“What?” I hiss.
“Take off my shirt. You’ll see the scars from years of torture. You’ll know I’m not lying. You’ll see what he’ll do to you next.”
My gut clenches. Part of me wants to run, but what if I’m leaving behind the only man who might protect mefrom Edward Rochester? And the way he said torture sounded like he’d tasted it, lived it, breathed it for years.
Every survival instinct screams at me to get the hell out, but I walk back toward the bed.
Rowland raises his chin. “Do it. Please.”
I set down my bag, lift the hem of his shirt, and slice through the cotton with the knife. The fabric parts with a gentle rip, revealing his flesh. Rowland’s breathing deepens, and he groans. Then his hips shift against the mattress, drawing my attention to his crotch.
Dirty bastard is getting hard.
I’m stuck in a serial killer’s creepy old house with his feral brother, yet all I can concentrate on are the tight abs beneath the torn fabric and dirt.
The shirt finally falls away, revealing a chest crisscrossed with long white scars as if someone used him for fencing practice. Circular burns dot his ribs where cigars or cigarettes were ground into flesh. Some marks are old, faded to silver thread. Others look recent, still pink and raised like angry worms crawling under his skin.
My throat thickens. Tears blur my vision until his torso becomes a watercolor painting of pain. I clap a hand over my mouth, unable to breathe. Or think. Or process what I’m seeing. This body is a roadmap of suffering.
“Oh, Rowland.”
He gazes up at me through damp eyes. “I’m telling you the truth. Edward’s been hurting me since we were children. It only got worse after he killed Adele when I became his practice dummy.”
I stare at the scars, my mind trying to process the horror. “How do you survive years of this? How did you not go completely insane?”
He closes his eyes and exhales a long, tired sigh. “I’m not sure that I did.”
“Didn’t anyone notice? Teachers? Doctors? Someone had to see.” The words scrape out of my throat like sandpaper.
Tears roll down his cheeks, disappearing into his beard. With a shudder, he says, “Father told everyone I died the same year as Adele. Said it was a riding accident, and I had a closed casket funeral. No one questioned the lie, and I’ve been a ghost for thirty years.”
My stomach churns. That’s longer than I’ve even been alive. Those scars tell a story of decades of torture far worse than anything I endured with that old bastard, Brother Matthew.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my legs collapsing like someone cut the strings holding me upright. It’s impossible to imagine three years, let alone thirty of being Edward’s personal punching bag while the world thought he was dead.
“You were alone this time?” My voice cracks.
“I had Mrs. Fairfax. She tried to help me when she could, but Father never allowed her to leave the grounds. And when she died and he left, it was just me and Edward.”
The room spins around me like a carnival ride that’s lost its brakes. I press my palms to my temples, trying to hold my skull together. Every piece of evidence points to the same conclusion—that I should trust Rowland, but my mind keeps screaming at me to save myself and leave.
“Please,” he rasps. “Let me protect you. I know this house. I know Edward’s patterns. I can get you out alive.”
His black eyes bore into mine, desperate and pleading. I stare at his ravaged chest, my thoughts spinning incircles. I shouldn’t trust anyone in this house of horrors, but scars don’t lie. Nobody could fake decades of torture and abuse.
“I don’t know what to believe.” The words slip out.
“Let me show you my cell. Then you’ll understand everything.” His voice is gentle, coaxing. Like he’s talking to a frightened animal. “Cut me free and I’ll prove I’m not working with Edward.”
Hands trembling, I reach for one of Blanche’s syringes from the nightstand and hold it against his throat. “Try anything and I’ll inject you with enough shit to stop your heart.”
He nods, his eyes widening. “I understand.”
I grab the kitchen knife. Even as my gut screams that I’m playing the world’s dumbest game of Russian roulette, I slice through the rope binding his wrists before moving on to release his ankles. The makeshift bonds fall away, leaving angry red welts. He rubs circulation back into his hands and groans.
“Lead the way.” I hold the syringe like a weapon as he rises. “And remember, I’m not afraid to knock you out.”
Rowland rolls off the mattress and walks a wide circle around the bed toward the exit. I follow him into the hallway, watching out for sudden movements. My gaze bores into his broad back. It blows my mind how a man this huge managed to fool me into believing he was the housekeeper.
