I drift somewhere between sleep and death, half-dreaming of footsteps. When the mattress shifts behind me, I think it’s the workings of an overactive mind. But then I feel hot breath. Large hands. Heat. I freeze. Every muscle goes rigid. Strong arms wrap around my waist, pulling me back against a hard chest.
“Don’t cry,” murmurs a familiar voice. “It’s alright. You’re safe, now.”
My spine jolts. My brain short-circuits. Rochester’s supposed to be away, fucking his new wife and planning her funeral. But those are his hands, his voice, his body.
“What…” My throat closes. “What are you doing?”
“I’m here now. I’ll keep you safe.”
Rage explodes in my chest. This sick bastard thinks he can terrorize me, lock me in that rotting cottage, marry some other woman, then sneak back to get off? Does he think I’m as stupid as his wife?
His erection presses into my ass cheeks, hot and thick and insistent. Dirty bastard. Dirty, selfish wife killer.
Rochester grinds against me, his fingers reaching around to cup my pussy. Heat surges between my legs, and I push back. Moaning, he rolls his hips. My own fingers reach to the nightstand and find one of Blanche’s syringes.
“Are you wet for me like a good girl?” he groans, his digits reaching into my panties. He slides a finger over my clit and rubs tight circles.
My pussy, the little traitor, clenches. My blood heats with a mix of fury and shame and hatred. Mostly at myself for responding to his touch. I’m no better than Blanche. I clamp my jaw until it aches, fighting to release myself from his grip.
Ignoring the surge of arousal, I pull off the syringe’s cap with my teeth, feeling for the plunger in the dark.
His lips graze the back of my neck, and his thick cock presses between my thighs. “You’re soaked.”
In one smooth motion, I jam the needle into his arm and press down hard.
He jerks backward with a strangled cry, his hand leaving my crotch. I roll off the bed and spin around, ready to fight for my life. He rises, teeth clenched, dark eyes wide beneath the ski mask. I stagger back, grab the vanity case and swing it like a club.
Instead of lurching forward, he jerks once, twice, three times before falling backward onto the mattress.
“You bastard.” I scramble onto the bed, rip off his mask?—
And freeze.
The man under the fabric isn’t Rochester. He’s bearded. Unfamiliar. But the worst part? He’s smiling. A twisted, dopey smile like he’s dreaming of paradise.
And I’ve never seen him before in my life.
THIRTY
I glare at the unconscious bastard sprawled across my bed. He’s the same build as Rochester. Same broad shoulders stretching his shirt tight. Same height that makes the four-poster look small beneath him. Same black hair. But the thick beard covering half his face makes it impossible to tell what the hell I’m looking at.
Maybe this is the shirtless man I spotted working in the orchard my first week. Maybe he’s the chauffeur. I shake off that thought, remembering seeing him driving off with Blanche and Rochester.
He sure as hell isn’t any of that bitch’s asshole friends.
“What a mess,” I mutter under my breath, my gaze drifting to the half-empty syringe. “How many men am I going to kill in one lifetime?”
Is he even alive?
Stomach roiling, I edge toward the bed and shove the curtain to one side. Every limb trembles as I mount the mattress and press my fingers to his neck. His skin is warm, damp with sweat. The steady thump against my fingertips tells me he’s still living.
“ThankGod,” I say with a sigh and back away from this unconscious freak.
Whatever cocktail I shot him up with hasn’t killed him.
Yet.
But what the hell do I do now?
