FORTY-ONE
A heartbeat later, I land hard on my side. The impact drives the air from my lungs, sending agony through my hip and shoulder. I stumble to my feet in the dark. What the hell was that? A trap door?
I stretch out my arms, feeling around for something—anything. Above me, Rochester’s silhouette fills a square opening, backlit by moonlight. Even from down here, his grin is all teeth and malice.
“Eager to die, Miss Burlington?” he calls down, his voice echoing off the walls.
“You sick bastard!” I scream back, my voice cracking.
I can’t stop thinking about that movie where the psycho kept a woman in a pit, feeding her with items he lowered down in a bucket. My skin crawls, and my throat fills with bile. What the hell is this place?
“Isn’t this the time you scream at me to let you out?” he says, his voice lilting with amusement.
My teeth clamp shut. I’m not playing his sick games.
“I’ll even give you the key.” He tosses something small at me, which hits the floor with a metallicclink.
Disgust ripples through my insides, making me want to scream. What use is the bloody key when the door is twenty feet above, completely out of reach? Despite thinking this, I bend down to pick it up. Maybe it will be useful.
“Make yourself at home,” he says.
Something falls on my head with a gentle clunk and drops to the floor. Sparks fly from its tip. I draw back and pick up what looks like a lighter. My gaze flicks back up to the opening, where he gazes down at me, his pale features sharpening. Straightening, I flick the metal lever, and a small flame springs to life.
“What is this place?” I ask. “Where you keep your victims before they die?”
His lips quirk. “Not quite.”
It’s probably a trap. Didn’t Rowland say Rochester liked to watch animals struggle for freedom before their deaths?
I hold the flame out like a torch, searching for a weapon, an escape route, anything that might keep me alive. But as I move deeper into what feels like a cellar, my foot bumps into something soft. It feels like a sack of grain.
“Take your time,” Rochester says, his voice breathy with arousal.
I shouldn’t play a game he’s rigged, but if there’s a chance I can turn this around on him, I need to take it. Shivering, I lower the flame. The light reveals hollow eye sockets staring back at me from a skull.
Shock punches me in the gut, drawing out a scream. I lurch backward so fast the lighter switches off. Cold sweat erupts across my skin. My stomach convulses, threatening to bringup my dinner. Oh, God. That was a corpse. One of his victims.
My back hits something solid. It’s a warm, breathing body.
“I see you’ve met Celine,” Rochester’s voice fills my ear.
I skitter away, my mind reeling. How the hell did he get down here without a sound? I spin around, flicking the lighter, its flame casting his face in hellish shadows. The twisted bastard grins down at me like a wolf who’s cornered his prey.
“She was a spicy one,” he croons. “Rowland used to watch me fuck that woman on her hands and knees. Worthless bastard used to come in his pants.”
Edging backward, I hold up the lighter like I’m fending off evil. “Stay the hell away from me.”
Rochester takes a step closer, his dark eyes reflecting the firelight. “Rowland always envied me. I’m the one who got the women while that simpleton could only drool and touch himself. But he finally got his dick wet.”
My lip curls.
“I suspect he made a mess of his first time. Did he cry in your arms? Did you have to reassure him that ten seconds was normal for a big boy?” He laughs, the sound grating on my nerves.
“You seem awfully obsessed with your brother’s sex life,” I say from between clenched teeth.
His smile turns predatory. “I plan on showing Rowland exactly how to please a woman.”
My heart leaps. “He’s alive?”
