Chapter 204 - 203 Kicked Away II
( EMILY )
I turn the brass lock slowly, taking extreme care to prevent the metal mechanism from clicking loudly. I push the door open a fraction of an inch. I peer through the narrow gap.
The warm yellow light of the bedside reading lamp still illuminates the mattress. Alistair lies exactly where my kick deposited him. He is sprawled awkwardly across the right side of the bed. His long legs hang partially over the edge. One arm rests across his stomach. His chest rises and falls in a deep, slow, rhythmic pattern. He is completely unconscious, deeply submerged in an alcohol-induced coma.
I open the door wider and step out into the suite. My bare feet make absolutely no sound against the floorboards.
I walk cautiously toward the edge of the bed. He looks completely peaceful, a sharp contrast to the violent, predatory force he exhibited just an hour ago. The deep purple shadows under his eyes look even more pronounced in the dim light.
I need to be absolutely certain he is asleep. I cannot risk another sudden awakening.
I turn to the mahogany nightstand. A massive, heavy hardcover medical textbook rests on the bottom shelf. I pick the heavy volume up with both hands. I step back to the edge of the mattress, raising the textbook a few inches above the surface of the bed, right next to his outstretched hand.
I drop the book.
The heavy hardcover smacks against the mattress with a loud, solid thud. The sudden noise echoes sharply in the quiet room.
I jump backward, my hands raised defensively. I watch his face closely.
Alistair does not flinch. His eyelashes do not flutter. His deep, rhythmic breathing does not alter by a single fraction. He is completely dead to the world.
I let out a long, shaky breath, the residual tension draining out of my shoulders. The immediate physical danger is over.
A sudden blast of freezing air drops from the ceiling vents directly above the bed. The climate control in this massive suite operates at a ridiculously low temperature. Alistair wears only a thin, unbuttoned white dress shirt and his suit trousers. He is completely exposed to the cold air.
I stare at his sleeping form. A profound sense of ridiculous, unwanted pity touches my chest. He assaulted me in a drunken haze, yet my medical training and my basic human empathy refuse to let a man freeze in his sleep. I shake my head, incredibly annoyed by my own soft-hearted nature.
I walk around to the far side of the massive king-sized bed. I grab the edge of the thick white duvet. I pull the heavy material upward, dragging it across the mattress until it completely covers his broad shoulders. I tuck the edges securely around his torso, trapping his body heat beneath the down feathers.
He mutters something completely unintelligible in his sleep, turning his head slightly into the pillows.
I step away from the bed. I spot his tailored charcoal suit jacket resting in a crumpled heap near the foot of the mattress, right where he discarded it before the altercation began. His dark silk tie lies tangled in the white sheets.
If the housekeeping staff enters this room tomorrow morning and spots the discarded suit jacket, the heavy medical textbook resting awkwardly on the pillows, and the obvious signs of a physical struggle, rumors will spread through the estate like wildfire. Celia Wolfe will undoubtedly twist the narrative to make me look like the aggressor. I cannot afford to leave a chaotic crime scene for the maids to interpret.
I walk forward and gather the expensive wool jacket and the silk tie. I fold them quickly, creating a tight bundle of dark fabric.
I carry the clothes into the massive walk-in closet. I locate my large leather suitcase tucked in the far corner, the same suitcase where I previously hid the small brown glass bottle of essential oil. I unzip the main compartment, lifting a stack of folded neutral sweaters. I shove his suit jacket and tie deep into the bottom of the luggage, covering the items completely with my own clothing.
I zip the suitcase shut.
I stand in the quiet closet, feeling exactly like a common thief in my own bedroom. The absurdity of the situation is overwhelming. I am actively hiding the physical evidence of an assault committed by my own husband to protect his reputation and my own fragile living arrangement. I rub my temples, fighting the dull headache building behind my eyes.
I walk back out into the master suite.
I look at the massive king-sized bed. Alistair occupies the right side, completely dead to the world. The left side is empty and pristine. But the mattress is entirely compromised. The space represents a total loss of safety. I cannot lie down next to him tonight. I refuse to occupy the same physical structure as a man who completely ignores my boundaries.
I turn away from the bed and walk toward the adjacent lounge area.
The small space features a pale velvet sofa, the exact piece of furniture where I left his custom combat gloves three days ago. The sofa is narrow and completely unsuited for a comfortable night of sleep, but it sits fifteen feet away from the mattress.
I grab a spare wool blanket from the closet and a single pillow from the armchair. I arrange the makeshift bedding on the velvet cushions. I lie down, pulling the scratchy wool up to my chin. The couch is incredibly firm, the wooden frame pressing uncomfortably into my spine.
I stare at the ceiling. The heavy, dark shadows of the room offer no comfort.
My mind is a chaotic, spinning centrifuge. I try to force myself to sleep. I try to focus on the chemical structures of the cardiovascular drugs I need to study for Vanguard Medical University. I try to visualize the architectural blueprints for the bubble tea shop. I try to think about anything other than the events of the past hour.
The mental distraction fails completely.
The sensory memories refuse to fade. I feel the heavy, crushing weight of his chest pressing me down into the mattress. I taste the bitter, acidic tang of the vintage red wine on my tongue. I feel the searing heat of his mouth trailing down my jawline. I remember the exact, terrifying moment his calloused finger hooked beneath the silk strap of my nightgown.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the treacherous warmth in my stomach to disappear. The cold war is over, replaced by an active, terrifying battlefield. I am entirely out of my depth. I possess the tactical intelligence to outmaneuver political heiresses and syndicate bosses, but I have absolutely no defense against the raw, destructive physical power of my own husband.
The hours drag by with agonizing slowness.
Eventually, the sheer physical exhaustion of the day overrides my racing thoughts. The edges of my consciousness blur. The dark shadows of the lounge area dissolve into the fragmented, chaotic landscape of sleep.
I drift into a fitful, restless slumber.
The dreams begin almost instantly. The familiar environment of the master suite twists into a dark, suffocating trap. The yellow light of the reading lamp turns a sickly, ominous orange.
In the dream, I am lying on the velvet sofa. I cannot move. My arms and legs are completely paralyzed, pinned to the cushions by an invisible force.
A massive, towering shadow rises from the mattress across the room. The silhouette blocks out the light completely. The shadow moves toward me with terrifying, predatory speed.
Alistair stands over the sofa. His face is completely devoid of expression, a blank mask of cold, unyielding intent. He reaches down, his large hands grabbing my wrists with bone-crushing force. He pins my arms above my head, his heavy weight dropping down onto my hips.
I scream, but no sound escapes my throat. The silence is absolute.
He leans down. His hot breath hits my face. He begins to tear the heavy fleece clothing from my body, completely ignoring my silent, desperate struggles. The helplessness is absolute and entirely suffocating.
I jolt awake with a violent gasp.
My eyes snap open, staring blindly into the darkness of the lounge. My heart hammers a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my ribs. A cold sweat coats my forehead, sticking my dark hair to my skin. I sit up rapidly, the wool blanket falling to the floor. I grip the edge of the velvet cushion, dragging deep, shaky breaths of air into my burning lungs.
I look frantically toward the massive bed across the room.
The yellow light of the reading lamp still shines. Alistair remains completely motionless, buried beneath the thick white duvet, exactly as I left him.
It was just a nightmare.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, fighting the hot tears of frustration threatening to spill over my lashes. The nightmare is over, but the reality of my situation is equally terrifying. I am trapped in a contract with a man who possesses the power to shatter my carefully constructed independence in a single, drunken moment.
I pull my knees tightly against my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. The sun will not rise for another three hours. I remain awake on the velvet sofa, keeping a vigilant, terrified watch over the sleeping predator across the room, absolutely determined never to let him catch me off guard again.