When My Fiancé’s Twin Claimed Me as His Bride

The next morning, the rain finally slowed to a light drizzle. I needed an excuse to leave the house. I needed to breathe air that didn't smell like his cologne.

I found him in the living room. He was staring at the television. I kept my voice soft and light. "I'm going to look for some potting soil. I want to fix the indoor planters."

He liked it when I played the domestic housewife. It made him feel totally in control. He didn't look away from the screen. "Don't take too long," he muttered.

"I won't," I said.

I grabbed my coat and walked out the back door. The cold air hit my face, and I took a deep, shaky breath. I walked across the wet grass toward the wooden shed near the back wall. The hinges whined as I pulled the heavy door open. The inside was dark. It smelled like wet wood, rust, and dust.

I stepped inside and looked around. There were rusty shovels, empty clay pots, and coiled up hoses. In the far corner, a stack of heavy wooden crates blocked the wall. I walked over and pushed the top crate aside. It was heavy, and the wood scraped loudly against the floor.

Then, a new smell hit me.

It wasn't just damp earth. It was sweet, thick, and rotten. It coated the back of my throat. My stomach twisted into a tight knot.

I pulled my phone out and turned on the flashlight. I leaned over the second crate and shined the beam into the dark gap behind it.

My breath caught. I slapped my hand over my mouth to choke back a scream.

There were three of them. Stray cats. They were dead.

But they didn't just die. They were mutilated. Sliced open and arranged in a neat, perfect row on a piece of plastic tarp. The cuts were precise. Deliberate. One of the cats, an orange tabby, wore a tiny blue collar with a bell.

My vision blurred. I backed away slowly. My hands shook so hard the flashlight beam danced wildly across the walls. I bumped into a shelf, knocking a metal trowel to the dirt floor. It landed with a dull thud.

I stood frozen. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the blue collar.

*Dangerous.*

The word flashed in my mind, sharp and absolute. This wasn't a man struggling with trauma. This wasn't a broken guy lashing out because he lost his leg. This was something else entirely. He was a monster. He liked the control. He liked the blood.

I stumbled backward out of the shed. I slammed the door shut and leaned against the wet wood. I was gasping for air. I had to get out. Tonight.

Two days ago, I was cleaning out a junk drawer in the kitchen. I found a small block of pink craft putty. I had slipped it into my cardigan pocket just to clear the clutter. It was still there. Now, it was my only way out.

Dinner was a quiet nightmare. I served him roasted chicken and potatoes. He ate slowly, his dark eyes tracking my every move.

"Your boots were muddy," he said suddenly. His grip on his fork was tight.

"The grass was wet," I replied. I kept my voice perfectly level. I forced a small smile. "I couldn't find any soil. I'll just order some online tomorrow."

He stared at me. The silence stretched. I pressed my thumbnail into my palm under the table. The sharp pain kept my face blank. I didn't break eye contact.

Finally, he nodded. "Good. Stay inside. It's too cold out there for you."

"Okay," I promised.

At ten o'clock, he took his heavy pain pills. By eleven, the estate was completely silent. He was a deep sleeper when the medication kicked in.

I stood in the dark living room. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs. I wore my black coat and my boots. I didn't pack a bag. I didn't grab my wallet. I just had my phone in my pocket. Anything extra would make noise.

I crept down the long hallway toward his bedroom. The door was cracked open. I pushed it just wide enough to slip inside.

The room was pitch black. I could hear his deep, rhythmic breathing. He was lying flat on his back. Next to his bed was the heavy oak nightstand. On it sat a glass of water. I had watched him hold it earlier to swallow his pills.

I stepped closer. The floorboards groaned slightly under my weight.

I froze.

He shifted in his sleep. He muttered something low and harsh. The blanket rustled. I stopped breathing. I stood as still as a statue in the dark. A full minute passed. He settled back down, his breathing growing deep again.

I reached out with trembling fingers. I brushed the cold glass. I picked it up by the very bottom rim.

I pulled the pink craft putty from my pocket. It was warm and soft from my body heat. I found the thick, smudged fingerprint on the side of the glass. I pressed the putty firmly against the glass, right over his print. I held it there, pressing hard. I counted to ten in my head.

I peeled the putty off carefully. I didn't look at it. I set the glass back on the nightstand without making a sound.

I backed out of the room and slipped into the hallway.

I walked quickly to the front foyer. The biometric scanner glowed with a faint, angry red light in the dark. The rain outside was picking up again. It lashed violently against the tall windows.

I stood in front of the heavy door. My hands were slick with cold sweat. If this didn't work, the alarm would sound. He would wake up. He would find me. And after what I saw behind those crates, I knew what he would do to me.

I took a deep, shaky breath. I pressed the molded putty flat against the glass scanner.

The red light blinked.

It felt like an eternity. My chest tightened so hard it hurt. *Please. Please.*

*Beep.*

The light flashed a bright, solid green.

A loud mechanical click echoed in the quiet foyer. The deadbolt slid back.

I pushed the heavy brass handle. The door swung open.

Freezing rain hit my face instantly. The wind howled, whipping my hair around my eyes. I didn't look back at the dark hallway. I didn't look back at the cage. I stepped out into the storm and started running.