the water with his fingers, he cuts his gaze in my direction. Then he takes his shirt off before tossing it into a corner of the room.
My heart races with every step he advances toward me in no apparent rush. When he grabs me, I tense in anticipation of a pain that never comes.
He’s done this before. I’m sure of that one fact as he places me on the floor beside the tub and begins to encase my cast in something. Plastic. He secures it tightly over the entire plaster. Then he starts to unravel the bandages on my other leg. It must not be as injured as the other, just badly bruised. Sprained, I suspect when I wiggle the toes and wince as lightning-sharp heat surges through the muscle.
I’m resigned to the crippling senses of immobility when he lunges, plunging into the bath despite still wearing his slacks. The next second, I’m in his arms again.
My stomach lurches up my throat as my lower half descends into the warm liquid. I flail, my arms splashing uselessly as my head goes under. Water floods my nostrils, overwhelming my weak lungs—for a second. The next, I’m held tight against a firm, searing surface. Mischa. I’m clinging to him, my nails scraping against his forearms for leverage. Gasping, I find that he’s holding me at an angle, placing more of my upper body into the water while leaving my leg exposed and supported by the edge of the tub.
And now I understand what he means.
His doll.
