0011 ~ Elodie ~ His hand was still warm against my skin, and that was the worst part.
It felt too good.
Too easy, considering everything that had happened to get me here.
He smelled like cedarwood and cold air.
His breathing was slow and close, and the wine was still sour on my tongue.
We had been kissing.
Really kissing.
For one second the room had gone quiet and hazy, like none of it mattered, like the walls of the guest suite could swallow the whole ugly truth of why we were standing here at all.
Then it all came rushing back.
The warehouse.
Vicky’s scream when the bullet hit her leg.
The flat, empty look in Vincent’s eyes right before he pulled the trigger.
And Tom.
Oh God, Tom.
He was probably home right now, staring at his phone, wondering where I’d gone.
Terrified.
And here I was, letting the man who’d taken me kiss me like I wanted it.
The disgust hit hard enough to snap me out of it.
I shoved both hands against his chest and pushed him back.
He stumbled a step, more surprised than I expected.
His eyes widened slightly, like the idea of me fighting back hadn’t occurred to him.
“What are you doing?” My voice came out cracked and wrong.
“What are you doing?!” He didn’t answer.
He just stood there, watching my chest heave.
I pressed my fingers to my lips and rubbed, like I could scrub the taste of him off.
“What is wrong with you?” “You belong to me, Elodie.
I can do with you whatever I want” He said lazily as he broke eye contact, turning away.
That threw me more than anger would have.
A laugh cracked out of me, sharp and a little unhinged.
“Belong to you?” My voice broke on the word.
“So I should say that you bought me with a price, the price of my sister’s life.
And you made me sit through a dinner pretending to be your wife, and now…” “Keep your voice down.” He stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
“The Pembertons will hear you.” “I don’t care!” The fear had burned off into something hotter.
“I don’t care if the whole house hears me!
Let them know exactly what kind of monster you…” “Hey!” He moved fast.
Before I finished the sentence he had me by the arms, my back against the wall, his body blocking every way out.
The wallpaper was cool against my shoulder blades, a strange, small detail to notice while my pulse pounded in my ears.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I turned my face away.
I couldn’t look at him.
“Listen to me very carefully,” he said, voice low and even more dangerous for it.
I felt his breath against my cheek, warm and uneven.
“No one in this house finds out about our arrangement.
You keep playing my wife.
On paper, I am your husband.
Remember that.
Remember one phone call is all it takes for my men to hurt your sister.
Or end her.
You’ll do exactly what I say.” A pause.
“Do I make myself clear?” I kept my eyes on the wallpaper, jaw locked, saying nothing.
“I said.” His voice dropped lower.
“Do I make myself clear?” Cold dread pooled in my stomach.
I knew what my silence would cost.
I turned my head and looked straight at him, teeth bared.
“Yes.” “Good girl.” Some of the tension left his shoulders.
He stepped back, giving me room to breathe.
I slid along the wall the second he let go, putting as much space between us as the room allowed, my arms wrapping around myself like they could hold the pieces of me together.
A knock hit the door.
Vincent didn’t flinch.
“Who is it?” “It’s Margaret.” Bright and cheerful through the wood.
“Can I come in?” “One moment,” he called back.
He turned to me and jerked his chin, telling me to come to him.
I shook my head.
I wasn’t moving.
His expression darkened into that familiar scowl, and I didn’t need him to say her name.
Vicky.
I swallowed my pride and walked over.
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small penknife.
My eyes went wide before I even understood what he meant to do with it.
He flicked it open, grabbed the front of my dress, and sliced straight down the neckline.
I gasped, loud, and his palm clamped over my mouth before the sound could carry.
“Act normal,” he said, eyes locked on mine.
“Act like you actually want to be my wife.” His gaze dropped to my chest.
The tear left almost nothing covered.
I moved to shield myself, but the look on his face stopped me cold.
“This,” he said, something dark flickering in his eyes, “is so Margaret thinks we were too busy to answer the door.
Married couple things.” I clenched my jaw so hard it ached.
I hated him.
I hated how easily he turned every situation into a weapon — my body, my sister, my fear, all pieces on his board.
I wanted my apartment back.
I wanted Tom’s arms around me and this entire nightmare to dissolve the second I woke up.
But the cold air on my bare skin was real.
This was my life now.
He leaned down, lips brushing my ear.
“Play your part.
Otherwise…” He didn’t finish.
He didn’t have to.
A shiver went through me anyway.
“I’m still out here!” Margaret’s voice, bright and oblivious.
“Come in,” Vincent called.
He turned toward the door, and a slow, satisfied smirk spread across his face.
The devil, through and through.