Page 4

Scarlett

L ight flickers. My head throbs. I let out a whimper as I roll over, and then a memory comes back. Mud. Dirt.

Him.

I sit up so violently my head spins.

But I’m not there, not outside. No, now I’m here, on the cool, hard floor of my studio. The portrait of me still hangs there, a silent sentinel in a room filled with absence. And my face is staring down at me, screaming, judging, whispering something I can’t comprehend.

It feels like I never left. It feels like I was here the entire time. But maybe I was, maybe I simply passed out here and all of it, all those moments; Rafe, the cliffs, Vincent too, it was just a fucked-up dream, a figment of my imagination and nothing more.

But my body is shaking, my body is trembling. I glance down at my feet and though they look clean enough, I swear I can see traces of mud. Of dirt.

If Vincent had done that, if he’d actually hurt me, why on earth would he scoop me up and return me here of all places? Why would he not put me back in my bed, or worse, toss me onto the rocks and pretend that I’d had an accident? What could he possibly gain by placing me here?

No, it has to be a nightmare. A horrific, fucked up nightmare.

I run my hand over my face, my skin feels sweaty, cool. Like I’m withdrawing from something.

What the fuck is going on here?

My heart starts beating more ominously, like it too is trying to tell me something, and my eyes land once more on that hideous image before me.

I get to my feet, ignoring the way my legs protest and I approach the painting slowly, reaching my hand out to trace the contours of my twisted face.

Who painted this?

What is the point of it?

And why the hell does it fill me with such dread?

I turn away, my gaze falling on the other canvases surrounding the room, all of them blank. They feel like windows into a part of my soul I can no longer reach, a part of me that has been lost or locked away, and a deep resounding fear grows at the thought that I may never be set loose again.

I pick up a brush, the bristles soft against my skin. I should be able to create something—anything—but my mind is a blank slate, devoid of inspiration, or hope for that matter.

Frustrated, I throw the brush down, watching as it skitters across the floor. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I angrily blink them away.

I can’t afford to be weak, not here, not when there’s so much at stake.

God, what do these thoughts mean? Why do I keep feeling this colossal sense of doom, this sense that I’m in danger, surrounded by treachery, with a thousand knives all aimed at my back?

I reach down to pick the brush up and place it back with the others, but my hand finds a crumpled piece of paper, and that makes me pause. It’s hidden, tucked away, far from prying eyes.

With my fingers, I ease it out and unravel it, seeing the message written in a delicate, spidery script that sends a chill running down my spine.

“You’re not safe here,” it reads. “Trust no one.”

I stare at the words, and an awful sense of foreboding washes over me, while a memory stirs of finding these before, back at the Penthouse, where Alex and I lived back in the city before whatever the fuck happened to me.

But how did it get here, in this room that feels like it should be a sanctuary amidst the madness?

Is someone following me? Is someone stalking me? Is this Alex playing some sick sort of joke? No, he doesn’t have the humour for that. And besides, he wouldn’t be so cruel.

I stumble out of the studio, my mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion. The note burns against my skin from where I’ve tucked it away, serving as a tangible reminder of the danger that surrounds me.

But it’s also a beacon of hope, a sign that I’m not alone, that there’s at least one person out there who wants to help me, even if I have absolutely no clue who they are.

When I get back to my room, I lie on the bed. I can hear the sound of voices, people searching. They’re looking for me, aren’t they? For Alex’s poor, sick little wife.

I don’t have time to hide the note, so I clutch it in my hand, curling it up, concealing it in my fist as I shut my eyes, feigning sleep.

The door opens. Footsteps echo off the hard floor before they come to a stop right over me.

I can sense them. Multiple people. Someone leans down, and the waft of expensive aftershave tells me it’s my dear beloved husband.

“She’s asleep.”

It’s not him that speaks those words. It’s Vincent. It takes everything I have not to stiffen with the realisation that he is here, in my bedroom.

It was just a dream. Just a horrible, horrible dream.

“She wasn’t here ten minutes ago.” Alex states, his voice sharp and irritated.

“Does it matter?” Vincent replies. “She can’t go anywhere. We’ve made sure of it. She’s safe here. Secure.”

I want to feel reassured by those words, by his tone. I want to feel like this is all for my protection, my benefit. That I truly am sick and here to get better. But my head refuses to believe it, and my gut tells me that this is all a ruse. A facade.

Alex bends down, brushing the hair from my face. “If she is playing more games, then we need to be prepared for it.”

“I’ll speak to the doctor. I’m sure we can increase her medication if need be.” Vincent replies.

“I think that would be wise.”

My heart stops entirely at my husband’s words. They’re not spoken out of love. Out of concern. They’re spoken in a way that suggests my paranoia is absolutely justified.

The robe I’m wearing is suddenly opened. Cool air hits my clammy, exposed skin and how I don’t whimper, I don’t know.

They are here, both of them, in my room, watching me, seeing my naked body. I should wake up, I should open my eyes, I should do something … but I’m too petrified, too overcome with fear to do a damned thing but lay still and play dead, or as good as.

My dear, loving husband makes a comment I don’t catch and he scoops me up, carries me into the bathroom and starts washing me in a way that feels practised.

He’s done this before then, he’s carried me and taken care of me like I’m an invalid.

Only, there doesn’t feel like there’s all that much care here.

He scrubs at my skin, at my legs in particular. And then he’s reaching between them, making another comment, before he pulls something out, something that hurts.

I moan then, I yelp, before pretending to once more be unconscious. They stare at me, probably waiting for me to wake and when I don’t, they continue on, while I open my eyes just enough to spy what is in my husband’s hand.

It’s a twig, a stick. Small, barely a few inches long. But it was inside me.

“What the hell?” Alex mutters.

“I told you I saw her outside, in the woods.” Vincent states, like that was some sort of crime. “Guess we know what she was doing there now.”

“Why the fuck would she have done this?” Alex asks, “Like she’s what, fucking herself with logs now?” He sounds both confused and disgusted. Does he imagine I strolled into the woods and started riding the trees like some nympho desperate for a hit?

“She’s a whore,” Vincent replies. “Not sure what else you expected.”

“She’s my wife,” Alex snarls back. “And you will remember that.”

God, the relief I feel, the pathetic amount of joy that explodes in my chest at those words. So he does care then, he does. My lip trembles, I want to open my arms, to hug him, to show him that I’m so grateful in this moment, but I’m supposed to be asleep, unconscious, unaware of this.

I hang limply, continuing to play ‘the game’ while he continues to pull out more, more little sticks from where they’ve been lodged in my pussy like it’s some kind of secret compartment.

How did I not even feel them in there? How did I not even realise?

I glance at Vincent, and I can see he’s watching my face. He knows I’m awake. I know he does.

He did that to me, violated me, but why? What the fuck does he want?

Should I tell Alex, should I confess what his father did to me? Would he even believe me?

I know they’re close, that Alex trusts his father implicitly. All it would take is one word, one comment from Vincent and Alex would see me as some crazy person and not a victim at all.

I’m acutely aware of the fact that, even now. I’m still naked and Vincent is still here, standing beside my husband, staring at me. Alex doesn’t seem to care about that fact, does he? It doesn’t bother him that his father is gawping at his young wife like he wants to fuck her.

No, I can’t tell Alex. At least not yet. I can’t say anything until I figure out what the hell is going on here.

I need to find out the truth, no matter how painful or terrifying it might be. Because the only thing worse than the unknown, is being trapped in this waking nightmare.