She read his expression and shook her head. She thought she’d known how deep the humiliation ran. She was wrong. Speaking just above a whisper, she said, “He tried once. When I was twenty-three. He was fifty.” The words stumbled over one another, and she recalled his hands seeking. A touch. A push. A clench. A rejection. He’d thrown her into the bedroom wall, breaking her arm. “I didn’t do it right. It didn’t work. After that, he barely touched me, unless I made a mistake.”

Understanding much more, Gabriel froze at her last statement. His eyes darkened. “He beat you.”

“Sometimes.” She had promised herself the truth. Hadn’t she demanded the same of Lindy? “Usually, he was more careful than that. Words. Sarcasm. Accidental bruises. Shallow cuts.” In her lap, she twisted the silver ring with its solitary stone and squeezed her eyes tight. “When I made him really angry, it was worse. Fists or his feet. Once, I tried to move out of the house. He caught me.”

Her throat closed over a sob, and he gathered her deeper into his embrace, sickness as strong as the wrath churning inside. “Oh, God, Erin.”

“I learned to see the signs. I never tried to run again. Not until the day I went into the cellar.”

She’d thought about that decision every day since, wondering what would be if she’d ignored the tug of inquisitiveness. Would she be Analise or Erin? Would she be whole? Would Nathan be alive? She’d never know, she accepted fatalistically. Because she’d defied him, had crept down to the cellar and opened the door, never realizing she was changing everything.

Chapter 22

“Nathan had gone to Milan for a conference. He was due home that night. We’d had a fight. I made him angry.” Erin twisted her fingers together, her voice a dull whisper. “I was selfish. Always whining about something.”

“Erin, don’t.”

“No. I wasn’t selfish. But that day, I had to make things right with him. Before he left, he threatened to send me away. I had nowhere else to go. There was just Nathan. He liked wine. The house had a cellar, and he kept his own stock. I wasn’t allowed downstairs.”

“Why not?”

A short, brittle laugh was her answer. “I was exploring the house one day, when he was out. I fell and broke a 1952 Château Latour. That was the first time he gave me a concussion.”

Gabriel’s mouth tightened, wanting to curse, knowing he couldn’t. Quietly he asked, “How old were you?”

Erin splayed her fingers wide, palms up, as though perplexed. “Seventeen. I’d just graduated from Callenwolde.

“Nathan invited me to live with him. I thought—I was afraid that he would … but he didn’t. I had my own room. On the top floor.”

“What happened when you went to the cellar?”