I get up, go into the bathroom. I run cold water and drench a towel in it, then return to the bedroom.
“Turn on your stomach.”
“Why? For more? Or so you can gawk?”
“This will cool it.”
She snorts.
“Turn on your stomach, Helena.”
“What, not Willow Girl? Not sweetheart?”
I meet her eyes, realize I hadn’t called her either. “I didn’t order this.”
“No? That’s not what your mother said.”
“I didn’t order the caning. Not like this.”
“Not like this?” she asks. She turns her face away, like she’s embarrassed.
I see the skin of her forehead crease as she wipes the back of her hand across her face. She turns on her stomach, and I lay the cool towel over the red-striped flesh of her bottom.
“Like what, then? What did you order, exactly?”
“One stroke. Two at most. Not nine.”
“One stroke. Two at most. So casual about beating a woman.”
I feel my lips tighten into a line, but she’s right, isn’t she? This, nine strokes, what would I call it?
I see the tray of food from earlier and go to it, pour a glass of water, and carry it back to the bed.
“Here.”
She looks at it, then at me, and pushes herself up to take the cup. She won’t let me help her to drink it. She takes a sip then hands it back.
“Are you hungry?”
“I just want to be alone.” She lays her head down, closes her eyes.
“Helena—”
“Just leave me alone!” she snaps, lifting her head, glaring at me. “Can’t you give me that? One night. One night after this. Please.” Her voice breaks, and I see her face crumple before she turns it away from me. I swallow over the lump in my throat when I listen to her quietly sob.
I stand.
“I’ll have some food sent up. Something for the pain too.”
She doesn’t reply, and I guess I’m not sure what she’d say.
I leave her alone, as she requested, and make sure someone takes dinner up to her before finding my family gathered at the table outside, my stepmother sitting in my chair at the head of the table.
When I get there, she’s grinning, casually sipping champagne. Ethan too. Gregory is unreadable, as usual.
“Lucinda.”
They all turn to me, and whatever she sees on my face wipes that smile right off hers. She gets up, takes her chair at the foot of the table.
“Son,” she says once she’s seated, knowing how I hate her calling me her son because I am not. “Pour me more champagne.” She holds out her glass.
I go to the table, take the bottle, and pour. “What are you celebrating?”
“Our new Willow Girl.” She raises her glass and drinks a long swallow.
I grip her by the throat, and Ethan is on his feet an instant later when she spills her refilled glass of champagne onto his lap the moment I take hold of her.
Because seeing Helena like that, well, I know what Lucinda is capable of. What she can do with that cane. I grew up on the receiving end of it and have the scars to prove it.
“If you ever touch her like that again, I will kill you, do you understand me?” I squeeze her tiny, scrawny neck, and she’s gripping my forearm, trying to drag me off.
“Am. I. Clear?” I ask once more, loosening my hold enough so she can choke out an answer.
“Yes!”
“Good.” I release her, and she stumbles backward.
“I didn’t break precious Willow skin. I only did what you asked.”
“She deserved it, Sebastian. The girl is arrogant, like mama says. She taunted mama,” Ethan says.
Rage turns my vision black for a second.
Gregory chuckles, and I think I hear him calling Ethan an idiot under his breath.
I shoot Gregory a look. He knows I don’t like that.
“You were there?” I turn my attention to Ethan.
He clears his throat, wavers, glances at Lucinda for direction.
“Did you lay a hand on her, Ethan?” I’m trying to rein in my rage, at least with him.
“No,” Ethan answers, panicked. I know I need to go easy on him. He can’t control his emotions, and that’s not his fault.
“Ethan did nothing wrong. Even though he has as much right to that little whore as you.”
“No, he doesn’t. Not yet.”
“I just looked. I didn’t touch her, Sebastian. I didn’t.”
Fuck.
I sit down, raise my eyebrows as one of the girls from the kitchen puts a whiskey down for me.
“What did I ask you to do, exactly, stepmother?” She hates being called that. She may hate it more than when I call her by her first name. But she will answer because she alone is the one responsible.
Her lips purse. “She should learn on her first punishment that disobedience will cost her.”
“What did I ask you to do exactly?” I repeat, draining my glass. The girl refills it.
“The examination.”
And this is true. I did want her re-examined for the simple reason of bringing her down a notch. “And?”
“She disobeyed, like we all knew she would.”
“How many did I order if she disobeyed?”
“One or two strokes.”
“And you delivered?”
“I didn’t break skin!”
“How many strokes did you deliver?”
“You saw for yourself. And if you want her to respect you, you’ll deliver nine more now. That will teach her.”
“That will break her.”
“Isn’t that the point?” she hisses.
“On my timeline, Lucinda, not yours. She belongs to me. You do as I dictate to the fucking letter, or you’ll be the one on the post. Are we clear?”
Her left eye twitches. It always does when she wants to tell someone to go fuck themselves.
“Are we clear?” I repeat, my face stone.
“Yes.”
“Good. Now get out of my sight.”
It takes her a minute, and I know she’s cursing me to hell and back, but I don’t care.
She walks into the house as the servers bring out dinner: a roast chicken with potatoes, vegetables and a salad.
I look at Ethan as I chew my first bite of chicken.
“You should have stopped her.”
He looks at me. “I didn’t want to, and when it’s my turn, I won’t.”
“It’s not your turn yet, brother. You stay away from the girl, or I’ll be angry with you, understand?”
“Mama says I get to have her too. She says you want to keep her all to yourself. But I get my turn too.” He eats a forkful of chicken, washes it down with a swallow of wine.
“How did the meeting go?” Gregory asks, sitting back in his seat.
I don’t know if he’s uninterested in Helena or what. Maybe he’s just smart enough to keep his head down because he has two years to wait.
Hell, maybe he’s smart enough to know that between Lucinda, Ethan and me, there may not be much left when his turn comes at all.
The meeting was with our bankers. I confirmed the first installment of the payment that should be sent to the Willow family and looked over everyone’s accounts. I need to keep a tight rein over Lucinda and Ethan, because even if Helena is bound to be handed over to him after my year is up, I still control the family funds. It’s how I plan to keep control of him when he has her.
I wonder how much Helena knows about the money that exchanges hands after the reaping and through the years the Willow Girl is property of the Scafoni family. I wonder how she’d feel about her own precious family if she did know.
“Good,” I say, glancing at Ethan. “Things are on track.”
After dinner, we all go our separate ways, Gregory leaving the island for some party or other, Ethan retiring to his room. I go for a walk, making my way to the east side of the island where th
e Scafoni Family Mausoleum is.
This path is not lighted, and I swear the grass here is browner. Nothing grows here anymore, like the ashes of the dead infect the earth here with death. It’s always cooler on this side of the island too, and that makes no scientific sense.
This is why some part of me goes along with this insane business of the Willow Girls.
I don’t believe in any god, but I do believe in ghosts. I believe those of the Willows are vengeful, but more so, I believe in the curse Maggie Scafoni, Anabelle’s mother, placed on us centuries ago.
Sometimes, the women of our family can be as fierce as the men because twice, a Willow Girl wasn’t claimed. Two generations that let the past lie, that allowed conscience to rule over family tradition and obligation.
That’s when the Scafoni family began to lose their firstborn sons, the loss leading to infighting among us because it changed the rules of inheritance.
Breaking with the tradition and displeasing our ancestors cost us.
After that, whether a Willow Girl was claimed or not, each generation lost one boy—some during pregnancy, some within days of birth. Always the first, so rather than having four sons, each family had only three.
The soft light of a lamp burns inside the mausoleum day and night, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, like the sanctuary lamp on every altar in every Christian church.
I push the creaky gate back and step inside. I don’t use my phone to shine more light on the space. I don’t need it, and I’m not afraid of these ghosts. They are here, yes, but they don’t mean harm. Not to me.
It’s big, the family’s final resting place, and will need to be expanded soon. The walls are already filled up.
I go to the freshest one, that of my father. I trace the dates. He died young, in his early fifties. He was not an unkind man, not to us at least, but he was weak.
The canings didn’t start until Lucinda was in the picture. She declared herself the disciplinarian—at least my disciplinarian. I swear, as sick as it is, she got a kick out of it.
I endured her wrath through my seventeenth year. I was a man, yet I endured her punishments until I couldn’t stand another minute of her hate.
I remember the last time she ordered me to strip. I remember my rage. I broke her damned cane in two that night and dragged her to the whipping post.
Never again did she raise a finger to me, raise her voice to me, or dare disobey me.
Not until now.
I think about my mother. I was two years old when she died, but I remember her being kind and gentle. I remember loving her.
How Lucinda could be so different from my mother, I don’t understand. They share blood and yet, they’re like night and day.
The memory of the marks on Helena make me remember the times we were made to watch Lucinda punish the last Willow Girl, Libby. What she endured at Lucinda’s hands makes me sick. But what makes me sicker is that my father was too weak to stop her, even though I know in his own way, he loved Libby Willow.
Maybe that’s why Lucinda hated her so much and punished her so harshly.
I have to take care with Helena. I can’t allow Lucinda to do to her what she did to Libby. I don’t have any interest in being her savior, but I will be the one to break her, not Lucinda.
I step to the right, to the next name carved in the black marble. To the dates there.
Timothy Scafoni. Older than me by thirteen minutes. He lived three days. My mother had thought the curse had been broken, and in a way, it had. She had twins—there were no other twins in the Scafoni line—and I survived.
Beside my brother’s marker is that of my mother, Samantha. I brush dust off the stone and rub the engraving of her name. It’s been a long time since she died.
I take three of the candles lying nearby, light them, and set them in front of each of the markers. Then, without a word of prayer, I walk back out of the mausoleum and to the house.
7
Helena
When I wake in the morning, I’m surprised to find the curtains drawn closed. I hadn’t gotten up after Sebastian left. Every time I woke up, I just closed my eyes again, still hoping, like a coward, that this was a dream. Still hoping the next time I opened my eyes, I’d be in my own house, in my own bed.
I slowly sit up, pushing through the pain because I have to use the bathroom. I make myself sit on the edge of the bed, in fact. Make myself feel the sting of my first beating at the hands of a Scafoni because I don’t ever want to forget the cruelty, the brutality of this family.
Lucinda Scafoni dished out my punishment with pleasure. It was no chore to cane me.
I think about Aunt Libby, wonder at what she went through. I think about what Lucinda asked me, if I’d seen my aunt’s back.
I was five when she came back home from her ‘trip,’ and my memories are clouded, but the image of her back I’ve never forgotten. The day I saw them, she was coming out of the shower when I’d burst into her room, surprising her. I remember asking her about the patterns on her back, asking if they were a tattoo because I’d never seen anything like it.
She didn’t have a chance to answer me because my mother swept into the room and carried me out, chastising me that I shouldn’t walk into someone’s room without knocking. Now I know why.
On the nightstand is a pot of cream. I pick it up, open it, sniff it, and read the label. It’s a cooling cream. For my ass, I guess.
I put it down, more annoyed than grateful because when you order a punishment, you don’t get to be forgiven with a pathetic attempt to lessen the pain. I won’t ever forgive Sebastian for what he did.
I get up and go into the bathroom. The first thing I do is turn my back to the mirror and look at myself, look at the damage, and I gasp.
Nine angry red lines mark my bottom, all in a tight, neat row. She has a practiced hand. The skin is bruised in places, turning blue, but those lines, they’re a bright red. I reach back to feel the skin. It’s raised and tender to the touch. I’ll feel this for the next few days or even weeks.
I haven’t washed myself since the exam. I climb into the shower and turn the water on. I keep it as cold as I can stand because hot stings. Like yesterday, I don’t take my time. I used to. I always found it a pleasure to take long showers, use up all the hot water. My sisters always complained.
The memory makes me smile. I miss them. I wonder if he’ll let me have any contact with them or with Aunt Helena. Maybe he’ll feel badly enough that he’ll say yes if I ask today.
When I go back into the bedroom, there’s a knock on the door. It opens. The same girl from yesterday walks in, and we both blush. She knows what they did to me. She witnessed my humiliation. For a moment, I wonder if she was the girl Ethan used to relieve himself.
God, I think I’d be sick if I had anything in my stomach.
She sets the tray of food down and clears the old one. I guess Sebastian had had dinner sent, but I hadn’t even noticed.
“Thank you.”
She nods, offers a warm smile, and leaves. I pour myself a cup of coffee and notice they didn’t bring tea this time. I eat all three croissants, one plain, two chocolate. I’m starving. I then take the bunch of grapes and go to the window, push it open, and watch outside while I pop one after another into my mouth.
When the door opens without a knock, I startle and turn to find Sebastian walking inside. I stiffen and hold my towel against myself, finding it hard to swallow the last grape.
He looks at me and gives me a brief smile. He’s carrying boxes, one large with a pink bow on it, the other smaller. A shoe box, I think.
“Good morning.”
“Is it?”
“How do you feel?”
I give a fake smile. “Peachy.”
He sets the boxes on the bed. “I brought you a dress to wear today. And there’s more on the way.”
“Is that because you feel guilty?”
“Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“I guess that’s what your mother thought to cane out of me.”
He stiffens. “Lucinda’s been dealt with. She crossed a line, but it won’t happen again.”
Again, he refers to her as Lucinda. It’s strange. “Am I supposed to be grateful? I mean, after all, you did sic her on me to begin with.”
He crosses the room and just stops short of taking hold of my arm. I can see the effort it takes him to control himself.
His gaze falls to my chest, and I hug the towel to me.
“Let me clarify,” he says, meeting my eyes again. “It won’t happen again without my order, Willow Girl.”
Willow Girl.
That puts me in my place.
I study him, hear the warning in his tone.
He doesn’t feel guilty. He’s not upset. He dealt with it, whatever the hell that means. I’m the one who’ll deal with the bruised ass, not to mention the bruised ego.
“Go to hell.”
“I’m going to let that one go, considering. Get dressed and come downstairs. You have five minutes,” he says, turning toward the door.
“Why?” I push, although my voice is lower, and I half-expect him to not hear me. But he stops with one foot in the hallway. “Why are you giving me clothes?”
“Because I don’t want everyone gawking at what’s mine.”
Ah. What’s his.
Property.
What did I expect?
“Five minutes. I’m waiting at the bottom of the stairs.”
He leaves with that and, after taking a deep, steadying breath—because this man pulls the rug out from under me like no one else—I take the lid off the smaller of the two boxes to find a pair of slingback sandals inside. They’re white with a tiny heel. I recognize the brand from my sister’s magazines. Designer.
I check the size and am surprised to find he got it right.
I pull on the large bow and open the bigger box, pushing the scented pink tissue paper aside to find a turquoise sundress inside. It has a halter top and is cut low on the back. The skirt ends midthigh in a ruffle. It’s pretty, very pretty, and I’m glad it’s not formfitting.
When I slip it on, though, I realize it shows off enough without needing to be. It doesn’t allow for a bra—and even if it did, I don’t have one. My breasts are a very modest B cup at their most full time of the month, and this sort of dress is new for me. I’d never wear it at home.
Taken: Dark Legacy Duet, Book 1 Page 6
