Keep Me (Sinful Manor #1)

Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

My feet ache, and the lace of this stupid dress has rubbed a patch of skin under my arm raw. When everyone except for Anna and a few other stragglers have left, I escape up to my room.

My bedroom is large, the second-largest room in the house, Anna said. It has an en suite bathroom, a giant closet, and its own small balcony that overlooks the garden.

Everything in the room is dated and ornate, save for the few random modern things like the flat-screen TV mounted above the dresser and the wireless charger on the nightstand.

When I drop my phone on the charger, my arms are so tired, it lands in the wrong spot and falls to the floor in the space between the table and the bed. With an exhausted sigh, I kneel down and reach for the phone on the floor.

Just as my fingers brush the device, my gaze lands on something strange. It’s a black leather strap fastened to the post.

“What the…?” My fingers touch the strap, grazing along the frayed edge, where it was clearly cut. I quickly stand up and inspect the rest of the bedposts, but they don’t have the same leather strap.

Furrowing my brow, I try to imagine which of the Barclay children was likely to stay in this room with its kinky black straps. Inwardly, I laugh at the idea that little miss uptight Anna would have a wild side.

After tearing my dress off and tossing it in a pile on the floor, I go to the bathroom and run a scalding hot bath with a big fat scoop of rose-scented bath salts. As I lower my body into the tub, I let out a sigh of relief.

This isn’t so bad. I can do this.

Technically, all I have to do for the year is get through each day and somehow manage to keep Killian Barclay from screwing anyone else. Knowing now that he never leaves the house, my job actually got a little easier.

It doesn’t state anywhere in my contract that I also have to help turn this man’s life around. It’s not up to me to get him to heal from the loss of his parents or get over this fear of leaving his house. I’m not a spiritual healer. Or a therapist. Or a miracle worker.

My job is simple. Stay married to Killian for a year and get ten million bucks for it.

What am I stressing about?

“Sylvie.” Anna’s voice calls through the door of my bedroom.

“I’m in the bath. Don’t come in,” I call back in a lazy monotone drawl.

“We’re just leaving. We’ve put Killian to bed. He…had a lot to drink today. I’ll stop by tomorrow to check on things.”

“Good night,” I grumble back in a low call.

She hesitates. “Good night.”

Her heels click against the floor as she retreats from my door. A few minutes later, I hear the front door close in the distance.

Then, the house is quiet. So quiet.

It’s an eerie sort of silence that makes me uncomfortable. Like the silence before a scream or the blast of a bomb. I can’t stand it.

It’s the sound of being alone with him. Even if he is sleeping in his own room down the hall. This silence means everyone is gone. There is no buffer between us.

Snatching my phone from the counter next to the tub, I open the music app and start playing something upbeat and melodic. Only a few minutes in, I realize it doesn’t fit with the moment, so I find something slower and more relaxing. When I’ve picked the perfect playlist, I drop the phone on the counter and let the sound echo against the walls of the giant bathroom.

I sink deeper into the tub and try to just melt into the relaxation. I wish I could turn my mind off, but I can’t. I just keep going back to the events of the day. The wedding. The feel of Killian’s enormous hand in mine. The fake smile he wore for the pictures. The way he stared into my eyes as we said our vows. The smell of smoke on his clothes as he stepped up so close to me.

So far, he is nothing more than a montage of moments to me. Most of them are harsh and unpleasant. Is this how the year will be? Will I ever truly know and understand him? Will I grow to like him?

No. I’ve never grown to like anyone, not really. I grew to like Margot once and look at how that ended.

It’s best I don’t try with Killian. Keep him at arm’s length. Never dive too deep. Don’t look too close.

I don’t know how much time passes as I sit in the hot water, letting my mind drift quietly through my thoughts. Maybe six songs have gone by when I hear a crash out in the hallway.

I jolt, my eyes popping open as I sit upright and watch the door to the bathroom. I left it open, but I’m almost positive I locked my bedroom door.

Didn’t I?

What if Killian breaks in? What if he thinks that now that I’m his wife, he can just barge in and take what he wants?

My heart hammers in my chest as I listen for another sound. In the distance, I hear a string of curses, mumbled and slurred. Then another loud thunk that sounds like furniture falling over.

The sounds are growing distant, which is a good sign.

When I don’t hear anything for a while, I sit back in the bathtub and try to relax again. Maybe he fell down the stairs and cracked his head open. If he bleeds to death, do I still get my money?

Or go to jail for murder?

Yeah, definitely the latter. There’s no way they wouldn’t suspect me of killing him if ten mill was on the line.

“Shit,” I whisper to myself. I really, really don’t want to go down there. But if he is seriously hurt, that could come back on me.

“Stupid fucking Scottish asshole,” I mutter to myself as I climb angrily out of the tub, water sloshing to the floor. Grabbing the towel, I wrap it around me and quickly dry off before snatching the fluffy white robe from the hook.

Just as I tighten the belt of the robe around my waist, I open my bedroom door—which was unlocked. The round glass table on the second-floor landing is covered in water, and the large ornate vase knocked over and cracked down the middle.

Fresh-cut red roses are scattered all over the table and floor. I pick one up and set it on the surface before glancing around for Killian. If I can at least get some confirmation that he’s alive and not bleeding to death, I can go back to bed and lock my door this time.

“Killian,” I call in a flat, unamused tone.

He doesn’t answer.

I tiptoe down the stairs. Reaching the front of the house, I turn first toward the living room in search of him there, thinking he might want to watch TV down here. But it’s empty. There’s an unopened bottle of whisky on the floor by the bar, and one of the upholstered green chairs is tipped on its side. That must have been the sound I heard.

When I try the kitchen, I stop and stare in shock. It looks like a tornado swept through the room. Broken glass on the floor. Whisky spilled on the counter. And when I ease in further, I recognize a pattern of red drops on the floor leading to the dining room.

He’s bleeding.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

As I turn the corner into the dining room, I let out a shriek when I spot Killian slumped over on the floor with his back against the wall, and his legs extended out in front of him. He’s in nothing more than a pair of tight black boxer briefs. His long hair hangs forward, draped over his face.

My eyes catch on the muscles of his shoulders and the patch of dark hair on his chest that leads down over his stomach and into his boxers.

Leaning against the wall with a half-empty glass of whisky in his hand, he looks passed out cold.

Standing in my bathrobe, I stare down at him for well over a minute. When I see movement in his chest and shoulders, I breathe a sigh of relief. There’s still no sign of where the blood came from. He didn’t step in broken glass.

Inching forward, I lift his hair enough to inspect if the blood is from a head wound. Luckily, it’s not.

Lifting up his left hand, I first see the gold band on his ring finger. The sight of it feels like a bucket of ice water being poured over me.

I put that ring there. He’s my husband.

I have a matching one on my hand now.

When I flip over his hand to inspect his palm, I find the source of the blood. There is a long clean slice over his entire hand. Blood seeps freely from the wound, pooling on the floor.

My first thought is… Can someone bleed out from a hand wound? Eventually, his blood would clot and stop him from dying, right?

Even with that much alcohol in his system though? Doesn’t it thin the blood?

Maybe if I just elevate it? I could grab a chair from the dining table and rest his arm on it to help stop the bleeding.

This is his problem. I mean…three days ago, I wouldn’t have even been here to help him.

I could have been sleeping upstairs in my room, so really I’m not at fault if I don’t do anything. He chose to drink too much. He chose to be a clumsy, reckless idiot.

With a sigh, I stand up. Grabbing a chair, I pull up next to him and lift his arm so it’s propped up. Blood still drips from the gash but not as steadily.

He’s fine.

Turning on my heel, I tiptoe out of the dining room and back toward the stairs, watching for blood or broken glass. My conscience is clear. I helped him, and let’s be honest, he’s lucky I did that much after the way he’s treated me.

It’s clear Killian wants to be alone. And part of being alone and relying on no one is taking the risk of not having anyone around to help him when he needs it. That’s on him.

He obviously doesn’t want me here, so I’ll pretend I’m not here.

If he bleeds out on the dining room floor, then he probably shouldn’t have chosen to be so reclusive and ill-tempered.

I make it almost halfway up the stairs before I stop and squeeze the banister in my grip.

If I wake up in the morning to find him dead, then that’s a whole mess I have to deal with. Not to mention, I doubt I’d see a dime of that money. Being married to him for one day is not the same as being married to him for one year.

I do not care about Killian Barclay. I don’t.

But I do care about not going to jail and losing ten million dollars. So I spin around on the stairs and walk to the bathroom. Rifling through the cabinet, I find what I’m looking for—gauze, bandages, and antibiotic cream. After shoving them into the pockets of my robe, I grab a washcloth and run it under the warm water of the sink.

Taking them back to where I find Killian positioned exactly as I left him, I pull the chair away and kneel on the floor next to him. Placing his large hand in my lap, I feel a wave of relief when I notice that the bleeding has almost stopped.

Using the wet washcloth, I wipe away as much of the blood as I can. A lot of it has dried against his skin. His hand is heavy in my lap, and I softly stroke each finger, straightening them, just watching them curl back into a relaxed position.

Once the wound is clean, I take the gauze out of my pocket and begin wrapping it firmly around his palm. When it’s covered, I use the bandages to hold it in place. I test my work by squeezing his hand to see if it will bleed through, and he stirs.

“Ugh…” he groans. His head tilts back, and he glares at me through half-closed eyes. “Not you .”

“I’m helping you,” I reply.

“Fuck you, cow.” His words come out raspy and slurring.

As I finish cleaning up his hand, I feel his drunken gaze on my face, wondering if he sees the hurt in my eyes from his cruel words. I don’t bother arguing with him. I could call him a brute or an asshole or a lazy drunk, but I don’t.

Maybe if I don’t sling back his insults, he’ll see for a moment how hurtful his words are.

The next time I look up at him, his eyes are closed, and his breathing has grown loud as he sleeps.

I swallow down the sting of resentment.

After bandaging his hand, I go to the kitchen and find some towels to clean up the drops of blood on the floor. The cleaners will have to do a better job tomorrow, but I can at least wipe it up now while it’s still wet and hasn’t stained the hardwood.

It takes me a while to wipe up the mess around where he’s still sleeping. Once I’m done with that, I get the spots he dripped from the kitchen. As I clean up the shards of broken glass on the floor, I find the culprit. The entire bottom half of the glass is still intact on the floor, and there is a ring of blood around the top. He must have been holding it when it broke.

After I find the broom, I carefully sweep up the kitchen and discard everything into the trash bin. There is a bottle of antibacterial spray in the cupboard, so I might as well use that while I’m at it. Next thing I know, I’m mopping the entire floor, moving the mop around Killian’s sleeping form.

I don’t even know what time it is by the time I’ve finished cleaning. Killian stirs again. I can hear him groaning while I’m picking up the fallen chair in the living room. When I rush over to see what’s wrong with him, I nearly collide with his giant bare chest.

My hands fly up, my palms pressing against the patch of soft black hair on his chest. He scowls down at me as he sways on his feet.

“Move,” he mutters in a low growl.

“Try excuse me ,” I reply with attitude.

“Fuck off.”

He attempts to shove me away and stumble past me but quickly loses his balance and goes careening into the wall, hitting it with a loud thud. His face screws up in anguish as he reaches for his shoulder.

I let out a disgruntled sigh. “Let me help you before you kill yourself.”

“Don’t touch me,” he replies, taking another staggering step forward.

I put up my hands in surrender as anger boils in my bloodstream. “Fine!” I shout. “Take care of yourself then, Killian. Cut your whole fucking hand off next time. I don’t care.”

“What are you shouting about?” he groans.

“Just what a royal asshole you are.”

I cross my arms over my chest. He stops in his floundering retreat and turns back toward me. “I’m an arsehole? What about you? You don’t want to help me. You just want your precious money because you’re a selfish little bitch.”

“I just bandaged up your hand, you dick! You should be thanking me!”

“If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t even be this fucking drunk. But after I realized I married such a heinous bitch, I couldn’t wait to get properly smashed.”

My teeth are clenched, and my nostrils flare as I stare at him. For the first time since I arrived here, I’m starting to wonder if I can really do this. Can I get through the next year with this insufferable pig? How am I possibly going to make it that long without killing him?

“Go to bed, Killian,” I mutter coldly.

He sways in his stance, staring at me angrily, and for a moment, I swear I catch a glimpse of disappointment on his face. As if he wanted me to argue back. Instead, I relented. I let him call me a heinous bitch without calling him an ignorant troll in return.

“I’m too tired from cleaning up your whole fucking mess to argue with you right now, so please, just go to bed and leave me alone,” I say in quiet surrender.

His face tenses in frustration. “Gladly.”

He barely makes it to the stairs, and when I envision him tumbling down them and breaking his neck, I hurry behind him. Without a word, I lock my arm around his and pull him up the stairs.

I feel his rueful gaze on my face as I help him, but I don’t look back. I don’t want there to ever be a moment of weakness between us. No sliver of kindness or compassion. Not a hint of attraction.

As we reach the top of the stairs, I let Killian go and watch him as he stumbles to his room, slamming the door once he’s safely inside. Once I’m alone, I take a deep breath and let my exhaustion sink in.

Today was the longest day of my life.

One down. Three hundred and sixty-four to go.