Inflict: A Novel

Chapter Eighteen

The more days that passed after Evelyn's return, and Sean's death, the more Connor found himself watching his lover. He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for—or rather, waiting for—but he thought ... something.

He didn't know how someone could go through an event like Evelyn had, and be seemingly no worse for wear. He understood that over her lifetime, she had likely spent time in the company of a few monsters who did not deserve to breathe the same air she did, while at the same time, being under the abuse and manipulation of those same monsters.

Connor wasn't quite sure it was the same thing. Those men—the ones who had owned her, had kept her, and passed her on over the years—were not her killer. They were not the man who had likely looked into her crib after killing her mother, saw a baby girl, and decided to keep her like a souvenir until she was old enough to fit his preference for a victim. She had not looked them in the eyes, and saw evil staring back, simply because she was what they considered to be perfect.

To them, Evelyn had simply been a body to use.

To Sean, Evelyn had been the greatest gift he had ever given himself, one he waited forever to unwrap, and had planned on making sure that she fully understood that in the end.

It was not the same.

Or at least, Connor didn't think so.

So, he watched her, damn near constantly, after they returned home. A day turned into two, and then in a blink, two days had turned into a week. Before he realized it, between settling into his new, yet unstable, role as a boss of an organization he despised, and keeping an eye on Evelyn, three weeks had gone by, and she was exactly the same.

Exactly the same.

No difference.

None at all.

She slept fine.

She ate as she did before.

She drew, read, and went about her business.

Sometimes she talked, chatting on like the end of the world was near and she wasn't sure she would get all her words out before it happened. And other times, she was silent, lost in her own mind, in some unseen place where Connor was not invited or capable of being with her. None of those things were new, though, as it was exactly the same as it had been before for Evelyn.

Right down to the fact that sometimes, she still looked to him for permission, to go into another room, to use the washroom, or even just to look out the window. She might sit at his feet while he worked in his studio, putting oil paints on canvas, creating the image of her profile to hang in the hallway. She had all sorts of things to wear, as he'd taken her out again to get more clothes, and yet she chose to dress down, never wearing too much color, or something that might be too pretty.

It took him coming home to the brownstone after being at The Ink Shoppe, hiring a new artist to take over his own space, to realize what Evelyn was doing. He found her in the entry hallway, sitting on the bench, silent and still, waiting on him.

She didn't have to wait for him.

Evelyn was reverting back to the mindset that she had been in for years—that of a slave. Perhaps, she hadn't entirely left it behind, as Connor had assumed given her freedom with him, and now it was simply becoming more and more prominent. Maybe she didn't know what to do with herself now, considering everything and how much freedom she did have, or it could have been that she was just going back to what she knew.

She was going back to what was comfortable.

He felt foolish—a feckin' gobshite—for taking so long to realize what was happening to Evelyn, while he had done nothing except stand back, watch, and let her regress. He'd always been careful with her—barring sex, as that was their one thing where limits didn't exist—as to not push her too hard, or to make her talk about things she didn't want to tell.