Wishing Well(61)

Tits. Ass. And a cunt. That’s all he cared about, all that interested him. But with Penelope, a curious shift had occurred in his thinking.

First noticing the change on the evening of the masquerade ball, I’d neglected to pay better attention during the weeks after that I’d stayed away, but after returning, and in the weeks that followed, I’d breathed easier with how even-tempered he’d become. I’d thought that, maybe, he would improve even more if he could admire Penelope’s face during the encounters he had with her.

But what I found when taking the elevator down to his cage was a complete reversal in a man who, until now, had struggled to behave.

The sound of breaking glass drew me left down the long hall. Entering the only cheerful room that could be found in this dark maze, I stood watching as Maurice destroyed a large part of it. Interestingly, I noted, he hadn’t destroyed his breakfast or the table it was set on.

“Is there a problem?” I asked, intentionally keeping my voice calm.

He spun to look at me, a vacancy in his eyes I hadn’t seen in weeks. The regression scared me. What had Penelope done?

“She won’t come back,” he growled, the sentence a mix of French and English I was unaccustomed to hearing.

“One language, Maurice.” Although I’d tucked my hands inside my pockets, and although I’d made my request as if his choice in words hadn’t stunned me, I was frightened for my brother. Somewhere in that twisted mind of his, Penelope had managed to clutter his thoughts further.

Slamming his palms down on the surface of his desk, he ignored the wreck he’d made of the room. It wasn’t like this was the first time, and as usual, I’d clean up the mess and recreate the memory of our childhood home. When he said nothing, I asked, “What do you mean she won’t come back? Did she tell you that?”

“No.” His bark of a response was followed by the slide of his hand, knocking the keyboard away from his computer. “I hurt her.”

My brows pulled together. “I just spoke with her in the lobby. She told me she wasn’t hurt.”

“I tried,” he admitted through clenched teeth before stalking away from his desk to drop his body down onto the leather sofa.

“Did she submit?” I asked calmly.

One harsh shake of his head. “I didn’t want her to.”

My eyes rounded to hear it. For the first time I realized my brother might actually love the woman for whom he’d developed an obsession. Heart pounding, I attempted to convince myself that it was possible for him to feel such an emotion, despite what all his doctors and counselors had told me.



Psychopaths don’t love.

Sociopaths care only for what they can toy with as long as it amuses them.

Schizophrenics develop delusions that can, sometimes, make it impossible for them to believe that another person might love them in return.



He wore all of those labels, or just one - depending on the person diagnosing him.

But despite the labels, all I’d ever seen in my brother was a man with limited communication regardless of his intelligence, and a man who was so out of touch with emotion that feeling anything beyond anger and rejection were impossible. He was never compliant with medications. Never.

It wasn’t until Penelope that I’d believed in the possibility of something else. I wouldn’t let her ruin that.

“She’ll be back at lunch, Maurice, and I promise you that she’ll be in a better mood, but I need you to promise me that you’ll clean up this mess and calm down before your counselor arrives.”

Doubt lingered behind his eyes, but he nodded his head regardless. “I’ll do it, for her.”

My shoulders relaxed. “I know you will, brother. I have business to attend, so I need to go upstairs. If you behave for the rest of the day, I’ll take you out into the garden tonight. It’s been a few days since you’ve left your cage.

Another nod was all he gave me, and knowing that he was done with communicating with me for the morning, I slipped away from the basement, reached the lobby and went in search for Penelope.

Finding her at the well, I watched her silently for several minutes, noticing the way her shoulders shook with tears, the way her arms crossed over her chest protectively. In truth, I should have left her alone to her quiet moment, but I was more of a bastard than that. She’d angered me. She’d upset Maurice. She deserved what was coming to her.

Stepping up to the other side of the well, I waited for her to lift her eyes, to lock the gold-flecked brown with mine, to show me her rebellion peeking out from her sorrow.

In the weeks I’d spent toying with her, I hadn’t broken her completely. That fact pleased me.

“Have you given any consideration to what we discussed in my office this morning?”

She rolled those pretty eyes, and if she’d been any other woman I would have made her regret such an act. However, in this moment, I needed Penelope’s refusal to surrender. I needed her to fight.

“I take that as a no.”

“You take it right,” she said, her hand brushing away a tear. “You and me, we’re done. I’m not some fucking whore you can pass around in the hotel. I’m not émilie.”

Pinning me with a stare that dared me to ask, I had to fight not to show my confusion. What did she know of émilie, and why use that particular woman in this fight?