Page 62
It smells of mothballs and thick dust, and his other hand on my belly weighs heavily as his spiced scent inches up my nose and into my already warring brain.
“I can’t tell him, and you, of all people, should understand that.”
He scoffs, turning me around to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, if you want us outed so bad, you tell her.”
His eyes soften, sadness seeping outward through their dark aura.
“Exactly.”
“It’s different, and you know it is. She’s…” He swallows, his throat sliding with difficulty.
“Dying. Say it, Charles. Your wife is dying, and you’re in a closet with your mistress, trying to convince her to tell the man she loves about our tawdry affair. Go on, admit it. Speak it aloud.” My voice quakes.
“It’s not that easy…”
“That’s my point.”
“And you don’t love him,” he adds.
“I do. And you know I do; it’s just…”
“It’s just that he’s too fucking busy for you. He’s too busy even to notice you, Lenore. I notice you; I will take care of you.”
“Like you’ve taken care of her?”
As we speak, Josephine is in her bed, where she remains, writhing in pain and delusion. She can’t even make complete sentences. The world she lives in is far different from ours.
“I take care of her.”
A noncommittal noise escapes my throat. “Much like Mr. Rochester took care of his beloved Bertha.”
Charles draws back, his brows knotting on his forehead, his eyes growing cold. “That’s what you think of me?”
“She’s not even dead yet.” My whispered words chill my soul, guilt wrapping them in truth and shame.
“You weren’t worried about that when you were on your knees.” His tone is dour, edging on resentful.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t complicit, Charles.”
“Oh, we’re back to first names, Lenore?”
“I think this needs to end. You need to care for Josephine, and I need to focus on my upcoming wedding.”
My nightgown lifts, and Charles’s hand slides beneath it, cupping my sex that nearly purrs for him with approval. My body’s reaction directly contrasts my argumentative words.
“Do you think he’ll want you now that I’ve sullied you? Now that I took what was rightfully his?”
Tears fill my eyes, but I regret their burn and fight them.
“I have to hope,” I admit.
“When he finds out, we’ll both burn.”
“He’d never… He’s a kind and gentle man.”
His sick grin lifts again, and now his eyes are calculating and cruel. “You don’t know the half of him. You’ll soon find out.”
