Page 224 of Wicked Proposal

He unhinges his jaw.

He swallows me down.

And I scream, scream, scream into the void inside him as he devours me, scream because I know what’s next, and with the last of my breath, I beg him…

Please, don’t take my son, too.

68

MIA

I spring up in a cold sweat on the bed.

The dream sways before my eyes. My hands are white-knuckled, gripping the covers so tight it’s painful. My heart is hammering in my chest, hard enough to burst through, hard enough tohurt.

Please, don’t take my son, too.

I force myself to take steadying breaths.In, hold, out,like he taught me.

Even after a whole month, I’m still hearing Yulian’s voice whenever I need it.

Slowly, my vision clears.

I’m not in my bed. Haven’t been for a few weeks now. My fingers curl into an impersonal set of sheets—another one of Brad’s guest rooms. White, bare, cold.

Matches how I feel.

“Calm down,” I whisper to myself. “Eli’s safe. As long as you play your part, he’s safe.”

Though I wonder how much longer I can keep this up.

I kick off the comforter and step into the ensuite bathroom. It’s still dark out, but lately, I’ve been preferring it, getting up earlier than the rest of the house. The maids, the cook—they’re all noise.

At least, before dawn, it’s just me.

I step under the shower spray and wince at the scalding temperature. But soon, I grow used to it, just like every other uncomfortable thing in this house.

Brad’s house—the Hamptons mansion he swore I’d never step foot in, gold-digging whore that I was.

Oh, how the tide changes.

Outside the window, the ocean rocks. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane, sometimes: the song of the ocean. A last scrap of home to keep close to my heart, reminding me who I used to be.

Who I canstillbe, if I play my cards right.

I throw open my wardrobe. There’s nothing but white in it—white dresses, white jackets, white underwear. I pick out a white cashmere turtleneck dress and slip it on, then pad into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Rosie greets. She’s one of the maids. Young and pretty, and as polite as they come.

“Good morning.” I smile back. It’s a little forced, but I won’t be rude to anyone who doesn’t deserve it. It’s not Rosie’s fault I’m in this mess, after all.

Louis, the French cook, isn’t here yet. Usually, breakfast would fall under his purview, but Brad decided to spice things up since I moved in.

You’re going to be my wife,he declared.Wives make breakfast for their husbands.

If it wasn’t for Eli, I’d have smashed a frying pan into his face on day one.

Eli.This is all for him. I have to remind myself of that fact every day, all day long, like a mantra in my head. Otherwise, I’ll never keep my sanity.