I should grab my bag and run while he’s down. Scour the grounds for his vehicle and make myself scarce. But I already tried that and failed. Besides, rage keeps my feet planted on the wooden floor. This sick bastard has been sneaking into my room for days, touching my body, giving me false hope, making me think I was losing my mind.
All while pretending to be Rochester.
Shame floods my system as I remember last night’s cruel words. Rochester called me a desperate liar. And from his point of view, he’s right. The murdering maniac never laid a finger on me. It was this impostor, making me think it was him.
This unconscious man set me up to be humiliated. I wouldn’t have gotten so fixated with Rochester if it wasn’t for him sneaking into my bed. I owe him pain. After he’s explained himself. But first, I need to tie him up.
I yank the curtain ties from the four-poster and wrap them around his wrists. But restraining dead weight is harder than it looks. His arm flops when I try to lift it toward the posts, and I grit my teeth. Sweat beads on my forehead as I struggle to loop the twisted fabric around his thick wrists. The material bites into my fingers as I pull it tight against the wooden bedposts.
Then, I do the same with his ankles, tightening the knots so they’re strong enough to secure a stallion. But I’m not sure if I’ve accounted for the strength of a psychopath. I pad across the room to the dresser, pull out a sparebedsheet, and cut it into strips. After twisting them into four bindings, I lash his limbs to different parts of the head and footboards.
The man’s breathing fills the silence with a slow, steady rhythm, making me wonder if this is the calm before the shitstorm. By the time I finish, my shoulders ache and my hands are raw from the makeshift rope. I’ve left him spread across the bed like a pagan sacrifice, arms stretched wide, ankles bound.
I get dressed, pull out a carving knife pilfered from the kitchen, settle into the chair by the balcony doors and wait. My fingers shake around its hilt. Last time I held a blade just like this, it was to make sure the old bastard I escaped didn’t leave the burning house.
Hours crawl by. The sun rises, and dust motes dance in the morning light. All the adrenaline from capturing the masked man dwindles, and my stomach growls. The knife grows slick in my sweaty palm. My eyelids become heavy as lead.
Then a sharp intake of breath jolts me awake.
The man thrashes in his restraints, ropes straining against his ankles and wrists. When his dark eyes find mine, he goes rigid, making no sound but the creak of bed springs and his ragged breaths.
My heart rate kicks up several notches, the shock propelling me out of my seat. On shaky legs, I cross the room and approach the bed. As I grow closer, his chest rises and falls as if he’s preparing for an attack. Nostrils flaring, I hold the knife at his throat, making sure to position the blade just below his Adam’s apple. One small push and I could open a vein.
“I ought to kill you for molesting me under false pretenses,” I hiss.
“But I never lied.” His voice is rougher than Rochester’s, something I hadn’t noticed until now. It’s almost like he doesn’t use it much.
“Bullshit.” I press the knife harder. A bead of blood wells up around the tip. “You told me to call you Rochester.”
“I am Rochester. Rowland Rochester.” The words tumble out in a rush.
Eyes narrowing, I study his face in the dim light. His eyes are the same deep brown that border on black, like Rochester’s, but everything else seems different. I’m not just talking about the unkempt beard hiding his jaw. Or the weathered skin darkened by either dirt or sunlight or years of hard living. His eyes are wild, showing more whites than normal and there’s the desperate way he stares at me like I’m his last hope for salvation.
My lips tighten. “Why have you been sneaking around at night, groping innocent women?”
He flinches, making the bindings strain against his wrists. “I… I thought you wanted me. When you waved back.”
I grind my teeth. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?”
“A prisoner,” he replies, his voice pained. “I’ve been held captive here since I was a boy. Please believe me. I have proof.”
The desperation in his voice has me pulling back the knife an inch, making blood trickle into his collar. I study his features, finding nothing but the truth. Who the hell is this guy? A lunatic? The family bastard?
Throat tightening, I rasp, “I’m listening.”
“Edward keeps me locked in the attic between victims.”
My stomach dips. “Victims?”
He gives me an eager nod.
“What the hell does that mean?”
He licks his dry lips and glances around the room as if searching for an escape. Something about him is so skittish that I almost believe he might really be a prisoner. And the thought of there being victims strikes an irresistible chord.
I lean forward, my fingers tightening around the hilt of the knife, waiting for him to reply. “Answer me. Which victims?”
“Edward lures women here. It’s always the same story. He brings them in as a nanny for a child who doesn’t exist. Then he persuades them to carry out domestic duties. And when they’re of no use to him anymore...” He shudders.
