Escape from Mr. Whitman (Emma and Theodore) novel Chapter 111

Chapter 111

Behind her, there was a soft rustling sound. Emma felt the fabric of her pajama pants being pushed up.

Her body’s defenses kicked in immediately–she rolled over, curled up tight, and hugged her legs protectively.

Theodore’s hands were slick with massage oil. The faint scent of herbal medicine lingered in the air.

“I’ll give you a massage,” he said, reaching out. “Dr. Fletcher gave me another bottle of ointment today.”

“No, that’s not necessary.” Emma tugged her pant leg back down.

“Emma.” He spoke her name, each syllable heavy with insistence. “You can be stubborn about a lot of things, but is this really something to be stubborn about? This is your treatment.”

She wasn’t being stubborn.

She just couldn’t bear to expose her scars to him again.

Back when she’d been injured, daily massage was part of her rehabilitation. He’d helped her himself–though he never looked at her legs, always pointedly staring elsewhere as his fingers pressed into her skin.

She knew he was repulsed by the scars that covered her legs.

What he didn’t realize was that his disgust hurt her more than the accident itself–like being run over all over again, the pain tearing through her chest.

Five years had passed. The wounds had long since healed over, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t, let him rip them open again–she’d worked too hard to bury that pain.

“Dr. Fletcher said there’s still a little hope. Let’s just try again, okay?” He wrapped his

hand around her ankle.

She tried to pull away, but he held her fast.

“At the very least, for Dr. Fletcher’s sake–after all the effort he’s put in, making house calls and everything. Can’t we just give it another shot?” Before she could protest, he pushed up her pant leg again, his fingers warm and oily as they pressed into her skin.

Emma turned her face away.

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Chapter 111

This time, it wasn’t about shame. She just didn’t want to see his expression–not the flicker of revulsion, not the way his eyes always darted aside.

If she didn’t see it, maybe she wouldn’t have to feel the hurt.

Theodore knew what he was doing. No matter how much he disliked touching her legs, his sense of duty had always won out. He’d spent countless hours massaging her in those first difficult months. Now, as he resumed the old routine, his touch was expert–precise, firm, practiced.

He worked on her leg for half an hour. By the end, she was drifting on the edge of sleep. When he finally covered her with a blanket, she woke with a start, realizing he was finished.

“I’m going to wash my hands.” His palms were slick with the herbal oil.

Emma turned toward the wall and lay back down.

He returned quickly and climbed into bed behind her. The bed was so narrow, he had no choice but to press close.

Instinctively, she shifted away from him–he only pulled her back, his arm circling her waist. “You’re awake?”

I was, until you woke me up again.

“Fast asleep,” she answered.

“If you’re asleep, why are you talking?” He drew even closer, his voice low in her ear.

Fine. She said nothing.

“Let me tell you something,” he murmured suddenly. “But you can’t laugh.”

What could he possibly say that would make her laugh?

“When I was little, I was kind of an idiot. I’d sneak my Game Boy into bed and play under the covers–you girls ever do that? Anyway, Grandma would come check on me, and she’d say, ‘When kids are asleep, their mouths fall open. If your mouth isn’t open, you’re faking it.‘ So I’d lie there with my mouth wide open, trying to look asleep, and Grandma would just crack up–she laughed about it until I was ten…”

Emma didn’t laugh.

She couldn’t.

It was the first time in five years of marriage that he’d spoken this much to her, unprompted.

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Chapter 111

All those years, she’d tried desperately to reach him, hoping to bridge the gap

between them. He’d always answered in monosyllables, if at all–sometimes not even

a word.

Looking back now, she felt like a clown, performing for an audience who never applauded, who barely even looked her way.

She closed her eyes and lay perfectly still–just as she’d done throughout the thousand days of their marriage, performing her part while he remained unmoved.

She’d thought, eventually, he’d tire of her and let her go. But he never did.

Without warning, his hand slipped under her shirt, pressing warm against her waist.

She jolted, grabbing his wrist.

“Emma,” he whispered. “Should we… pick up where we left off this morning? Maybe try for a baby?”

His touch burned as he slid his hand higher. Emma panicked, desperately trying to pull his hand away. “No, we can’t.”

“Why not? You used to want a child, didn’t you?” He rolled over, pinning her beneath

him.

If Theodore had done this before their fifth anniversary, she would have been overwhelmed with happiness. Now, it just felt absurd.

He knew everything. He knew how much she wanted a child, how much she loved him. He’d simply chosen not to want the same things–not to have a baby with her,

not to love her.

She had no idea what had changed, why he was suddenly acting this way.

He bent to her ear, breath hot as he grazed her earlobe with his teeth.

She tried to pull away, but he only held her tighter.

They were at his grandmother’s house–she didn’t want to make a scene. But he was so much stronger, pressing her down, and she couldn’t break free.

His breath seared its way down her cheek and neck, and as she struggled, panic rose inside her. She was leaving soon–would she really be forced into this before she could go?

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