Chapter 177 He Knelt Before His God
Maybe it started that night in the storm, when he'd been slumped in that alley waiting to die and saw a blurred figure through the rain, the one he'd mistaken for Edith. Maybe dependence had taken root in him right then.
Maybe it was seeing her covered in bruises, old and new, yet still silently enduring his baseless rage. That broken, stubborn look had plucked something deep inside him, something that felt dangerously close to tenderness.
Maybe it was watching her with Daniel, that inexplicable irritation boiling into fury, making him want to destroy everything in sight. It took him far too long to recognize that feeling for what it was. Jealousy.
Or maybe it was when her memories scrambled and she mistook him for the husband she'd loved for five years, caring for him like a real wife, sitting vigil by his hospital bed with that quiet devotion.
Or maybe it grew during every single day they'd spent together on this isolated island, cut off from the world.
But maybe there was no single reason at all.
Love was just love.
Hate, pushed to its extreme, became love.
Five years of mutual torment and imprisonment. In that abyss of hatred, their souls had tangled together in the most twisted, most inextricable way imaginable.
In the soil of hate, love had taken root without permission.
When the fog of hatred finally lifted, that love, buried deep in flesh and bone, burst through like seeds surviving a brutal winter, erupting into towering trees that could never be uprooted.
He'd once wanted to drag her down with him, to drown together in an endless darkness of hatred and pain until death claimed them both.
Now his greatest desire was to see her break free of every chain, standing in the brightest sunlight, carefree and safe and whole.
All the sin, all the darkness, all the pain, he would carry it. All of it.
He only needed her to live.
To love him, or even just to let him love her.
That evening, Caroline sat with Alexander on the beach for a while. She drank some of the broth he'd made, and her spirits seemed to lift slightly. But exhaustion won out in the end, and she drifted off again to the sound of his voice telling her stories.
Alexander carried her back to the bedroom, settled her carefully, then slipped out without a sound.
He headed for the basement.
Liam was already waiting by the door.
Alexander said nothing, he just opened the door and walked in.
The moment he crossed the threshold, his spine, which had been ramrod straight, buckled violently.
He gasped for air, staggering forward a few steps before his knees slammed into the cold, rough concrete floor.
A low, guttural sound of pain tore from his throat. His hands clamped around his head, veins bulging at his temples, cold sweat pouring down his face in thick drops.
"Sir," Liam rushed forward to help him up, but Alexander raised a hand to stop him.
Day after day, watching Caroline suffer for no reason she could understand, he'd discovered something. He was sick too.
Anxiety. Depression. Severe post-traumatic stress.
That was the diagnosis Caroline's attending physician had given him.
He was very sick.
But this pain couldn't possibly compare to even a fraction of what Caroline had endured.
Yet even this fraction felt like invisible hands tearing his soul apart, making him wish for death.
"Medicine! Sir, please take your medicine!"
Liam fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small pill bottle, shaking two white tablets into his palm.
"The doctor said these have minimal side effects, they won't interfere with you taking care of Mrs. Hamilton. Please, just take them!"
Alexander slowly lifted his head and glanced at the pills in Liam's hand. Then he shook his head.
He refused.
Only by feeling this pain, this pale shadow of what Caroline had once suffered, could he feel closer to her.
His breathing gradually steadied. He pushed himself to his feet, gripping the floor for support, and walked with grim determination toward the small door at the back.
Liam wanted to stop him, but watching Alexander's resolute back, he couldn't force the words out.
All he could do was turn away, bite his lip, and let out a choked sob.
Alexander entered the smaller soundproofed room. Two bodyguards were already waiting.
He walked straight to the center of the room and began unbuttoning his shirt in silence. He stripped it off and let it fall at his feet.
His back was a map of violence. Fresh wounds crossed over old scars in a grotesque tapestry.
Some were old bullet wounds. Some were scratches Caroline had left during her episodes of terror.
And the most vicious marks were fresh whip lashes.
Some had healed. Some had just scabbed over, surrounded by mottled purple bruising.
The two bodyguards looked at his back, something flickering in their eyes.
One of them stepped forward, as if to speak.
But Alexander didn't give them the chance.
He walked straight to the wall and dropped to his knees.
"Do it."
One of the guards bit down hard, picked up a short leather whip that had been soaked in saltwater, and stepped forward.
Alexander brought a rolled white towel to his mouth and clamped his teeth down on it.
The guard's eyes flashed with reluctance, but he closed them, raised his arm, and brought the whip down hard.
The leather cracked through the air. A line of blood appeared instantly across Alexander's bare back, slashing diagonally from shoulder blade to waist.
Skin split. Flesh tore. Blood welled up immediately.
A low, strangled sound escaped his throat. His body curled involuntarily.
Then he straightened again, bracing for the next strike.
Every lash stripped away a layer of skin and muscle, but Alexander acted as though he felt nothing. He kept his head raised, staring at the enormous portrait hanging on the wall in front of him.
The portrait showed Caroline as a young woman.
It was from the last birthday she and Edith had celebrated together before Edith's death. A solo shot.
She wore her favorite red dress, sitting in a wicker chair surrounded by flowers, so many flowers they nearly filled the room.
The blooms crowded around Caroline, but to Alexander, she outshone them all.
Damon had sent him the photograph.
Damon had said that throughout her entire childhood, Caroline rarely had solo photos. Edith, radiant, magnetic Edith, was always beside her.
She'd been like a small flower growing alongside the most brilliant bloom, fighting desperately for scraps of sunlight and nutrients, reaching stubbornly and silently toward the light.
Maybe, when this solo photo was taken, she'd thought to herself, 'Look. I'm one half of these twin blooms, but I'm going to live a life that's uniquely my own. I am Caroline. Not just Edith's sister.'
Who could have known that would be the last peaceful birthday of her short life?
Alexander had the photo enlarged to life-size and hung here.
Now he knelt on the cold floor, knelt at her feet, enduring the lash, looking up at his god.
When it was over, Alexander's upper body was drenched in blood. He could barely walk. The two bodyguards had to carry him out.
Liam rushed forward immediately. Seeing Alexander emerge with yet another layer of fresh wounds, tears finally spilled down his face.
"Sir, why do you do this to yourself... Your body's going to give out..."
"If this flesh and blood can buy her peace--let her forget everything--then I'll pay it gladly."