A Designer Dress From Heaven and Your Dirty Wedding Ring

xi. screaming birds sound an awful lot like singing

this chapter contains warnings for the following: extremely toxic relationship, mental and emotional manipulation, physical abuse, blood, wounds, bruises, vomiting, self-harm, depression and self-hatred

Phillip is gracious enough to let you stay in bed for the entirety of the next day.

You try not to wallow, pushing yourself more than your body can handle to appear okay. It's a challenge trying to navigate the exhaustion—both physical and mental—but Phillip hovers, and you worry that if he gets the idea you're too hurt, he'll force more of that chalky water down your throat.

You'd rather deal with the pain than the confusing haze of his mystery painkillers.

To his credit, he does what he can to take care of you. He keeps his hands to himself as he helps you change your clothes, though you're made to wear another one of his shirts and almost too-tight sleep shorts. He tends to your wounds with gentle hands, makes sure you eat with soft words of encouragement, and keeps watch over you with tender eyes.

You let him—not like you have much choice—and, for a brief moment, you're reminded of the early days of your relationship. It's that same easy, charming smile he'd give you when he comforted you after being scolded by your father for the umpteenth time. The same kind words and cheesy jokes he'd use to coax smiles out of you when you'd sneak away during your family's galas.

You can't help but wonder if that boy you'd grown up with, that sweet man you'd fallen in love with, is still in there. Maybe there's something somewhere underneath that arrogant exterior that genuinely does care for you.

Despite your instincts, you feel safe enough to doze off when the exhaustion becomes too much, slumping against his side. You feel him move you around, settling you into bed before taking his leave. The door clicks shut behind him, but the lock does not, and you fall asleep with the hope that you can get through to him.

It's pitch black when you're dragged from bed and thrown onto the cold floor. Body vibrating with pain, eyes trying to adjust to the dark, you're given no time to process as you're viciously pulled up by your hair. Hands twisted behind your back, you gasp at the sharp pain that travels down your strained muscles as you're marched out of your room.

One hand wound through your hair, the other with a tight grip on your hands, you're shoved through the pitch-black hallways of the manor. It's a struggle to keep in step with your kidnapper as they yank and pull you in every which direction. You try to get your bearings, try to find familiar decorations or furniture to show where you might be, but it's far too dark, and your brain too addled.

You get your answer soon enough as you're abruptly stopped, and your assailant mumbles something you don't catch. The faint static of a radio echoes back, and a door swings open in front of you.

It's only the soft light of a fireplace, but your eyes burn all the same at the sudden shift from darkness. You try to blink back the gathering moisture, but you're shoved into the room and into another guard. He scoffs down at you, pushing you away with enough force to send you to the ground.

"Glad to see you're feeling better."

Your skin crawls at the quiet hiss of Makarov's voice.

"Perhaps now would be a better time for us to talk?"

You stay on the ground, hands and knees digging into the polished hardwood as you look up at him with as stern a gaze as you can manage with a half-swollen eye.