The Dark Kingdom Anthology

by Krissy V et al.

  I avert my eyes from Pippa’s near nakedness before any of my urges can take root. “Put on something decent, and follow me,” I say, and then clear my throat when I hear how rough my voice sounds. I stare down Mrs. Potter. “And you, you bring her trunk upstairs at once.”

  Mrs. Potter blanches, drops her gaze, and gives me a deep curtsey when I sweep past her. I stand at the foot of the stairs leading to my apartments and wait with hands still fisted in my pockets.

  Pippa reappears wearing a cloak, color staining her cheeks, and stares at the floor instead of meeting my eyes. I want to apologize, to ask for her forgiveness even though I wasn’t the one at fault, but then Mrs. Potter emerges from Pippa’s room with a suitcase, and the time doesn’t seem right.

  I lead her upstairs, holding open the door and letting her pass ahead of me into the study. On cue, Rose wakes up in her crib and starts letting out an array of unhappy sounds.

  “I will bring her bottle,” Mrs. Potter says behind me.

  I turn, snatch the suitcase from her cold, dry hand, and glare down at her. “Leave us,” I manage in a tight voice.

  Mrs. Potter gulps at the air, and then drops her chin to her chest. “M’lord—”

  “Make yourself scarce, Mrs. Potter.”

  She hurries down the stairs without another word. I slam the door behind her which sends Rose into a bout of screeching wails that makes me instantly regret allowing myself to show such anger. But a moment later, I hear Pippa whispering to Rose, and when I take her suitcase into the bedroom, she’s already perched in the rocking chair with Rose at her bosom.

  My heart clenches. Pippa glances up at me, her hand hovering by the hem of her nightgown’s bodice, as if waiting for permission. Rose is grabbing at the fabric with her tiny red hands, as if impatient with all the Goddamn societal niceties we have to go through before she can fill her tummy.

  I look away, set down her suitcase, and head back into the study. Lighting an oil lamp, I flip open a ledger, intent on at least getting some work done until I can return to sleep.

  Pippa starts rocking in her chair, the wood creaking faintly. I curl my hands into fists, and then stare at the whorls and ridges drawing taut over my skin. Without looking away from my mutilated hand, I open a drawer and take out a pair of kid-skin gloves. These aren’t the black I usually prefer, but rather a light tan. Sometimes, when I wear these, it’s almost possible to forget the horrid flesh beneath.

  Creak.

  Creak.

  Creak.

  The numbers in front of me merge and blur. I remember setting my head down for a moment, closing my eyes in an attempt to soothe their sting, and then nothing.

  * * *

  I wake at a gentle hand to my shoulder. A twisted dream bursting with fire and unfelt flames disintegrates as I jerk to a sit and turn to face Pippa. Rose is at her bosom, the tiny infant fast asleep. Pippa is still wearing her cloak, but it flares open at the front and no longer offers any modesty.

  “Would you like to hold her?” the girl asks, beaming at me as if she’s proud of the fact that she’s managed to get Rose to keep quiet.

  I rush to my feet, the chair scraping back loudly on the flagstones. “No,” I snap. Whether it was my voice, or the noise I’d made, Rose wakes up and turns wide eyes to me. We stare at each other for a second before she bursts into a screeching wail.

  Surprise flashes over Pippa’s face. She cradles Rose a little tighter, her mouth moving as if she wants to say something, but the words just don’t come.

  I glare at her back as she takes Rose to her crib and tries to get my daughter to settle down again. There’s pressure around my hands, a warning tingle, and then sudden release. I glance down, my shoulders slumping at the sight of the split seam where my damaged flesh is now visible.

  How many pairs of gloves have I ruined — eight, nine?

  I rip them off my hands, shove my fists into my pockets, and leave my apartments in search of something to calm my anger.

  A fool’s errand — nothing inside these walls has ever been able to calm me except a few glasses of cognac…and I wouldn’t dare even sniff a bottle in my current state.

  Chapter Nine

  Pippa

  When Rose finally cries herself back to sleep, I straighten and wince when the muscles along my spine complain. I glance toward the study, but I’m sure I would have heard Brandon returning.

  I upset him, and for all I know, he won’t be back tonight. I could go look for him, but I have a feeling my apology won’t be welcome.

  All you’ve done is fuck things up for the baron. Why wait until you’ve done more damage?

  It’s more difficult to push away Howard’s bitter words this time. I was never good enough for him. I would mess up all the time, and he’d lord those mistakes over me time and time again, often with his fists.

  The only thing I ever got right, according to Howard, was becoming pregnant with Howie.

  I turn away from the crib, blinking my stinging eyes. I won’t let myself slide into dark thoughts — not now, not here.

  Not again.

  I have to be strong, even if only until tomorrow when I can leave this place and no longer pose a danger to anyone.

  A danger? Howard’s condescending laugh echoes through my mind. You?

  I purse my lips.

  It takes great effort not to give in to the urge to respond to Howard. Knowing what happens when I do, however, makes it easier to resist the temptation. I sit for the longest time in Sir Brandon’s rocking chair, willing myself not to drift away until he’s returned. But as each second streams by slower than the last, I can’t fight my fatigue anymore.

  Brandon

  I don’t know where to go, only that I can’t go back to my room. My darkness has returned. I am a weak soul at the moment — any suggestion the Devil mayhap whisper in my ears, I will have no choice but to obey.

  When I find myself in my mother’s studio, I’m not surprised. The darkness festered here before spreading like a cancer through the manor. It’s no wonder I’m compelled to return to the source whenever my sick urges threaten to overwhelm me.

  In the past, all I received for my efforts was another dose of perversion — until I met Alaine.

  I found solace in her. A purity this house had sorely been lacking. She was the only person who could calm me from my frightful rages.

  For several glorious months we were carefree lovers.

  All that ended when Alaine’s doctor declared she was with child.

  I’d never wanted children — I consider them the bane of a man’s existence and I informed Alaine thusly the first night we lay together.

  The lying wench assured me she had taken precautions.

  Despite her reassurances, I would only ever spill my seed over her smooth stomach, or in her mouth. Never in her womb. Not where life could cling, develop, erupt and ruin my life.

  I was convinced Alaine had taken a lover. One who didn’t care if she carried a child, who wanted only the fleeting bliss of carnal pleasure, who knew he wouldn’t have to care for the babe he spawned. But she’d been adamant that Rose was my child, that there was no other. She even went as far as to claim the only lover she’d ever had was me…even when she wasn’t willing.

  As if I was some kind of beast incapable of controlling myself? My love for her dwindled in the face of such desperate lies. But I would not shame the family name by casting her out on the street. I married her, and I made a promise to myself to cherish the bastard growing in her belly as if it were my own.

  That parasitic embryo — at first ‘the babe’ until Alaine was convinced it was a girl — inserted itself into our daily lives; Alaine would become ill the moment I kissed her, she would become fatigued whenever I was near… eventually she spent her nights in a separate bedroom just to get away from me.

  That was when our relationship fell apart like so much rotting straw.

  Rose arrived early, in a whirlwind of pain and confusion. Alaine didn’t surviv
e her birthing, and Rose found only strangers outside her mother’s womb.

  Mrs. Potter was my guiding light back then, my North Star. It didn’t matter how much I’d drunk or how fucking drunk I was, she was always there to make my bed, clean up my vomit, counsel me when I felt this life wasn’t worth living.

  Then came the fire, and I realized I was a beast.

  Like a wild animal, I leave only ruin in my wake.

  Chapter Ten

  Pippa

  I rouse when the fire spits out a spark loud enough to wake Rose and she begins stirring in her crib. Half-asleep, I hurry to her and scoop her up, still attempting to clear the sleep from my eyes as she settles into a grouchy whine.

  What time is it? My body feels lame, as if I have been perched in the same position for at least an hour, but it’s impossible to tell the time in this manor, what with the black windows and constant wind rattling against the panes.

  “Brandon?” My voice echoes hollowly back to me.

  I’m tempted to calm Rose and then climb into the massive bed which occupies so much of the room…but I’d be transgressing every modicum of decorum known to civilized man if I gave in to that urge.

  Rose protests when I lay her back in her crib, but fortunately she doesn’t attempt to raise the dead as before. I smile at her, counting heartbeats until her eyes eventually flutter closed, and then I’m pacing the length of Brandon’s room — a poor attempt to diminish the negative energy surging through me.

  It’s happening again, isn’t it, Pippa?

  I shove away Howard’s voice and the connotations of his words. But they keep coming, just like before, after I’d bludgeoned him to death. Still the words came, just as Howie’s plaintive wails never, ever, ever stopped.

  Not even when they were both dead.

  Sleep.

  I need sleep so I can wake blessedly fresh and new. For every morning, comes the sun. Rebirth.

  But my mind is too frantic.

  A book. I can read until I’m too tired to concentrate, until I fall asleep. I glance over at the master bed, but I know I wouldn’t dare climb on there. I’ve already made a complete and utter nuisance of myself.

  My gaze drifts to the small bookshelf, but none of those books look interesting. In fact, most of them appear to have to do with numbers. Beating myself over the head with them is the only way I can imagine using them to go to sleep.

  It’s obvious which side of the bed is Brandon’s — there’re a few books piled neatly on the nightstand, what looks to be a robe thrown over the foot of the bed. A pair of soft boots stand nearby.

  The other side of the bed — the nightstand, the floor — they’re empty.

  Lady Alaine.

  Despite what I’d told myself earlier, I’m drawn to the bed. I perch gently on Alaine’s side and stare around the room, trying to imagine what it must have been like to be her. To bed the Baron of Dunnwood.

  My cheeks heat up as a stray thought of Brandon — naked and gleaming with sweat — claiming his wife on this massive, soft bed wanders through my mind.

  I should have jumped up, gone back to the rocking chair, and read one of those dour books until the baron returned.

  Instead, I stay where I am. I even go as far as to kick off my shoes and slide my feet onto the cool sheets.

  The pillows are soft, but firm. Scented with lavender. I trace a finger along the edge of the wooden nightstand, and then toy with the single drawer’s handle. I know I shouldn’t…

  It glides out silently, and at first glance appears empty. I prop myself up on my elbow as I peer into its dark depths and begin rooting around in the shadows. It seems only insignificant things remained behind — a hairpin, a crumpled handkerchief, a mint.

  But then my fingers brush something far in the back. I lean over on my stomach so I can get my hand all the way back there, and hot prickles dance over my skin. With a quick look at the doorway, I jump off the bed and pull out the drawer all the way.

  There, secured along the inside of the back panel, is a small book. As soon as it’s in my palm, I know what it is.

  Alaine’s journal.

  I bite the inside of my lip, and then hurriedly slip the faded red book into the inner pocket of my coat. As I close the drawer, I hear boots on stone, and I turn just in time to see Brandon enter his room.

  His eyes touch on me, and narrow when he finds me at the edge of the bed. He opens his mouth.

  I hurriedly bring a finger to my lips, shaking my head as my gaze darts toward Rose’s crib.

  Brandon closes his mouth. His frown melts away. He beckons me, and then walks into his study.

  He can’t know — it’s impossible — but still I feel like a thief in front of a judge when I follow him. When he turns to me though, and I see the small smile on his mouth, ice-cold dread transforms into warm anticipation.

  “I’m truly sorry for how poorly you’ve been treated,” he murmurs.

  We are standing so close, I catch the scent of alcohol on his breath. A glance about the study reveals its source — a crystal tumbler with barely a finger of dark amber liquid inside stands on the desk.

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  Should leave before he tries to take advantage of you, little mouse.

  He wouldn’t do that! He’s not like you — he’s a fucking gentleman.

  Brandon’s intent eyes drop to my mouth, his dark lashes fluttering as his gaze traces the outline of my lips. On instinct, I lick them.

  He’s drunk, Howard whines. You know how drunk men get, don’t you?

  Brandon reaches for me.

  I should pull back, but I don’t. When he looked at my mouth, my stomach twisted itself in a knot at the thought that he might kiss me.

  Howard never kissed me. He’d undress, get on our bed, and holler at me to come fuck him. After, he’d leave me there while he went to pour himself a drink and have a cigarette.

  I can’t imagine what it would be like, having a man like Brandon kiss me. A baron, of all things. And me, his lady. How it would feel for his hands to slide around my waist, like the portrait downstairs.

  As if I summoned the action, Brandon takes another step toward me. There’s no space between us now — I have to tip back my head to look up at him. The soft leather of his gloves whispers against my cloak as he slips his hands over my shoulders, down my back, around my waist.

  I open my mouth, but before I can say a thing, Brandon’s lips brush mine.

  So soft. Gentle. As if he’s asking permission from me.

  There’s nothing I can do to stop myself from accepting him. I lift onto my toes, pressing our mouths harder. His beard scrapes my lips and I let out an involuntary moan at the sensation.

  “Fuck,” he murmurs into my mouth, the word half growl, half praise. The hands around my waist tighten. He lifts me, shoves aside something from his desk that lands with a hard thump on the floor, and sets me down as if I’m a piece of fine china.

  My head spins. I catch onto his broad shoulders to steady myself, again open my mouth.

  Again, he catches up my lips and forces away any hint of a protest.

  He kisses me hard and deep until I’m breathless, panting, aching for him. He pushes his hands under my cloak, then my nightgown, to the wet, throbbing slit between my legs.

  I gasp when he touches me, and again when he drags his fingers over my flesh. A shudder tears through me, leaving me weak and limp.

  The baron’s gaze pins me as he draws back, interrogating me with fierce eyes as he drags up the layers of fabric between myself and him.

  Stop.

  But the word is uttered silently inside my head. I’m too dizzy, too—

  Much of a fucking whore

  —caught up to insist he step back.

  He slides gloved fingers inside me — cool and supple — and my legs close around his hand like a vise as I urge him deeper inside. My head falls back. Kisses lavished along my strained neck keep me occupied while he unlaces his breeches.r />
  The hot crown of his cock is against my entrance, pressing, pressing, pressing against my slick folds.

  I snap back to reality when he thrusts into me.

  “No!” I kick back from him. Shame surges into my cheeks and burns at my eyes until they’re welling with tears. “Oh God, no! What are you doing?”

  The question wasn’t meant for him, of course. I was asking the whore who’d been spreading her legs for this complete stranger.

  But a moment after the first flash of confusion crosses his face, it empties of all emotion. He drops his gaze as he laces up his breeches with unsteady hands.

  “Please feel free to use my room,” he says evenly. “I will sleep in one of the guest suites.”

  “Wh-? No. I can sleep in my—”

  But he’s already gone. Shame courses through me until I’m ready to catch fire.

  Did he honestly just abandon me with the last sip of his drink like some cheap whore who he discovered charges too much?

  Frowning, I take the glass, sniff. Whatever it is, it’s not the cheap whiskey Howard guzzled down like cold tea.

  In my head, Howard breaks out in laughter.

  Brandon

  The glass is by my lips before I realize I’ve poured myself another drink. Have I lost my mind? Or am I blacking out again, like I did with Alaine? With Rose?

  I remember having a glass of cognac in the library. Wondering why the hell Mrs. Potter had let the place become so disarrayed. I’d stared at a white sheet strung up like a canvas as I’d sipped, sipped, sipped my drink.

  And then I was in the study, tasting Pippa’s neck and ready to mount her like a…

  Like a beast.

  I set my glass down in a rush, and some cognac slaps over my thumb. I flick it off my gloves, pause, and then strip them off with a muted growl.