Beyond His Control (Dark Romance Suspense) (His Duet Book 2)

In the middle of the night, I wake up to a face perching right beside my bed.

I scream.

Nothing comes out of my mouth. A hand has been placed over my face.

The person whispers, “Quiet!”

It’s only then that I notice the scars on her face.

“Mom?” I mutter, barely awake. She’s not wearing her golden mask, which is what threw me off.

What’s going on?

Why is she here?

And why is she wearing a coat and shoes?

She places a finger on her lips and shakes her head, then peers over my shoulder. Noah’s lying beside me. Somehow, during the night, he found his way into my bed. I smile when I look at him.

My mother nudges me. “C’mon.”

I blink a couple of times to get rid of the sand in my eyes. I’m still completely delirious from sleeping and have no idea what she wants from me. “Why?”

“Just come with me,” she whispers, tugging at me.

Eventually, I let her drag me out of bed, and she covers me with a robe. “Here, put this on.” She places some loafers on the floor and grabs a scarf, which she wraps around my neck. When I’ve put the shoes on, she says, “Now follow me.”

She immediately rushes out of the room and down the stairs, and I’m having trouble keeping up. She skittishly glances around the hallway, pausing for a few seconds before running down the left hallway and into the auditorium. She bolts down the carpet lining the floor all the way to the big wooden doors in the back that lead directly into the community.

There, she freezes, and she touches the wood with the palms of her hand.

“What are you doing?”

She puts her ears against the door. “No guards tonight. Good.”

“Where are we going?” I whisper as I stand behind her, watching her every move.

She fumbles in her pockets. “Out.”

Feverish adrenaline rushes through my veins when she says that word.

Does she mean escape?

But we already tried that, more than once, and it always failed. Why would it be different now?

“It won’t work. They’ll catch us in no time. I tried at night,” I say.

“No,” she hisses over her shoulder. “We need to be somewhere on the grounds.”

I frown, confused. “Why?”

“You’ll see. Now, c’mon,” she says, and she opens the door. Just like that. That door that has kept us prisoners for so long is unlocked easily as though it wasn’t ever closed at all.

But it was … I remember … because when I first came here, I searched through this house and jerked at all the doors in the hopes that they’d set me free, and they never did.

“Did you find a key?” I ask as I follow her outside.

She looks around to see if anyone’s there before traipsing down the stairs. “Find?” She snorts. “Stole is more like it.”

“From where?” I ask as I come down to walk beside her.

She moves so quickly that I can barely keep up without panting. “Your father.”

My eyes widen.

“Don’t ask me how. You don’t want to know,” she says.

I stop her in her tracks by grabbing her arm. “Yes, I do.”

She eyes me down. “I did what I had to do.”

I narrow my eyes. “What did you do?”

She jerks free from my grip. “What anyone in my position would do.”

“Did you … kill him?” I mumble, shocked.

“No, of course not.” She sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not yet, anyway.”

I don’t know whether to cry, laugh, or smirk at that statement.

“There’s no time for this. We need to go. Now.” She grabs my hand and pulls me along with her.

If she won’t tell me, that must mean she did something out of line and dangerous. And I’m totally here for it. Even though I’m scared to death of getting caught, the thrill of knowing we’re doing something against the rules revitalizes me like nothing else can. I’ve not felt this alive since I last jumped over that fence and ran off into the woods.

And we’re getting damn close too.

“Here,” Mother whispers. She runs up to the hut’s door and knocks five times, with three of them being faster than the first two.

After a few seconds, the door barely squeaks open. Holly’s surprised face when she sees me catches me off guard because I’m as surprised to see her.

“Holly?” I mutter.

“You’re here,” she says, and now I’m even more confused.

“Where is she?” my mother asks, peeking inside.

Holly opens the door wider. “There.” She points at a woman huddled close by the fire with a blanket covering her body.

My mother quickly passes Holly and walks straight toward the woman, going to her knees in front of her. I can’t see who it is, and I don’t know if I want to know.

Why did my mother bring me here?

What’s going on?

“C’mon in,” Holly says. She cocks her head when she sees my hesitation. “My husband’s gone. Out hunting boars with a few others. It’s safe.”

I frown at that statement. Safe. I wouldn’t ever guess her to use that word in relation to her husband. How odd.

After I step inside, she closes the door behind us, but I stay put near the entrance in case I need to flee. It’s forbidden for women to have get-togethers without the consent of their husbands, and it’s expressly forbidden at night. If any guards discover us here, we’re dead.

“Are you okay?” my mother asks the woman in the chair.

She doesn’t respond, but she’s shaking vehemently.

“What’s wrong with her?” I ask.

My mother looks up at me. “This is why I asked you to come. She asked specifically for you.”

My eyes widen, and I almost get the urge to point at myself. “Me?”

She nods and swivels the chair around just enough for me to see who it is.

Emmy.

But it’s not the cheerful, smiley Emmy I remember from before, nor the hopeful but anxious Emmy that came with me to my apartment.

This Emmy … is broken.

Like a stuffed doll ripped apart at its seams.

“How did you find her?” I ask my mother swiftly.

“Holly had talked to Agatha about her after Emmy came running to her doorstep every night.”

Holly makes a face. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Does anyone else know?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “And Agatha promised not to tell anyone else.”

“She’d better not,” my mother growls. That definitely sounded like a threat.

But I’m far too busy with Emmy to be bothered by that. Her face is covered in bruises and scratches, lips torn, hair a muddled mess, eyes watery, red blotches on her arms and chest.

“I did everything right,” she murmurs, looking at me with doe-like eyes that make my knees buck. “I did what he asked. I did everything. I cooked. I cleaned. I gave him my heart. My body. I gave him everything.” Tears stream down her face. “But it wasn’t enough …” She bursts out into wailing and covers the blanket around her body as a comfort.

I immediately wrap my arms around her, holding her tightly against me as she weeps against my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh … you don’t have to say anything,” I whisper, petting her back.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She keeps on saying it like a record stuck on repeat.

It kills me to see her like this. We went through so much together. She wanted to belong so desperately. She always believed this community was amazing, that it would make her happy to get married … and then her husband turned out to be just as cruel as the patriarchs themselves. She was young and hopeful, and got so little in return.

I don’t know what I can say or do to make this feeling go away.

“It was supposed to be good. We were supposed to be happily married,” she mutters between her tears.

“I know they told you that,” I say. “I’ve been told the same lies.”

“I believed everything!” she shouts as I lean back to look her in the eyes. “I believed he’d make me happy!”

I grab a strand of her wild hair and tuck it behind her ears. “And he gave you scars instead.”

Her lips quiver again. “It’s not fair.”

“It isn’t,” I reply. “It never was.”

She looks down at her shaky hands. “I wish he’d never come to find me. It was so much better with you in your apartment,” she says under her breath.

“Is he the reason you came with me when I escaped?” I ask.

She nods faintly. “I didn’t want to admit it.”

I swallow. I knew it. Something about her behavior was off, but I could never put a finger onto it, and of course she’d never tell me why until it was too late.

“He was never kind or gentle,” she says. “Not at all like the elders teach us.”

“There’s a lot that isn’t what they teach us,” my mother interjects. “They expect us to be willful victims in our own narrative. Not anymore.”

I turn my head and look up at my mother who stands there with her arms crossed. All she gives me is a look, but that one look … it could start a revolution.

I grab Emmy’s hand and hold it tightly in my grasp. “I will fix this.”

She frowns, confused. “How?”

I tilt my head so I can look deep into her eyes and make sure she knows what I mean. “This community … it has to end.”

It takes her a while to process my words, but then her lips part and her eyes widen. “Wait … what?”

“These men rule over our bodies, Emmy. They’re hurting us,” I say, keeping her hands locked tight. “They hurt you.”

She shakes her head. “But he’s my husband. I … I … love him.” She almost chokes on her own words. She’d protect him over her own body; that’s how indoctrinated she really is.

“You don’t love him. You think you have to love him to survive,” I explain, still holding her close so she doesn’t attempt to run off. “He doesn’t love you back, Emmy. Can’t you see? Look at yourself. Look at the pain you’ve had to endure.”

We both look at the bruises on her arms, and I can tell she’s conflicted.

“You are an object to him. A doll to use and throw away when he sees fit,” I say. “Are you a doll? Are you just an object, a thing, Emmy? Tell me.”

Her lips tremor. “No,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Then resist,” I say. “Fight this community with me. With us.”

I look up at my mother and see the proud smile forming on her face.

This is why she brought me here. She could’ve gone to Emmy by herself. She could’ve talked to Emmy and made her feel at ease, but that’s not enough. Emmy needed someone she knew and trusted to tell her to stop loving the lies. To learn that she is worth more than the sum of a man’s choices. That she needs to fight.

“Help me, help us, stop them,” I say.

Slowly but surely, she nods. “But how?”

My mother suddenly goes to her knees in front of Emmy and me and fishes something from her pocket. And she says, “With this.”

It’s a tiny vial filled with a cloudy fluid. I don’t know what it is, but the smirk on her face tells me enough.

Death.