“Clinging onto survival as always. He’s looking forward to taking his front-row seat when I fuck you to death.”
“Shut up!” I yell, backing away until my shoulders hit cold stone.
“Don’t tell me you’ve actually fallen for that moron.” Rochester laughs, the sound mocking.
“Better than a sadist who has to rape to feel superior,” I spit.
“How precious. I’ll pluck out your heart and serve it to him on a platter.”
He lurches forward. I dash to the side, crashing into another pile of bones. They scatter across the floor with sickening thuds. My knee hits something hard. It’s a skull that rolls away into the darkness.
“Ah, you’ve found Bertha. She stopped being fun after she went mad.”
Rage flashes through my chest. Everything Rowland said about his brother was right. Rochester wasn’t satisfied with working women to death—he also had to break their minds. My fingers close around what feels like a large bone. It might be a femur. I tell myself it’s a club.
“You pathetic psychopath,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Sticks and stones, Miss Burlington. Now, crawl to your master.”
“Go to hell,” I snap.
Grinning, he unzips his fly. “I’ll take you there myself. On your knees. Mouth open.”
Nausea jerks my stomach tight. My gaze darts away from his exposed cock to a sliver of light from above, casting faint illumination on stone steps leading up to another door. An escape plan forms in my head, desperate. Stupid, but it’s all I’ve got.
“Why don’t you come here and make me,” I say, mustering every ounce of defiance.
He chuckles, low and deep. “With pleasure.”
Stroking his cock, he stalks forward, his hand reaching for my hair. Before he can so much as grab me, I swing the bone like a baseball bat. It connects with his temple and snaps. Sending a silent apology to Bertha, I lance the jagged edge into his throat.
Rochester staggers backward with a roar, “You wretched cunt!”
I don’t wait to see if the wound is fatal. I charge across the cellar and up the stairs. Rochester bellows like a wounded beast as I reach the door. It’s a heavy wood, reinforced with iron bands. I throw my weight against it, stagger through, and slam it shut.
On the other side, my fingers find a bolt. I slide it home just as Rochester slams into it from below.
“Open this fucking door!” he shouts, the wood shuddering with each impact.
I scan the space for inspiration. Another way out. Windows, floorboards—anything. There’s nothing. Just the same rotting walls and broken furniture as when he first dragged me here. The windows sit too high, glass caked in grime. They might as well be painted black.
Wait a minute.
Rochester gave me the fucking key!
“I’m going to make you wish for death. Your humiliation will make Rowland’s suffering look like a picnic!”
The door bangs again as he throws himself against it, the wood groaning under the impact.
I rush to the door, slide the key in the lock and pray that it’s not another one of his sick games. It opens with a creak, letting out a gust of apple-scented air. Just as I’m about to escape into the night, he screams loud enough to shake the shack.
“Let me out,” he yells, desperation creeping into his rage.
No. I can’t leave. Leaving will only continue this twisted charade. There’s only one way to make sure he never hurts Rowland, or another woman. And that means putting an end to his tyranny.
I need to silence this monster forever.
Turning back, I find a canister of kerosene glinting in the corner. I rush to pick it up and splash liquid around the rotted walls. I douse the door for good measure and pour the rest down the trap door.
