“Do you all have that?” I ask, remembering seeing a ring on Holton’s finger but not on the doctor’s.
He follows my gaze to his ring and nods. “Sovereign families. Males only.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t think a woman would be allowed such an honor.” I put the accent on honor, and I’m sure he hears my sarcasm, but I don’t wait for him to comment. I pick up my glass, which is already full, and take a sip as he sips his. I raise my eyebrows.
“Juice?”
He nods, then sets his wine down.
“I’m not a child, you know.” Not that I drink much. It messes with my already poor balance if I do, but I’d like the option.
“You could be carrying my baby inside you. You won’t be allowed alcohol, Ivy.”
“Your baby? I hardly think you’re that potent.” He makes a face, and I think he’s about to say something rude so I continue before he can. “And again, I’m not a child. I can decide for myself, and if I were pregnant, which I’m not, I, of course, wouldn’t have a drink.”
“It’s one of your rules. No alcohol. Period. There will not be a discussion.” He picks up his knife and fork and starts to cut into his meat like this is a remotely normal conversation.
I shake my head but drop it. I honestly would only have taken a sip anyway, but it’s the principle. I stab a bite of meat and put it into my mouth. It’s even more delicious than it smells. We eat in silence for a moment, and I watch him, wondering if he feels any discomfort in the silence. I get the feeling he doesn’t.
“She only let me see my dad for fifteen minutes,” I finally blurt out.
He pauses, but I can’t quite read his expression.
“Was that your doing? Because I can tell you that having to endure a spa day with your sister is not worth fifteen minutes. I want to see him again. For longer. And I want to see my sister.”
He smiles, studies me, then shakes his head and returns his focus to his plate.
“I mean it, Santiago. This wasn’t fair, and you know it.”
He puts his fork and knife down and wipes his mouth. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were purposely trying to push my buttons.”
“I’m not. I just wanted to see my dad. We had a deal.”
“A little bit of respect will go a long way. I realize you’re quite young, and your upbringing leaves much to be desired, but I thought you’d understood that at least.”
“You want me to ask you for permission? Is that it? Do you get off on that?”
“That’s one.”
“One what?”
“One strike. And I’m being generous. You have two left so take care.”
I open my mouth to tell him where he can shove his strike but think better of it and stuff a potato in while I think. I have a pretty good idea where strikes two and three will lead me.
“Mercedes mentioned the masquerade ball at IVI?” he asks.
“She said something about readying me for an event, but she wasn’t specific, and I didn’t get a chance to ask when she proceeded to remind me how lucky I am you chose to grace me with your attention. How grateful I should be to carry your last name. How I have a duty as your wife to devote myself to you and to The Society. Etcetera, etcetera.”
“Well, she is thorough if not dramatic.”
“Can I at least call her?”
“My sister?” he feigns confusion.
“My sister.”
“I will personally take you to see both your sister and your father myself after the gala.”
I’m surprised. “You will?”
“If you behave.”
I bite my lower lip. “For more than fifteen minutes?”
He nods.
“When is it?”
“In two nights.”
“Do you promise it’ll be a normal visit? No tricks? Nothing stupid you can talk your way out of?”
“You’re not a very trusting little thing, are you?”
“I’ve learned my lesson with you.” I resume eating, feeling at least a little victorious.
“You’re close with your sister?”
I nod. “I was close with both of them until Hazel left.”
“I remember that. Have you had contact with her?”
I look up at him, study his face in the play of candles. I would give anything to see him in full light.
“If I said yes, would you report it to The Society?” I know what will happen if they ever find her. She’ll be punished publicly for having turned her back on The Society. For having walked away from a Sovereign Son.
“Have you, Ivy?”
“No, Santiago, I have not. But if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Your father doesn’t search for her.”
“What?”
“He hadn’t ever really.”
I’m confused. I’m sure he sees it on my face, too, and maybe he’s just trying to figure out if I’m lying or if I know anything. Because he doesn’t fill in any blanks.
“How do you know that?” I ask a little more uncertainly.
“I know a great deal.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Of course he’s looking for her. She disappeared after—” I stop abruptly. Was he friends with the man she was supposed to marry? They’re all like brothers, right? The Sovereign Sons. All have each other’s backs.
Hazel ran away days before her wedding. She just vanished into thin air. No note, no nothing. I understand her not leaving anything for our parents because they were the ones pushing her, but she didn’t even leave one for me. I have always wondered if she could because I don’t believe she’d leave without a single word to me.
“They won’t stop looking for her. But you probably know that,” he warns.
I do. The Society does not let those who wander from the path they’ve laid out for them go unpunished. If they let them go at all.
Especially a woman.
Especially a woman ranked as low as we are.
“And they will find her. In time,” he adds.
I shudder at the thought and slip my fork and knife diagonally on my plate. I’ve lost my appetite.
“It’s been six years. They can’t…hurt her anymore,” I say. He remains silent. “Can they, Santiago?”
“They? Don’t you mean we?”
I just watch him. Is he trying to scare me? Or is he trying to figure out if I truly have information on her whereabouts? I don’t, and for the first time in six years, I’m glad I don’t because I have a feeling my husband can detect lies.
“You’ve gone pale.” He pushes his chair back, stands, and comes to pull my chair out. He holds his hand out to me.
I look at it, then up at him.
“Come, Ivy. I will put you to bed.”
25
Ivy
It was funny that he asked me if I was searching for which buttons to push when he knows exactly which to push for me.
He put me to bed after dinner last night, exactly as he said. Dressing me in a sexy silk slip, then taking care to rub salve into the tattoo, he tucked me in like a freaking child, knowing all along how angry it made me. He didn’t touch me apart from taking care of the tattoo. When I saw the negligée, I assumed there would be something, and the fact that I’m bothered by that is even more frustrating than the rest of it.
He’s a control freak. I know that. And I’m just one more thing he can and will control and that includes my pleasure too, I’m sure. And I’m also sure my defiance only makes him that much more determined.
I haven’t seen Santiago all day apart from the glimpse I caught of him getting into a little silver sports car and speeding off a few hours ago. I want to know where he went and who he’s with. Is he at a fancy dinner or an evening out on the town while I sit here night after night isolated and alone? Mercedes is gone too. I heard her telling Antonia she wouldn’t be back tonight. That’s at least a silver lining.
Which gives me the perfect chance to do some more exploring. Maybe check out some o
f those off-limits rooms. Because I found something I don’t think I was supposed to find today.
Antonia wishes me a good night, telling me she’s off to bed, and leaves the room. It’s almost ten, but I've been anxious to get going for hours.
I give it a few minutes after she’s gone before I get up. I tuck the heavy rosary under the black slip. The stones of the thing are cold against my bare skin, and I pull on a sweater. I don’t want to run into the staff and have them see it around my neck. It will only reaffirm his dominance over me. It’s humiliating enough to submit to him, but to have them all know it? Well, I don’t think I could handle that.
I searched for a phone during the day, but there doesn’t seem to be one anywhere. It’s not unusual not to have a landline, though. I found the pool too, and it took all I had not to just slip right in and swim. It’s beautiful. Twice the size of the one at my parents’ house with two-story-high glass ceilings and walls and tiny little turquoise and gold tiles as far as the eye can see.
I’d swim if I was sure I wouldn’t get caught. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m afraid of what he’d do if he did catch me. I have a feeling even if no one reported back, he’d smell the chlorine on me somehow, even if I scrubbed my skin raw.
The conversation last night about Hazel still has me rattled. And his comment about my dad not really ever searching for her, is that true? Why? Or was he somehow protecting her from The Society?
And now I’m wondering if Santiago himself is looking for her. Does he care enough to bring her back to be punished? Why? He used to be like a son to my father. Does he realize that, I wonder? Surely, he wouldn’t do anything to cause my father pain. Right?
I step out into the hallway and turn toward the stairs that lead down to the first floor and back to the large and well-stocked library, which just happens to be near his study. I only know that because I’d been in the library when I’d overheard Antonia tell one of the maids she wasn’t allowed to be in that part of the house and to clear out.
So I make my way toward the dark corridor with the double doors at the end that lead to the library. I feel my heart race and keep glancing over my shoulder, but all is quiet.
And I’m not doing anything wrong. Yet.
If anyone asks, I’m just going to get a book and read. I’m allowed in here.
I let myself in through the double doors. The chandelier offers slightly more light than those in the living and dining rooms, and reading lamps are set beside each comfortable, plush chair of which there must be a dozen, some set up in pairs, most alone. This is where I spent most of the afternoon. I even took a nap in one of those chairs. Not on purpose but I dozed.
I pick up one of the candles in its old-fashioned holder and make my way toward the darkest part of the library. It’s a little creepy in here but honestly no less so than my own bedroom, so I shake off the thoughts of ghosts and go to the cutout door similar to the one in the dining room.
I hold my candle up and have to peer close to see the outline, but there it is. The young woman had been whistling as she cleaned. It’s what had woken me from my impromptu nap. I hadn’t thought much of it until Antonia mentioned she wasn’t to go into the Master’s study.
I roll my eyes at the fact he makes them call him master.
Pretentious prick.
I search for something resembling a doorknob, but there isn’t one. Setting the candle on a shelf, I feel around, and a few moments later, when I push at just the right place, I feel the spring beneath my fingers, and the door creaks open.
Feeling victorious, I grin. Then look over my shoulder to make sure I’m still alone before I step into Santiago’s study.
I stand and survey the space, the light of my candle dimmer than the flashing artificial green of the half dozen monitors across from his desk. They're the only modern thing in here. It’s a good-sized room with the huge antique desk at the center and a single chair across from it. A cognac-colored leather couch extends almost the length of the wall nearest me, and like the walls in my room, those here are paneled in dark wood. The far one is taken up entirely by leather-bound books and before it are two comfortable looking chairs with a small table between them.
I walk toward it, pausing at any creak in the floor, trying and failing to ignore the lingering scent of his cologne. It’s subtle, like when I smell it on him, but just as in the confessional the night of our wedding, it’s his scent, and I will never forget it. It’s like my body has a visceral reaction to it, too, my stomach fluttering, my heart racing.
I don’t know what it is about this man whose mark I wear etched in my skin. Whose ring circles my finger and whose rosary hangs heavy around my neck, but I am so highly aware of him past and present.
When I get to the wall of books, I see a glass with its remnant of amber liquid beside a book on the small table. The book itself is open and lying facedown.
I sit on the chair, and when I do, I see the pencil that must have rolled to the floor. I pick it up without even thinking and set it beside the book.
Santiago must have sat in this chair while drinking his drink.
I set my candle down and pick up the glass to inhale. Scotch. My dad had it for company at home. I bring the glass to my lips, and I’m not even sure why I do this. I’m not really thinking, and if I were, I couldn’t make sense of it. But I put my lips to the glass, and I drink the last sip of his scotch.
As the liquid burns its way down my throat, I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the chair. Leather combines with the scent of scotch and him. Keeping my eyes closed, I inhale, aware of the shudder that makes its way down my spine. I know it’s not the scotch. It doesn’t work that fast.
I open my eyes and set the glass down, then touch the tips of my fingers to the leather spine of the book. No title. The leather looks and feels ancient. The tome is thick and probably shouldn’t be laid facedown and open like he’s got it. It’ll damage the binding.
Picking it up, I turn it over and peer at the page. But it’s not words at all that I see. It’s a drawing that takes up the whole of the page. A skull.
I turn the page and find detailed black and white drawings on the next one. This one is a woman. She’s beautiful. Older with dark hair and sad eyes and a veil that hides part of her face. I study it, something about how she seems to be peering out at me so intriguing I can’t look away.
I’m so caught up in it that it’s not until I hear the key turn that I realize I’m caught. I stand, hitting my knee into the table and sending the candle to the floor. I gasp as I watch melted wax spill into the fibers of the carpet before whirling to look at who has caught me, knowing there’s only one person, and meeting my husband’s dark eyes as they land dangerously on mine.
26
Santiago
My eyes flick to the sketchbook splayed open on the table. The pages are opened to an image I sketched of my mother from the funeral. I hadn’t been able to attend because I was still in the hospital, but Mercedes ensured it was videotaped for me, and I watched it more than once. That haunting image of my mother so broken burned itself into my mind. It’s a memory that was never intended to be seen by anyone. Least of all a fucking Moreno.
Heat rises in my throat as I stalk toward my wife. She's already trembling, shrinking into herself as she tries to move back. But there's nowhere for her to go. Doesn't she realize it yet? She'll never escape me.
My icy fingers latch around her jaw and force her gaze up to mine. "What do you think you are doing?"
"I... I..." She stammers over the words, trying to shake her head. Wide, terrified eyes peer back at me, but it's the scent of my scotch on her breath that fuels my ire.
"Snooping through my things. Drinking my scotch. Are there any other sins you'll need to atone for this evening?"
"Santi, please."
"Don't call me that." My fingers bite into her skin, and she flinches at the menace in my tone.
I don’t know what she thinks she’s doing, acting
so familiar to me. Trying to make me forget who I am. Who she is. As if she has a right to touch my things or stare into my darkest memories. Does she take pleasure in perfuming the halls of the manor with her scent, an ever-present reminder that the enemy is living under my roof? Even now, in my clutches, she’s staring up at me with so much false innocence, it grates on my last nerve. As if she could ever make me forget why she’s here. As if just by fluttering her lashes and speaking so sweetly, she could make me forget the traitorous blood running through her veins. I will never forget.
"You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?" I growl.
She blinks up at me, confusion clear in her eyes. Maybe I'm a little drunk too. My visit with Judge ran longer than expected this evening, and the scotch flowed freely for the duration of it. Perhaps that's the reason the words come so uninhibited.
"I know what you are." I stare down into her strange eyes, forcing her to look at me as the monster I am. "A fucking temptress, trying to lure me in with that sweet voice and those innocent eyes. But you're a goddamned liar."
"No, I'm not." Her lip trembles.
"Shut your eyes," I command.
She doesn't obey. Her arms come up to grip mine, pleading with me as she clings to me. "Please don't be angry."
"Angry doesn't even begin to touch what I am right now." I whirl her around in my arms, and she struggles against me as I yank her head to the side, biting at her throat. "I'm your worst fucking nightmare, wife of mine. It's about time you realized it."
She sucks in a sharp breath as red blooms across her skin from the drag marks I left behind with my teeth. I'm fighting with her clothes, ripping off her sweater and trying to push her nightgown up over her hips, but the silk keeps sliding back down. In a fit of frustration, I haul her to the desk and fold her over it, opening the top drawer to retrieve the scissors.
"No!" she screams.
I force her head back down with my palm, pressing her cheek against the wooden surface with one hand while I cut with the other. It's a messy, frenzied job with her squirming beneath me, but soon, her nightgown and panties are in shreds, the remnants lying on the floor of my office.
Requiem of the Soul: A Sovereign Sons Novel Page 17
