He knocks louder, each insistent strike making the chair scrape against the floor.
“Fuck off,” I call out.
The knocking stops for a heartbeat. I picture him standing in the hallway in that ski mask, his cock straining against his pants. Why doesn’t he go worship Blanche’s golden cunt? Oh, right. He’s depriving her until marriage.
Fists pound against the door like sledgehammers. The chair jolts with each blow, its legs shrieking against the floor. The entire door frame shudders, and the wood groans under the assault.
My stomach drops through the mattress. He’s going to break in. Splinter that door and tear through the chair like the Hulk. Sweat breaks out across my forehead. My throat closes up, cutting off my air.
Another thunderous blow rattles the hinges. No one’s coming to investigate. He probably waited until they were passed out drunk. I scramble out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. What the fuck? I retreat to the bathroom and bolt the door.
I wait for him to burst through but he stops.
Minutes crawl by. The sudden quiet is worse than thepounding. My ears ring in the absence of pounding. I strain to listen, waiting for the next attack, but there’s nothing. Only the sound of my own ragged breaths and blood rushing through my ears.
Just as I slide down the wall, deep, guttural sobs echo through the pipes. Is he crying inside the walls? I freeze, heart jackhammering, and suddenly I’m not sure I want to know what happens next.
TWENTY-TWO
THE KEYHOLE
You locked me out of my own domain, while the others shun you.
I’m the one who waits for you in the dark. I’m the one who graces your nightmares. I’m the one who hears you cry yourself to sleep.
You only get to make me beg once.
When it’s your turn, I will show no mercy.
TWENTY-THREE
I sit on the bathroom floor, my back against the cold tiles, listening to the broken sobs echoing through the walls. The sound tugs at something deep in my chest, a part of me I don’t want to acknowledge.
No man has ever cried for me. Not one. Not even when I left my piece-of-shit husband bleeding on the kitchen floor. Not even when his house caught fire and they thought I’d died.
But Rochester’s words from that last night keep creeping back. How he whispered he’d find a way for us to be together. The desperation in his voice when he held me, like I was the only thing keeping him sane.
Bullshit.
He couldn’t defend me when it mattered. Too busy playing that basic bitch for her money.
The sobbing becomes louder, more broken. Like he’s drowning in his own grief. My chest tightens, and before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet and unlocking the bathroom door.
I creep through the bedroom toward the hallwayentrance, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor. The crying pulls at me like a fishing line hooked through my ribs.
What the hell will I say to him? Stop crying and get into bed? This could be a stupid ploy just for him to jack off. Still, I follow the sound like a moron. Because clearly, I haven’t learned a damn thing.
I remove the chair, twist the key, open the door a crack and peer through the gap. There’s no sign of Rochester. The hallway stretches empty in both directions, leaving nothing but shadows and the scent of medicine.
But the sobbing continues, even louder now. Coming from everywhere and nowhere, like the house itself is crying.
My throat tightens. I call out, “Edward?”
The broken weeping morphs into laughter. It’s unbridled. Feverish, sounding like someone fresh from an asylum.
Terror kicks me in the solar plexus. I slam the door shut and twist the lock, my hands shaking so hard I can barely work the mechanism.
Fucking hell. I’m losing my mind. Too much stress, too much fear, too many nights sleeping with one eye open. My brain is finally cracking under the pressure.
