Keep Me (Sinful Manor #1)

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

“She doesn’t look very excited to see us, Tor,” the man says with a hint of sarcastic humor and a nasally voice. I stare daggers at the two people standing in my home, referring to my wife as if they were the sun, just waiting for her to orbit around them.

“Of course she is,” the woman replies, giving Sylvie a smug, teasing expression. “She’s just surprised.”

“What are you guys doing here?” Sylvie repeats as if to herself.

The woman looks at the man and then back at us. “Well… you said you’d be in Scotland, so here we are.” Then, her eyes trail upward to my face. “You must be the man our daughter ran off to marry.”

“He exists,” the man jokes as they both laugh together. Sylvie and I stay silent.

The woman looks around as if assessing my home. “Truly remarkable design,” she says, pointing to the accents and fixtures.

The man quickly jumps in. “And this rug, Torrence. Did you see this rug?”

“It must be hand knotted,” Sylvie’s mother replies, staring down at the floor.

The two of them go on about the rug as my gaze slides over to Sylvie. She’s staring at them with an expression on her face I’ve never seen before. Lips parted, eyes moist, nostrils flaring. She’s on the verge of tears while being frozen in place.

My heart splinters with rage, but I swallow it down. These are her parents. They might be a bit unconventional, but they are still her family, so I’ll use every ounce of strength inside me to watch my tone and bite my tongue.

When I spot Martha reentering the foyer to help greet our guests, I decide it would be best to invite them in and at least try to act civilized.

I raise a hand to guide them toward the parlor. “Please, come in. Martha will make us some tea, and we…” I stammer, unpracticed in my manners. “We can get to know each other.”

Sylvie’s hand clasps onto my arm, her nails digging into the skin. When she turns toward me, I read the expression of hesitation on her face. Please, no , it says.

I pull her against me and press my lips to her forehead. “It’ll be fine,” I whisper.

Then I rest my hand on her back and lead her toward the parlor. Her parents fuss about the house some more, admiring the art on the walls and the architectural details around the windows. Things I’ve become so accustomed to over the years of my life that I hardly notice them anymore. Then again, I don’t find the value in my home in its history or design. I find the value in its comfort and the fact that it’s given me shelter and warmth for just over thirty-eight years.

“Well, we haven’t been properly introduced,” the man says as he strides toward me with a hand outstretched. There’s something odd about him. He won’t look me in the eye. He’s much shorter than his wife, which must be where Sylvie gets her smaller size from. But although he’s a small man, he carries himself much like a lapdog does, not as if he’s the largest and most powerful thing in the room, but like he sits on the lap of the person who is.

“Yuri Deveraux,” he says politely. I shake his hand, clenching my jaw together.

“Killian Barclay,” I reply proudly.

The woman doesn’t bother with introductions or handshakes. She pulls her glasses off and holds them in front of her as she studies a painting on the wall.

“Torrence, dear, come sit down,” the man says as he takes a seat across from me. Sylvie has hardly uttered a word to her parents, but judging by the look on her face, she’s fuming inside. She’s sitting next to me like a powder keg with a very short fuse. Reaching over, I clutch her hand in mine, holding it tightly, hoping to calm her if necessary.

“Sylvie and I didn’t know you two were in the country,” I say calmly.

“Well, we haven’t been to London in years, but we had some good friends holding an exhibit there, so we made the trip.”

Sylvie’s hand flinches in mine, so I squeeze tighter.

I think her father notices because his eyes dart down to our hands and up to his daughter’s face. He doesn’t keep his eyes on her for long, and I sense a flash of sympathy in his expression. He quickly clears his throat.

“So, how did you two meet?” he asks.

“Umm…” I stammer, glancing at her and searching for an answer.

“There was a typewriter,” she mumbles lazily.

“A typewriter?” the man replies, perking up. “Sweetie, have you been writing?”

“Writing?” the woman squeaks from across the room. “What have you been writing?”

While the man sounded curious and interested, her mother’s reaction is almost accusatory.

“It’s nothing,” Sylvie replies, pinching her forehead.

Suddenly, the story of how we met has been swept under the proverbial hand-spun rug because her parents are fully invested in the prospect of their daughter writing . I had no clue it was ever so significant.

“What do you mean it’s nothing?” her mother replies, suddenly showing far more interest in her than the paintings. She walks over, but instead of sitting with the rest of us, she hovers over her daughter. “Have you been in contact with your professors? Perhaps they could give you a critique. What was the name of that professor at her school, Yuri? The one with the connection at the New Yorker ?”

“Stop,” Sylvie mutters, placing her face in her hands.

“She’s just trying to help, sweetie,” her father says to her, but it doesn’t help.

Just then, Martha comes in with the tea, thankfully defusing the situation. Sylvie’s mother finally sits in the seat across from her daughter, her nose poised in the air as Martha pours the tea.

“Thank you, Martha,” my wife says with a smile. When the housekeeper leaves us, the conversation picks up right where it left off.

“Like your father said, Sylvie, I’m just trying to help. Getting a publisher’s interest early is going to help you cut the competition down the line.”

“I’m not publishing it,” Sylvie replies obstinately. She stares down at her teacup as she stirs a cube of sugar into it.

“And why not?” Torrence replies with shock.

“Because I don’t want to.” Sylvie’s tone is cutting and clipped.

The table clangs with the force of her mother slamming her own spoon down at hearing Sylvie’s response. My shoulders tighten up by my ears as I struggle to maintain my composure.

“Dear,” Yuri says, holding a hand toward his wife.

“No,” the woman argues. “She’s doing this on purpose,” she snaps at her daughter.

I clench my fists, and keep my response slow and calm. “I can assure you my wife is not doing anything to hurt you.”

“No, but she does it to spite me.”

Sylvie glares at her mother, a dead-faced expression covering her features. “How is me living my life and being happy to spite you?”

“Because you won’t let me help you. It’s as if you don’t want to be successful.”

“Is that really so important to you?” Sylvie argues.

“It’s important to everyone, Sylvie.”

My jaw clenches again. I glance sideways at my wife, watching the spark grow closer and closer to the end of the fuse.

I wonder if it’s for me that she holds it back. Is it for my sake that she refuses to really let these people know how she feels about them? The Sylvie I know doesn’t hold back. She lets her fire burn without care for who is in the path of her flame. But now…she’s keeping it all in. And I don’t like it.

When the room grows silent, it’s Yuri who attempts to carry on a casual conversation. “What have you been writing, sweetie?”

Sylvie smacks down her cup. “Can we just drop it? Forget I said anything about the writing.”

The man barely reacts to her outburst. But I notice the way her mother watches her. I can see the criticism perched on her lips, ready to take flight, and I stare at that woman, willing her to keep her ugly mouth shut and to think twice about saying anything critical of my wife.

Naturally, she doesn’t heed my warning.

“You always were so volatile,” she mutters. “Here we are, at your home to meet your new husband that you haven’t told us anything about or introduced us to before today, and you really can’t manage to have a decent conversation with us, can you, Sylvie? We didn’t raise you like this.”

“You didn’t raise me at all,” Sylvie snaps.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll never truly know how much your father and I sacrificed for you.”

“Did you sacrifice birthdays? Christmases? Did your mother ask you to pose naked for strangers when you were sixteen?” she shrieks in frustration.

My head snaps up to level an angry gaze at the two of them.

“That was for an art class, Sylvie. Please, be reasonable,” the mouse of a man whines.

Sylvie ignores him. “And you didn’t come here to visit me and my husband. You were in the area and stopped by. The reason you don’t know anything about him is because you don’t call me. You don’t ask. You don’t…care. You show up and talk about the fucking rug when you haven’t spoken to your daughter in almost a year.”

Her voice trails, and I hear the quaver in it that shatters my chest into splinters on the ground. I’m seconds away from throwing these two pieces of worthless flesh out of my house.

I stare at Sylvie’s father, mentally begging him to do something. To stand up for his fucking daughter, but he doesn’t. He stays silent.

For one second too long.

Sylvie sniffles through the silence as her mother stares contemplatively at her. Then, the woman shakes her head as she softly mutters, “Ever since the day you tore your own portrait to shreds, I knew you’d never be happy unless you were the center of our universe. Poor little Sylvie, always so desperate for everyone’s attention. What an entitled little bitch you’ve turned out to be.”

The small round wooden table between us suddenly flies across the room, taking the tea tray, pot, and cups with it. There’s a scream of fear and a few curse words to be heard as I launch out of my chair and point an angry finger at the two sitting across from me.

“Get the fuck out of my house!” I bellow so loudly the art on the walls trembles from the noise.

“What on earth is wrong with you?” the woman shrieks.

“You,” I shout, reaching forward to take her by the collar and yank her out of her chair. “You…are not welcome in our home anymore.” With that, I drag her toward the door.

Somewhere behind me I hear the man nervously stutter, “Get your ha—hands off my wife.”

As we reach the front door, I nearly throw the woman toward the exit. She stares at me with horror before glancing at her daughter.

“This is the kind of man you’ve married? Someone who resorts to violence and outbursts?”

“Why should we leave our daughter with you?” the man argues as he takes his place at his wife’s side.

“Because I love her, you fucking twats. And I would never talk to her the way the pair of you do. And for your information,” I add, pulling open the front door to find a deluge coming down outside. I put my finger in Sylvie’s mother’s face this time as I lean in. “Your child is supposed to be the center of your universe, you ungrateful, selfish bitch.”

I toss them both into the rain. They’re both so appalled by my reactions that it grates on my nerves. Has no one ever defended Sylvie around these two in her entire life? What sort of damage could a pair of incompetent, emotionally neglectful parents like these do to a person?

They’re both gaping in shock on the front step of my house. Before shutting the door, I turn and see the red and gold pattern on the floor. In a fit of anger, I pick up the square rug and roll it quickly in my hands before hauling it toward the frail, frightened people standing just a few feet away.

“Here! Take the fucking rug.” It lands with a thud on the ground in front of them, getting soaked by the rain. Then I slam the front door closed and force myself to steady my heavy breathing.

I hear the closing of a car door outside before I dare to leave that spot. When I make out the sound of gravel under their tires, I finally leave the front door in search of Sylvie.

To my surprise, she’s no longer in the parlor or in the entryway. I nearly panic when I hear her footsteps upstairs in the library.

“Sylvie!” I shout, desperate for her reaction. I need to hear that she’s okay.

A moment later, she’s stomping angrily down the stairs, tears streaming down her face while wearing an expression of stubborn rage. In her arms, she’s hoisting the typewriter down toward the front door.

“What are you doing?” I stammer before she clumsily tears open the door and storms through it. I watch with confusion as she sends the typewriter soaring into the rain. “Sylvie, stop!”

I grab at her arm, but she shakes it free. Running out into the rain, she stomps her boot into the typewriter over and over, sending shards of broken wood and keys flying. At one point, I just stop trying to save it. If this is what she needs, then I’ll let her have it.

Finally, I walk over and take hold of her arm again. “Mo ghràidh,” I whisper.

To my surprise, my wife turns toward me in anger. “Leave me alone, Killian! You lied! You don’t love me! You’re not my husband. None of this is real!”

I grab her by the arms to stop her. “What are you talking about? Of course, I love you.”

She struggles to shake free of my grip. “You do now, but the novelty will wear off. You’ll get sick of me, or I’ll ask too much, and then you’ll get angry at me. Didn’t you see the way they looked at me, Killian? How could you love someone who isn’t loved by her own parents?”

My mind is reeling as I stare at her in this state. This isn’t the Sylvie I know. Her eyes are wild and frantic and scared. I just want my wife back.

When she finally slips out of my grip from the rain on our skin, I watch in horror as she takes off in a sprint toward the trees lining the property and quickly disappears.