Arnulfo marched her into the master bedroom and pointed to the edge of the bed.

"Sit."

Erline sat. She cradled her bleeding hand.

Arnulfo pulled out his phone. "Sterling. Bring the trauma kit. And a sedative. Now."

He hung up and walked to the window. Outside, the sky had turned a bruised purple. A storm was breaking.

BOOM.

Thunder shook the house. A flash of lightning illuminated the room in stark white.

Erline flinched. Her body convulsed, a violent, involuntary jerk.

The sound triggered it. The memory of the basement. Her father. The noise of the belt cracking.

Her breath hitched. She started to hyperventilate. She pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around her head, rocking back and forth.

Arnulfo turned. He frowned. "Playing the victim?"

He walked over. He saw her eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the iris. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She wasn't looking at him; she was looking at something that wasn't there.

The door opened. A man in a grey suit carrying a leather bag rushed in. Dr. Sterling.

"What happened?" Sterling asked, setting the bag on the bed.

"Thunder," Arnulfo said, sounding annoyed. "Or Higgins. Who knows."

Sterling approached her. "Mrs. Bond? I need to check your vitals. Your breathing is too fast."

Erline didn't respond. She was gasping for air.

"I need to listen to her heart," Sterling said. "Please, unzip her dress."

Erline heard the words. Panic flared. No. Not the skin. Don't look at the skin.

She grabbed the collar of her dress, shaking her head frantically.

Arnulfo sighed. "Don't be a child."

He stepped forward, brushed her hands away with effortless strength, and spun her around.

ZZZZZT.

The sound of the zipper going down was loud in the quiet room.

Arnulfo pulled the grey fabric down to her waist.

Erline squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the reaction.

Silence.

Dr. Sterling held the stethoscope, but he didn't move. He was staring at her back.

Arnulfo stared too.

Her skin was a map of pain.

Below her right shoulder blade, a thick, white keloid scar snaked across her ribs. It was old, jagged-the mark of a belt buckle or a whip.

Lower down, near her waist, were three circular burns. Cigarette burns. Faded, but unmistakable.

These weren't accidents. This was torture. Systematic, long-term abuse.

Sterling looked at Arnulfo. Arnulfo's eyes narrowed. He traced the line of the whip scar with his eyes.

"Sedative," Arnulfo said. His voice was different. Tighter.

Sterling nodded. He prepared a syringe. "Just a small pinch, Mrs. Bond."

He injected her arm.

The world went soft at the edges. Erline's panic receded, replaced by a heavy, warm fog. She slumped sideways onto the pillows.

Sterling quickly cleaned and bandaged her hand.

"Arnulfo," Sterling said, standing up and packing his bag. "A word."

He jerked his head toward the hallway.

Arnulfo followed him out, pulling the door almost shut.

Erline lay on the bed. The drug was strong, but she fought it. She bit the tip of her tongue hard. The sharp pain gave her a second of clarity.

She strained her ears.

"Something is wrong," Sterling's voice drifted through the crack in the door. It was a hushed whisper.

"Speak," Arnulfo replied. Then came the sound of a lighter flicking.

"I reviewed Verity Guy's medical files before the marriage," Sterling said. "Routine check. She has a clean history. A broken arm from skiing when she was twelve. Some cosmetic work on her nose. That's it."

A pause. Smoke exhaled.

"But that woman in there..." Sterling continued. "Those scars on her back are at least ten years old. The burns? Those are from childhood. That body has been through a war, Arnulfo. That is not the skin of a pampered socialite."

Erline's heart hammered against her ribs. He knows.

"Are you saying I married a fake?" Arnulfo's voice was dangerous, low and vibrating with threat.

"Or the Guy family has secrets," Sterling said. "You know these old money families. Their closets are full of skeletons. Maybe Verity was the punching bag."

"Interesting," Arnulfo said. "Dig deeper. I want to know everything about her past twenty years. Every doctor visit. Every school report."

"I'm on it."

Footsteps faded. Then, the door pushed open.

Arnulfo walked back in. He smelled of tobacco.

Erline kept her eyes closed, regulating her breathing. In. Out. Slow.

He didn't say anything. He walked to the bed. She felt the mattress dip as he sat down. He was close.

"Stop pretending to be asleep," he said.

Erline stiffened. She opened her eyes slowly.

Arnulfo was holding a tube of ointment. He tossed a white dress shirt onto the bed. It was his.

"Doctor says you need to rest. Put that on."

Erline sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. She grabbed the shirt. She turned away to pull it on, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. It was huge on her, hitting mid-thigh. It smelled like him-clean, sharp, masculine.

She turned back. Arnulfo was watching her.

"Did you like playing with fire when you were a child?" he asked suddenly.

It was a trap. The cigarette burns.

Erline looked at him, keeping her face blank. She tilted her head, confusion knitting her brows. She pointed to her throat, then her ear, and shrugged. I don't understand.

She was playing the fool.

Arnulfo stood up. He loomed over her, planting a hand on the mattress on either side of her hips, trapping her.

"I don't care who you are," he whispered, his face inches from hers. "You walked through my door. Your life is mine."

He grabbed the ointment and tossed it into her lap.

"Apply the rest yourself. I'm not your nurse."

He straightened up and walked into the bathroom.

Erline let out a breath she had been holding for five minutes. He suspected, but he didn't know. Not yet.

She looked at the bathroom door. She had to move fast. Tonight. While he slept. She had to get into his study.

The digital clock on the bedside table read 2:00 AM.

Arnulfo was asleep. His breathing was deep and rhythmic. He lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes.

Erline slid out from under the duvet. She moved like a ghost. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpet.

She crept toward the bedroom door. Her target was the study down the hall.

"Going somewhere?"

The voice stopped her heart.

She spun around.

Arnulfo wasn't asleep. He was propped up on one elbow, watching her. His chest was bare, muscles defined in the moonlight.

"The bathroom is that way," he said, pointing to the ensuite.

Erline froze. She pointed to the door, then mimed drinking water.

Arnulfo threw the covers off. He wore only silk pajama bottoms. He walked toward her.

"The kitchen is closed. And there is water on the nightstand."

He stepped into her personal space. "You weren't going for water. You were going to the study. Or the front door."

Erline backed up. She hit the antique dresser.

Arnulfo reached for her shoulder. "Stop moving."

Instinct took over. The memory of being grabbed in the dark. Erline panicked. She grabbed the heavy brass lamp on the dresser and swung it.

CRASH.

The base of the lamp connected with Arnulfo's forearm as he blocked the blow. The metal gouged his skin. Blood welled up instantly.

Arnulfo hissed. His eyes went black with rage.

He lunged. His hand wrapped around her throat. He slammed her back against the dresser.

"You dare touch me?" he snarled.

His grip tightened. Erline clawed at his wrist, her legs kicking uselessly. She couldn't breathe. Black spots danced in her vision.

She looked at him. She didn't look angry. She looked terrified. Her eyes were wide, pleading, filled with the resignation of someone who expects to die.

It was the look of a prey animal.

Arnulfo saw it. It pierced through his anger. This wasn't the look of an assassin or a spy. It was the look of a victim. He felt a flicker of something other than rage-a cold, possessive curiosity. This broken thing was far more interesting than the vapid socialite he'd been expecting.

He let go.

Erline slid down the front of the dresser, gasping, coughing violently. She rubbed her throat.

Arnulfo looked at his bleeding arm. Then he looked at the red marks forming on her neck. His fingerprints.

He turned and walked into the bathroom.

Erline curled into a ball, waiting for him to come back with a weapon.

He returned with a wet towel and the first aid kit.

He crouched in front of her. He grabbed her hand, pulling it away from her neck.

"Let me see."

She flinched.

"Stop it," he ordered.

He dabbed the cool towel against her neck. His touch was rough, but precise. He applied a soothing gel to the red marks. He wasn't being gentle; he was documenting the damage, his mind cataloging the fragility of his new acquisition.

"I don't like disobedience," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "But I don't kill pets."

He finished with her neck. Then he wiped the blood from his own arm, wincing slightly.

"Remember how this feels," he said, looking her in the eye. "Next time you try to leave this room at night, I won't stop squeezing."

He stood up and scooped her into his arms. She was light.

He carried her back to the bed and dropped her onto the mattress.

"Sleep," he commanded. "Beside me. If you move, I'll know."

He lay down and pulled the duvet up.

Erline lay rigid next to the monster, listening to his heart slow down, wondering if she would survive the night.