Page 43 of Twisted Love

“Yes, I do,” she yells.

“I hate you,” I begin, “because I see you clearly now. For what you really are.”

Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t look away, doesn’t interrupt. Good. Let her hear this. Let her feel it.

“Before, before I was blind—blinded by infatuation, by whatever the hell I thought we had. But now? Now I see the truth. You’re just like Charles and his ilk. All you’ve ever wanted was this,” I gesture broadly at the estate around us, my voice growing louder. “The big house, the wealth, the status. Isn’t this what you dreamed of, Raven? Well, congratulations. You got it. So what the fuck are you so mad about?”

The silence that follows feels like it could shatter under its own weight. Her lips part, but no sound escapes. For a moment, I think she might cry, but instead, she draws herself up, her frame trembling with barely contained rage.

“Go to hell, Earl,” she spits, her voice low but venomous. Then, without another word, she turns and begins running back toward the house.

I stand there, rooted to the spot, watching her go. Her movements are jerky, almost frantic, as though she’s trying to run away from the words I just threw at her. And for a fleeting moment, something unfamiliar stirs in my chest.

Regret? Guilt? I don’t know, but I push it away as quickly as it comes.

CHAPTER27

RAVEN

My breath comes in short, shallow bursts as I storm into the kitchen, my vision blurred with unshed tears. He is killing my love for him. Every day bit by bit he is making me hate him. It is unbearable. The warmth of the house and the faint aroma of food and mulled wine being made waft through the air. It feels cozy, almost festive, like Christmas came early and entirely at odds with the chaos churning inside me.

Nora appears, her face lighting up when she spots me. She holds out a steaming mug. “Raven! You must try this. I’ve been perfecting the recipe?—”

“I’m so sorry, Nora,” I interrupt, my voice cracking. “But not right now.”

I skirt around her, desperate to avoid her kind eyes, her questions, and the realization of how wrecked I am. My eyes are stinging, but I refuse to break down here, in front of her. The gossip will definitely reach my mother if I do.

I don’t stop moving, my legs race me up the stairs, through the corridor and into the room that has never felt like mine. My mind races. I can’t stay here. I really can’t. I can’t endure this house, that man, this life for another second.

I know if I stay, I will freaking lose my mind and I am one hundred percent sure of that. How long will I be gone? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never come back.

The thought is fleeting but sharp, like the sting of a needle. My father’s face flashes in my mind, the fragility of his body. He needs me. And I won’t let him down. I’ll figure it out somehow—I have to—but I can’t keep living like this, not with this … monster.

Maybe I don’t even have to stay married to him. There was no prenup, after all. I could just walk away and get a loan from the bank for the rest of my father’s treatments. What I have in the kitty might be enough to pay for the bulk of it.

I open the closet and stare up at the suitcase perched on the shelf. It’s old and familiar. Part of another life. I remember my thoughts when I packed it. Fear, confusion, but oh, so much hope for the future. I was so sure I could make this work. That our love would conquer whatever was wrong. The sight of it sends a sharp pang through me, but I push it aside. I need to leave now as quickly as possible.

Barefoot, I step onto the lower shelf, the wood pressing hard against my soles as I stretch upward. My fingertips graze the handle, but it’s heavy. It’s got all my books still inside it. The weight shifts as I tug at it.

“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, my voice shaking with frustration. I pull harder and the edge of the suitcase tilts forward, the books inside rattle ominously. The sudden shift in weight catches me off guard. A sharp pain shoots through my arm, forcing me to release my grip.

“Shit!” The curse rips from my throat as the suitcase crashes to the floor with a loud thud. The sound echoes in the quiet room, mocking me. My pulse hammers in my ears as I climb down and crouch beside the suitcase, one of the wheels is hanging precariously by a thread, barely attached. I press my palm to my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut against the hot tears that finally spill over. My chest heaves as I sink down onto the expensive Persian rug. I sit with my knees pulled up to my chest.

I bury my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking. The dam breaks and I let it all go. All of it. The anger, the grief, the sheer helplessness. I cry for the life I thought I could build, for the woman I thought I was, for the man who carved his name next to mine only to hack it out with such ferocity he was like a man possessed by a whole legion of demons.

This isn’t the way I wanted things to go. This isn’t the life I envisioned. But now, sitting inside this mansion, surrounded by broken things, I truly can’t see a way out.

When the tears stop, I sit with my arms wrapped around my knees, my head resting against them. My father’s face swims to the forefront of my mind. The thought of him—frail and needing me—is like a lifeline in the darkness. I take a shuddering breath, grounding myself in that singular focus.

My gaze falls on the battered suitcase at my feet, one wheel barely hanging on. It’s useless now, just like so much else around me. But I can’t afford to dwell on it. I need another one, and the staff won’t have anything suitable lying around—not without questions I can’t stomach answering.

That leaves only one option. At this point, it annoys me more than it terrifies me to even consider it, but he has to know anyway. Plus, perhaps it will be good to get his reaction—a way to ensure my leaving doesn’t endanger my father’s health care. The hallways feel colder somehow, the walls closing in as I head toward his study where he always spends time in the morning before he leaves for work.

I pass his bedroom and find the door slightly ajar. I look in, trying to detect movement to see if he is in there, but it doesn’t seem occupied. What I do see though is the sight of the perfectly made bed. The memories from last night flash through my mind—the way his hands had gripped my skin, the strength flowing from his body, the taste of his anger and desire mingled together. I look away, shame and fury burning through me. I need to focus. I have a mission.

His study. That’s where he’ll be.

I step back and make my way downstairs. The grand staircase spirals downward. The house is quiet, save for the faint sound of my footsteps. A thought comes in my head unbidden and unwelcome. This house needs children, lots of them.

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