Page 75 of Lord of Passion

Swallowing hard, I shake my head. "I'm good, thank you."

He places a folder of papers in front of me. "Why don't you have a look at these while you're pondering our future. The annulment paperwork is on top. Since you were married in that silly civil ceremony in Moscow, it is easy to dissolve the union here."

I read through the documents. Every one of them. He sits with me, seemingly content to stare.

"I'm very tired, Johann," I manage to speak normally as I'm shoving down a scream. "I would like to sleep now, if you don'tmind. Right here on the sofa would be lovely. The fire is so comforting."

Delicately, he drapes a throw blanket over me.

"Your loneliness is so hard to see," he croons. "I'll take care of you. I'm lonely too, sometimes. So few people seem to understand me. I will protect you from all the ugliness of the world, I'll wrap you upsotight."

"Goodnight," I whisper.

Bending close, he whispers. "It's been a busy day, of course you're exhausted, sweetheart. However, there are guards outside this door and all around the house. If you attempt to leave, they will stop you and I will be forced to send Ivan Bukharov proof of his beloved wife's demise and who should be held responsible."

Silence. Even if I could say something, my throat is frozen in terror. I can't swallow. He kisses his fingertips and presses them to the top of my head.

Chapter Thirty-Three

In which we have all the pleasing elements of a Victorian romance: dire peril, a crumbling, spooky mansion and people that just need to die.

Caroline…

This mansion has a split personality. Half of the ancient stone and brick monstrosity is something straight out of a horror movie. Or a snuff film. And that is so triggering that my thoughts skitter away from it. There's an ever-present drip of water, loud, from somewhere in the unfinished section. I've walked through half a dozen rooms, trying to find the leak.

It taunts my futile efforts. Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Wasn't there a book about someone driven mad by the endless drip? Edgar Allen Poe, maybe? I would know if I could look it up. Unfortunately, my phone is in Johann's blood-soaked hands.

He left this morning after straightening his tie in front of the huge silvered mirror in the entryway. "I have a meeting that I cannot change," he said. "Believe me when I say that I would much rather be here with you."

"Please don't hurt anyone else," I blurt. "Maybe, take today off. You've caused a lot of suffering."

His face lights up as if I'd just told him he was smarter than Neil DeGrasse Tyson and Stephen Hawking combined and that I'd love to have his babies. "Well, thank you," he says modestly. "Certain organizations, though, have been remarkably stubborn." Throwing a fond smile over his shoulder, he left me in his decaying mansion with his hard-faced guards.

There's a half-rotting greenhouse attached to the kitchen, with multiple panes of glass missing. I don't see a guard. Could I climb out of a broken section? I have one leg of the frame when a flood of pigeons flares up, wings fluttering madly and I scream, falling backward and landing on my ass as they fly at me and out of the open frame. Fuckers.

"Mrs. Novikova, please return to the kitchen." One of the guards is there, gun drawn. His finger is hovering over the trigger.

"That's not my name. Did Johann tell you to shoot me in the leg or something?"

His blank expression doesn't change. "Please return to the kitchen, ma'am."

There are a series of rooms remodeled and restored into something beautiful and elegant, like the grand entryway, the library, and the kitchen. I know the master bedroom and bath have been restored as well. I haven't seen them. Johann left me alone with that tender little message about murder and vengeance.

It's clear that he's unhappy that his presentation last night didn't make me fall madly in love with him, the way he expected, that all of his thoughtfully chosen points didn't send me into his arms. I could feel his frustration building this morning, though.His thought process is completely different from a sane person's so I'm going to have to find a different approach to diffuse his anger.

Walking down the dusty halls, I squint at the faded portraits with wallpaper falling down in shreds around them, the canvases aged by exposure and filth. In the untouched parts of the mansion, everything seems frozen in time. Johann never explained why he stopped the renovations and it seems strange he would tolerate this. He seems so bizarrely fastidious in a way that I've heard many psychopaths and serial killers are.

I turn another corner and there's a guard there. "You'll need to turn around, Mrs. Novikova," he says.

My mouth is open and ready to say, "He's not my husband," again, but there's no point. These men are devoted to the point of madness to Johann. But you'd have to be insane to be invested in his vision. I turn on my heel and go the other way. The guard is still standing there, watching me as I lean forward and below a bit of dust off a painting, which rewards me with a coughing fit and probably a couple of dead bugs inhaled.

I recognize this painting; it's of Marie Merriweather. Of course. This mansion used to be on the historical tours until the foundation that supported it fell apart. There's something about this place that keeps nagging at me. I think back on the two historical tours I've been on.