Page 148 of Breaking Rosalind
She thrashes beneath me, her fists pounding against my chest, her nails digging a bloody trail across my forearms. Rosalind’s rage is only picking up speed, each attack landing with increased desperation.
When I reach the dresser, I stretch out with my free hand, pull open a drawer, and grope around for something, anything, to knock her out and give me time to think. I don’t want to use my fists because she’s only just recovered from the bruises from her last attempt to escape.
Finally, my fingers close around a bottle of somnochlorate, a drug similar to chloroform, but more powerful. Rosalind bucks and rears beneath me as I unscrew its cap with my teeth, and I hold my breath to avoid inhaling the potent fumes.
She’s too blinded in her rage to even notice the bottle. I tighten my grip around her throat and splash the liquid over her face. As she gasps for air, she inhales the drug, and her punches grow feeble.
Her eyes widen, and she rasps, “No…”
“I’m sorry, pet,” I say, meaning every word. “But this is the only way I can make you listen.”
“You bastard,” she sobs.
I swallow, gazing into her fiery eyes, which still blaze with defiance, even as they grow heavy with the effects of the drug. It’s a look that fills my veins with ice, a silent promise of retaliation.
“I know, love,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over her heavy breaths. “I know.”
With each passing second, her struggles fade until her arms fall to the floor tiles like lead weights. Her eyes glaze over, the flames in her irises fade, and the rest of her body falls limp.
As soon as she’s out, I scramble to my feet and pace the room, carefully avoiding the wreckage. In her rage, she smashed the television set I left on the dresser, dismantled the four-poster, and splintered the unbreakable glass windows.
How the fuck can I subdue this enraged mother? More importantly, how the hell can someone as young as Rosalind have given birth to a grown-up child?
I never asked Miranda her age, but she must be at least fourteen.
My gaze drops to Rosalind, where her borrowed shirt has ridden up to her waist, exposing the barely visible scar. I drop to my knees and study the subtle groove. Someone got her pregnant when she was Miranda’s age or younger, but who?
Based on the accusations she screamed, I can only conclude it was an older man. No wonder she couldn’t stand for it to be touched. It’s the embodiment of her trauma.
I scoop her up in my arms and carry her out of the destroyed room, down two flights of stairs, and into the hallway that leads to the family bedrooms. The first rays of sunlight stream in through the windows at the end of the corridor, reminding me that neither of us has slept.
When we reach my room, I place her on my bed and pick up the shackles permanently attached to the metal headboard. Rosalind will be furious when she awakens and will start a fight. I lie beside her, ready with my questions.
I’m not ready to think about why it makes a difference to me that she gave birth to Miranda. When I thought they were sisters, I already knew Rosalind was her only guardian.
Dr. Brunelli would twitch his mustache and tell me I had lingering mother issues from being abandoned when I needed her most. He might even suggest that seeing my rabbit with her kits torn out of her belly has made me put mothers on a pedestal.
No, he wouldn’t because he still doesn’t believe the Capello twins disemboweled my beloved pet.
As soon as I hear Rosalind’s sharp intake of breath, my hand shoots out to clamp over her mouth to muffle a scream.
She glares across the mattress at me. The flames in her eyes have returned and burn hot enough to singe my stubble.
“Calm down, pet. I don’t want to hurt you again.”
An incessant clanking takes my attention away from her face to the cuffs around her wrist, and my stomach drops. Since I didn’t bind her fingers, she’s now breaking out of her shackles. I rise off the mattress and straddle her hips. These escape attempts are the reason I immobilized her hands. The woman is unstoppable.
“I want to help you,” I say loud enough to cut through her muffled rant. “Just answer my questions. Are you really Miranda’s mother?”
Her nostrils flare, indicating that she’s listening, even if she keeps twisting the chains instead of answering.
“How?” I ask.
She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to block out my question. The answer to my question was in her tirade when she implied I’d gotten Miranda pregnant.
“Let me guess. You were abused.”
She sucks in a sharp breath.