A flush floods his cheeks, disappearing into his unkempt beard, and he drops his gaze to the Persian rug. “Annalisa.” The tremor in his voice catches me off guard. “I’ve never...”
He trails off, his massive frame somehow looking fragile. My brows crease as he struggles with the words, stirring something protective in my chest. This broken man is trying to give me something precious: his truth.
“I’ve never been kissed,” he finally mutters.
My breath catches. I study this mountain of a man, all scars and untamed hair, and something inside me shifts. “Never?”
“I’ve never been with a woman, either,” he adds, the confession tumbling out in a rush.
My mind goes quiet. All those nights in the dark, those gentle hands, that reverent touch. It was him. This broken man who’s never known tenderness was the one who made me come apart.
“What about the others?” I ask.
“I used to hear the first few from up in the attic, but I only broke through my restraints after Father left.” He rubs his wrists, and I notice the permanent red welts circling them like bracelets. “After that, security became lax.”
The timeline hits me hard. He was just a child when they locked him away. Ten years old when his family decided he was too dangerous to exist. My throat tightens imagining him growing up in that cage while his killer brother lived free.
“What happened to your father?”
Shoulders sagging, Rowland crosses the study and settles on a leather sofa. Pain flickers across his features like he’s reliving old wounds.
“What is it?” I ask.
He struggles with the memory, his jaw working beneath that thick beard. Something about his anguish makes me want to reach out to offer comfort, but I wrap my arms around my middle.
Finally, he says, “Father and Edward fell out over Mrs. Fairfax. It was terrible.”
“What happened?”
“Mrs. Fairfax was the glue that kept the family together. When she died, they turned on each other like wolves.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Father wanted her buried. Edward wanted her preserved.”
The word hangs in the air like poison. I step toward the sofa, my insides churning. “Preserved how?”
“Like the taxidermy Father did to Adele and—” He shakes his head and sags.
My breath hitches. It makes sense in a sick sort of way. Edward was ten when he murdered his sister, too young to create that monstrosity. I lower myself on the seat beside him and place my hand over his. “So he loved Mrs. Fairfax?”
He nods. “Edward begged Father to do the same to her, but he refused. Said she was fat and old and unworthy of preservation. That’s when Edward turned on him and threw him down the stairs.”
I reel forward, my jaw dropping. I’d assumed Edward was a misogynist. Apparently, he’s an equal opportunity monster.
“Where is your father now?”
Rowland raises his shoulders toward his ears. “Edward never told me. All I heard from the attic was Father yelling for help, saying he’d broken his hip.”
“Shit,” I whisper.
“Father’s gone. So is Edward.” He turns in his seat, his gaze dropping to my lips. “But you’re here.”
Heat crawls up my neck, bringing me back to his request for that kiss. His black eyes burn with an intensity that should be terrifying, but my body finds it thrilling. I draw back, wondering why the hell I’m so skittish with a man who’s already given me orgasms. Maybe it’s because I need to know what really happened in this house.
“Rowland,” I say, trying to be tactful. “Did your dad know Edward was killing women?”
He glances at his lap, taking away all his warmth. “Father could be willfully blind. Admitting that Edwardwas the violent one would mean admitting he’d made a terrible mistake with me.”
“So he ignored it?”
He nods.
