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Chapter 7
This nightmare doesn’t end when Robert pulls away and stands. I’m painfully awake and aware of every ounce of freedom slipping through my grasping fingers.
This isn’t a nightmare…
This is hell.
“She needs a bath,” Robert declares, gesturing to my body. “And send for the doctor immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” As if conjured from nothing, a woman appears by his side. Her plain dress denotes her as a maid, and she obediently stoops beside me, helping me to my feet.
“And rest,” Robert adds. His eyes sweep me over, brimming with rage I’ve never seen his aristocratic features manifest before. Hatred. Loathing. Fear? “I’ll make them pay,” he swears. “Those bastards will fucking pay.”
Have they already been captured? I try to picture Mischa and Vanya in chains as my gaze returns to Robert’s bruised hand. He holds it awkwardly, but judging from the greenish hue of his skin, I doubt it’s a fresh injury.
Despite everything, I can’t stay silent.
“Is he alive?” I force myself to ask. “Mis—”
“Stepanov?” Robert frowns and a familiar unease gathers in my stomach.
In so many ways, he’s the same man I was taken from. But there’s an aged quality to his gaze that wasn’t there before. A darkness. Gone is his old childhood ring Mischa presented to me on a bloody platter as well. In its place gleams a new, more prominent piece of jewelry: the heavier insignia I’ve seen worn only by his father.
“I’ll kill him,” he swears, brushing the tip of his finger along my cheek—as much of himself as he can bear to taint. “I’ll rip him to pieces. He will pay.”
But he hasn’t. Not yet. A painful emotion flutters in my chest as I sway, relying on the maid for support. I can’t even find a name for it until Robert finally leaves the room, flanked by his henchman.
Maybe it’s terror.
Or perhaps…
It’s hope.
* * *
The maid bathes me without uttering a single word—but where Mouse’s silence seemed stubborn at times, hers is deliberate.
There are no mocking taunts as she strips my clothing and coaxes me into the steaming tub of an ornate bathroom. There is no softness to her touch as she drags a rag over my bruised, swollen limbs. All in all, I’m treated mechanically, like a broken, battered object in need of restoration.
She doesn’t even look me in the eye as she washes my hair and combs through the ragged strands. To her, I am merely a doll dressed in a gossamer nightgown and led back into the room I woke up in like a lamb to slaughter.
My breath catches at the sight of the bed. It’s large enough for two people—and only one fact makes it possible to breathe again. Some things never change, and Robert Winthorp is a creature I’ve studied cover to cover.
As Mischa claimed, he never shared my bed. And he won’t try to reclaim my body so soon. I need to be broken in first.
Still, it feels like I’m clinging to a child’s prayer more than anything as the woman leaves, gently closing the door behind her.
Soon, another woman enters. The doctor, I assume from her crisp white jacket and studious bun. Without uttering a single word, she gives me a thorough, clinical examination. I shiver as her cold hands prod my inner thighs and healing scars.
Finally, she leaves.
And hopelessness washes over me, so vast and heavy that I’m sure I’ll never escape it. Dangerous thoughts feed on the panic.Do it now. Take the easy way out, like Marnie did.
I can’t go back.
I can’t.
I can’t.
