Everyone Thought My Fiancé Was A Crippled Monster

A sharp click echoed through the solid wood of my bedroom door.

I sat up, the morning sunlight burning my eyes. I threw off the heavy duvet and marched across the rug. I gripped the brass knob and twisted. It turned freely. The door swung open into the silent hallway.

An electronic timer. He had locked me in for the night and released me at dawn.

I swallowed the anger rising in my throat. I found my way to the massive chef’s kitchen. I cracked three eggs into a stainless-steel skillet, toasted two slices of bread, and poured black coffee into a ceramic mug. I arranged everything on a silver tray and carried it down the right corridor.

I knocked twice on the master suite door.

"Enter," Rowan commanded.

I pushed the door open with my shoulder. Rowan sat by the floor-to-ceiling window in his wheelchair, staring out at the waking city. He wore the same black t-shirt from last night. The fabric clung to his broad chest.

"Breakfast," I announced, setting the tray on a glass side table.

He spun the chair around. His dark eyes scanned the plate, then snapped up to my face. The black mask remained securely fastened over his nose and mouth.

"I didn't ask for food," he said.

"You need to eat."

"I need a clean shirt," he countered, ignoring the tray entirely. "Get one from the closet."

I walked into the walk-in closet and pulled a crisp gray button-down from a hanger. When I returned, he had already pulled the black t-shirt over his head.

I stepped closer to help him guide his arms into the sleeves. As he extended his left arm, harsh morning light illuminated his skin.

My stomach dropped.

Thick, pale scars crisscrossed his bicep, remnants of his accident. But layered over the old tissue were fresh, angry red gashes. They looked raw.

"What happened to your arm?" I asked, pausing with the gray shirt in my hands.

Rowan yanked his arm back. "Nothing."

"Those are fresh cuts."

"I bumped into a doorframe," he muttered, looking away.

"A doorframe doesn't leave parallel scrapes."

"Drop it, Clara."

I dropped the gray shirt onto the bed. I turned on my heel, marched into the master bathroom, and tore through the cabinets. I found a white plastic first-aid kit under the sink. I carried it back into the bedroom and knelt beside his chair.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Give me your arm."

"I said leave it."

I grabbed his wrist. His muscles immediately locked into solid stone. I expected him to shove me away, but he didn't. He just glared down at me.

I popped open the plastic latch. I pulled out a bottle of antiseptic and a cotton pad.

"This will sting," I warned.

"I don't feel pain," he mocked.

I pressed the soaked cotton against the angry red cuts. A tiny muscle feathered in his jaw. He didn't make a sound. I worked quickly, cleaning away the dried blood before unrolling a spool of white gauze.

"You have a surprisingly steady hand," Rowan noted. His rough voice lost a fraction of its usual venom. "And you know your way around a stove."

I kept my focus on wrapping his forearm. "Everyone should know how to cook."

"Your father parades you around high society as his ultimate prize," Rowan pressed, leaning forward slightly. "Heiresses don't fry eggs. They certainly don't know how to dress wounds without fainting at the sight of blood."

"People have hidden talents."

"This isn't a talent. This is practice." His gaze bored into the top of my head. "Who taught you?"

I tied a neat knot in the gauze. I couldn't tell him the truth. Evelyn never hired a doctor for me. If I fell, if I burned my hands cooking dinner for her real daughter, I fixed it myself. Clara got the private pediatricians; I got the expired drugstore bandages.

"I taught myself," I answered, keeping my voice entirely flat.

I stood up and grabbed the gray shirt from the mattress. I helped him slide his arms through the sleeves. He managed the buttons himself, his long fingers working with practiced efficiency.

His collar sat crooked, folded inward against his neck.

I reached out to fix the fabric. My knuckles grazed the bottom edge of his black mask.

Rowan’s hand shot up like lightning. His fingers clamped around my wrist, twisting it violently. He shoved my arm away with enough force to send me stumbling backward.

I hit the heavy oak dresser. The brass handles dug into my spine.

"Don't touch it!" he roared.

The sound vibrated against the glass windows. His chest heaved, pulling the fabric of his new shirt tight. The curiosity in his eyes vanished, replaced by pure, explosive rage.

"I was just fixing your collar," I stammered, rubbing my aching wrist.

"I gave you a rule last night!" he shouted, gripping the armrests of his chair. "You never touch my face. You never reach for the mask. Do you understand me?"

"It was an accident."

"There are no accidents in my house!" he snapped. "Get out!"

"Rowan—"

"Out!"

I didn't argue. I sprinted out of the bedroom, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floors. I didn't stop until I reached the kitchen. I gripped the edge of the marble island, forcing air into my lungs.

The rest of the day turned into a battlefield.

Rowan didn't retreat into silence. Instead, he summoned me relentlessly.

"This coffee is lukewarm," he barked at noon, shoving the mug across the side table. Dark liquid sloshed over the rim, staining the rug. "Make it again."

"Yes," I replied, grabbing the mug.

"The blinds in the study are uneven," he yelled an hour later. "Fix them."

"Right away."

"You folded these towels wrong," he growled in the late afternoon, throwing a stack of pristine white linen onto the bathroom floor. "Do it over."

I remade the coffee. I adjusted the blinds. I picked up the towels from the slate tiles and refolded every single one. My hands cramped. My feet ached. I swallowed the sharp retorts burning my tongue.

I just had to survive the contract. I would nod, I would clean, and I would endure his torment.

Night finally fell, cloaking the city in darkness. The penthouse grew freezing cold again. Rowan dismissed me without a word, shutting his bedroom door with a heavy thud.

I retreated to my guest room. I locked the door from the inside this time.

I collapsed onto the mattress, my muscles screaming in protest. I stared up at the dark ceiling, counting the hours until morning.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I frowned. It was past midnight. I grabbed the device. An unknown number flashed across the screen.

I swiped to answer and pressed the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

"Lila?" a male voice whispered.

Not Clara. My real name.

My blood ran completely cold.