“I’m never letting you go. You are mine, do you understand me?”
“Don’t be like that,” she pleads.
“Then finish me.” I yank her away from Sorkin, causing her to gasp and I put the gun in her hands, pointing it at my heart. “Finish your monster and put me out of my misery.”
Her whole body freezes, her eyes terrified and she’s gone pale, her usual healthy complexion now ghostly. And I want to squeeze my eyes in pain when I don’t feel the heat of her body that I usually feel. She’s withholding it from me, withholding what I need the most because she does not think I deserve it anymore.
After all I touch my wife with the same hands that I use to kill and women like her do not throw their crumbs to monsters. Not even the ones they belong to.
She tries to get me to drop the gun but I don’t let her. “No? You do not want to go for the heart? Too sensitive maybe. Then how about between the brows? Make it a little less personal.”
Gasping she shakes her head in horror. “I can’t kill you, Alec.”
Dropping the gun I say, “If you leave with him, you have killed me anyways.”
Her mouth slopes and she lets out sob. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this...” She shakes her head and I can see she is in pain but then she takes Sorkin’s hand and all I feel is bloodlust. Looking at me she says, “You will let us go. You will let us run. Don’t come after us.”
“Do not leave me. You are my wife. Your loyalty is to me, your life is with me.”
Her life belongs to me. Her body, her spirit. Her future children. She will have them with me or nobody else.
“Alec, please...” She moves toward the staircase. “Just let us go.” Her eyes watch me in horror as if I am a beast that she needs to keep a track on. Their movements turn jerky as they move up the staircase and then they run.
19
Lyla
We’re running, through the forest because it’s the quickest way to get tothe highway and I’m trying my best to keep Trevor upright. The wind is whipping in our faces and he’s leaning on me like I’m his lifeline, a little too heavily at times, occasionally making me feel like he’s punching the air out of me.
I shouldn’t complain. I don’t have the right to. Not after what my husband did to him and I feel so guilty that I would rather just drop down to my knees and start bawling. But I can’t, I need to get Trevor to the hospital before I have my meltdown.
“Honey, are you okay?” I ask between ragged breaths. “Can you manage?”
I don’t usually call Trevor honey but after what he’s been through I sort of have a need to talk to him like he’s a baby. And maybe also because he still has that look in his eyes. Hateful. Hostile. I don’t know where it’s coming from.
Is he blaming me for what happened to him?
Obviously I know what it looks like. Him being imprisoned and then his friend goes and marries his imprisoner but I’m going to explain everything later. Trevor will understand.
“Do you want to sit for a little while?” I say, trying to get him to rest by a tree but he shoves at me.
“I don’t want to sit. And stop fucking talking to me like I’m a toddler.”
Freezing, I stare at him. But then I lick my lips, murmuring,
“Do you want us to walk instead?” He nods and we start walking in a quick pace and I glance at him nervously. “Are you cold?”
He shakes his head, muttering, “It’s warmer out here than in that disgusting basement.”
My heart drops and guilt makes my heart ache. These past few days, I barely even gave Trevor a thought. I got too wrapped in Alec, too hooked on him. I’d stopped pushing him about finding Trevor because all I cared about was to make Alec, happy, happy.
Clenching my fists, I inhale when I realize that all the time I’ve been living in the house, Trevor was downstairs all along. I feel so stupid. I knew something wasn’t right with the house but I never would have guessed...
“Why did you do it in the first place, Lyla?” Trevor asks, jerking me out of my thoughts. “Why didn’t you fight him, why didn’t you kick and scream before you let him come near you?”
Turning to him, I glance at him and he is so different than what he’s usually like that it throws me off. There is suddenly something oily about him. Something dirty that I can’t put my finger on. I don’t know if it’s because of what he’s been through, or because he was always like this but never put it on display before now...
“What are you talking about?” I ask and he grabs my arm, stopping me and I let out an ouch when he bruises me.