Hitting the back of her throat, I distantly hear myself say, “Suck harder… that’s it… more… all the way…”
She complies and why the hell shouldn’t she? In a moment of white hot clarity, I let myself acknowledge the truth. I own her. Letting her go was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. She’s my property to use as I will and she’s damn well going to acknowledge it.
I plunge harder, faster, in control and taking what’s nothing more than my due. I don’t know when she starts to struggle and I don’t care. I can hear the voice in the back of my head, goading me.
They’re all just sluts. They want to be used and abused. It’s all they’re good for. The harder you ride them, the better they like it.
The power swells in me, the intoxicating sense of being indomitable, a king, a fucking god. Nothing matters except driving myself into her, using her, taking everything from her.
Until suddenly, with hideous clarity, I realize that I’m so deep into her throat, pushing so hard that she can’t breathe. She’s on the verge of passing out.
I withdraw in an instant, holding her as she bends over gasping. Her face is flushed and her eyes are watering. She looks at me wildly, as though seeing me for the first time.
And in a sense she is.
“Amelia--” Confronted by the stark reality of her fear and shock, I choke. I’ve always been so careful before, even that last night in the golden room. I’ve never totally lost control. Not for goddamn years, not until now. Until her.
I knew it could happen from the first moment I saw her. Hell, even before that, when I found out that she existed. Everything I’d thought dead and buried inside me started to awaken right then. I knew it and I did nothing. I set us both up for this.
Without looking at her, I rearrange my clothes, throw open the car door, and go.
Chapter Twenty-two
Amelia
Ian thunders down field toward the goal. Rising in the stirrups, his powerfully muscled arm extended with the long mallet in his grip, he looks at once extraordinarily graceful and threatening, a throwback to an age when men on horses ruled the world. Yet for all his obvious strength and will, I can’t help but recognize the raw edge of aggression that is driving him.
The shock that engulfed me in the Rolls has subsided to a frantic fluttering. In its wake I’m struggling to try to understand what happened.
Ian’s admission that he is as susceptible to me as I am to him… the unfettered ease with which I succumbed to desire for him yet again… the incandescent pleasure… Even now, I can’t forget that. Or how suddenly and darkly it changed.
Briefly, I consider the possibility that I over-reacted but I know better. I have all too much experience with dehumanizing pain and helplessness to ever be a willing participant in more of the same.
Yet the idea that Ian wants to inflict anything of the kind on me doesn’t fit with what I know of him. Or think I know. As reluctant as I am to admit it, I have no idea whether what I glimpsed in the Rolls was an aberration or a part of his nature that he has concealed until now.
Abruptly, I remember the Cabinet of Secret Delights next to the golden room. I still don’t know who created it or even if Ian is aware that it exists. But the memory of it exerts a dark, erotic pull that further adds to my confusion.
A sudden flurry of activity on the field gives me a welcome respite from my inner turmoil. We’re in the second half of the game with three minutes to go in the next-to-last chukker. The crowd is on its feet screaming, a far cry from their lolling ease at the beginning.
I wince as a defending player from my brother’s team drives his mount forward, all but colliding with Ian. At the last possible moment, the defender gives ground, I suspect only because he realizes that Ian won’t.
The pace of play has been intense from the beginning with the lead shifting back and forth constantly. My brother’s team is good--well-drilled, fluid, technically superb--exactly what I’d expect of Edward. But they were unprepared for Ian’s sheer, unbridled aggressiveness, evident from the first throw-in of the ball at the beginning of the game, and they’ve had to scramble to adapt their style of play.
Nor are they alone. The game wouldn’t be hanging in the balance but for the fact that Ian’s team mates have had the same problem. They’ve been hard pressed to keep up with him as he’s torn up and down the field.
The ponies are changed at the end of every chukker or more often if needed but the men get little relief except during a brief half-time. Nor do the officials who have called foul after foul as tension has mounted.
Ian is about to take his swing when Edward, riding hard at him, refuses to pull up as the other player did. I can’t tell whether my brother’s actions are motivated by anger or calculation but either way he seems determined to confront Ian with his own recklessness.
The horses, galloping at thirty miles an hour or more, come dangerously close. Both men rein in but too late. A scream rips from me as the powerful animals collide.
Edward loses his balance and is flung out of the saddle, only just managing to grab hold of his horse’s neck to avoid being hurtled to the ground and crushed. The officials are moving in, I can hear them shouting, when Ian leans all the way over, grabs hold of Edward, and in an astounding display of strength, drags him safely back into the saddle.
Play resumes at a fierce pace, positions shifting constantly, until Ian makes another drive at the ball, so impossibly small against the huge expanse of the field. His aim is unerring. He strokes it directly midway between the goal posts, putting his team up by one.
The crowd roars. They’ve been on their feet baying for blood since they realized what kind of game this would be. The raw aggressiveness on the field feeds their appetite for sensation as nothing else can. For the first time since I have been in the city, not a single face looks jaded or blasé.
As the last chukker begins, the excitement reaches new heights. Edward leads a charge that ties the game again. Ian and his team respond with a fierce drive. They’re within reach of the goal when the mallet of the blond man I noticed earlier is suddenly hooked by another just as he is about to hit the ball.
The move is entirely within the rules but this time it has unintended consequences. The ball goes wild, smacking through the air and striking Ian directly in the head. Although he’s wearing a helmet, the blow stuns him.
I watch in horror as he instinctively reacts by pulling up on the reins. But his mount is galloping at top speed and the maneuver backfires badly, hurtling Ian into the air. He hits the ground hard and lies prone, not moving.
At once, play stops. Edward rides down and seizes Ian’s horse as officials and doctors pour out onto the field. My hand is at my throat, I can’t breathe. A hush falls over the crowd.
Time seems to stop or at least slow down profoundly, only to lurch forward suddenly when Ian sits up, waves off the doctors, and gets to his feet. He shouts for his horse and springs back into the saddle.
The crowd goes berserk, stomping, screaming, cheering. The officials confer for a moment, then throw up their hands and signal for play to resume.
It continues to see-saw back and forth until, with the final throw-in of the ball, the tension reaches unbearable heights. The thirty second warning rings as Ian, turning defense into attack, breaks through the opposing team’s line and begins an all-out charge down the field. Edward and the other opposing players spur their mounts after him as the blond man moves into position to block them.
Still sixty yards or more from the goal, Ian stands in the stirrups, swings at the ball and rams home the winning point.
The horn sounds, signaling the end of the chukker and the game.
The crowd explodes. If not for the safety barrier around the field, they would be streaming out onto it even before the horses are led off. As soon as they are, the players are surrounded. Ian and Edward, as the captains of their respective teams, meet at the center of the field to shake hands under the cautious eyes of the officials.
Beside me, Adele says fervently, “Thank God that’s over!” She looks as pale and drained as I feel.
As my grandmother chats with friends, I take refuge in the club house where final preparations for the post-game reception are underway. Helene and Marianne are already there. Helene appears to be at least half-way through a stiff drink.
“My God,” she says when I join them, “I’d take that boy’s head off if the damn ball hadn’t almost done it for me.”
Marianne nods. Her lovely face is pale and strained. “What was Ian thinking? It’s just a stupid game! And Edward--”
Her eyes look bleak. I guess that she is also remembering the moment when my brother almost came off his horse amid a scrum of slashing hooves.
“I take it matches aren’t usually so exciting?” I ask because I have nothing to go on other than my own reaction and Adele’s dismay.
“Society will be talking about this one for years,” Helene says drily. She knocks back the rest of her drink and waves off a server who approaches to offer another. “That’s better. I’m not feeling quite as murderous as I was. Now then, are you all right, my dear? You look pale.”
Her concern for me raises a lump in my throat. As much as I appreciate Adele and Edward’s many kindnesses, Helene is a mother, something I have never known.
I don’t let myself think about that very often but a few days ago, I walked over to the park where on my first day in the city I heard the happy shouts of children. They were there, romping in a small playground surrounded by a wrought iron fence and furnished with benches occupied by nannies and a few parents.
I found a seat away from the others and watched the children for almost an hour. They are strange, fascinating creatures, not like miniature adults at all but entirely their own selves. They laugh and cry, pout and smile for the most volatile and mysterious of reasons. Moment to moment, they seem at once so vulnerable yet also indomitable, determined not merely to survive but to thrive and grow.
Thinking of them now stirs the anger and regret I feel at all the lost years adrift in the loneliness and pain of the gestation chamber. But it also reminds me of how grateful I am for the life I have awakened to. I’m determined to live it free of the shadows of the past but I don’t underestimate how difficult that is to do. Not just for me but for everyone.
Mindful that Helene is waiting for a response, I manage a smile. “Let’s just say that I don’t think I have a future as a diehard polo fan.”
Marianne laughs and links an arm through mine. “Brothers! What quiet, boring lives we would have without them!”
“I think you mean men in general, my dear,” Adele says as she joins us. “The good ones can make life worth living even when they are at their most infuriating.” With a nod to Helene, she adds, “As for the bad ones, I say kick them to the curb and make sure they stay there.”
“Thanks to the success of this event,” Helene says with a smile, “a good many more women will be able to do just that.”
“Mother chairs a foundation that assists women escaping abusive relationships,” Marianne explains in an aside to me. “She’ll never tell you herself, but she does an enormous amount of good.”
I don’t ask--because of course I can’t--but I have to assume that Helene’s devotion to helping such women stems from her own experience with Marcus Slade. I try to put that together with what I know of Ian--his aversion to hurting women, his need for control in any situation but most especially of himself, his loss of control in the Rolls. And the explosion of aggressiveness that followed on the field.
I’m tempted to believe that Ian’s behavior can be explained as a struggle to escape the shadow of the father whose violent nature drove his wife from him. But I can’t shake the thought that there is something more. Something I’ve glimpsed but haven’t grasped.
A flurry of activity near the entrance interrupts my thoughts. Edward has just arrived with several other of the players from both teams, all freshly showered and dressed. It would be difficult to imagine a more attractive group of men but I’m too busy looking for Ian to more than barely notice them.
The moment they appear, they are surrounded by the crowd in the club house. Congratulations and commiserations are accepted with equally good cheer from both sides. The fury of the game seems forgotten.
I’m still looking around for Ian when I hear Edward say, “The doctors wanted a better look at his noggin. He should be along any minute now.”
A short time later, Ian makes his appearance. He has showered and is freshly dressed in charcoal gray linen pants that hug his slim hips and an open-neck white shirt perfectly tailored for the broad sweep of his chest. A cashmere jacket is hooked casually over his shoulder. His dark, slightly messy hair still gleams with droplets of water. He looks supremely fit, powerfully masculine, and utterly untouched by what happened less than an hour ago on the field.
After accepting the backslaps and congratulations of club members, he joins his mother and Marianne. When I try to meet his gaze, he stares straight through me. He does not give even the slightest acknowledgment of my presence.
The man whose body was driving into mine scant hours ago seems to have forgotten that I exist.
I flush with anger and mortification. Whatever accounts for his behavior--regret, embarrassment or even displeasure with me--it’s all too much.
From the first moment I opened my eyes in the floating bed, I’ve been bombarded with sensations, emotions, experiences, all piling on top of each other without a pause to make sense of any of them. I’m paying for that now.
After another, unreturned glance at Ian, I realize that I’m dangerously close to breaking down.
Fortunately, Edward is nearby, chatting with several people. I join them and touch a hand to his arm.
Quietly, I say, “That was all very exciting but it’s left me with a headache. Do you mind if I take the car home?”
My brother frowns with concern. “No, of course not. The driver can come back here afterward. But are you sure you’ll be all right? Adele and I can leave now.”
I manage a quick smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll be fine. I just need a brief rest and some quiet.”
Edward nods, although he doesn’t appear totally convinced. He insists on escorting me to the entrance and waiting with me until the car is brought round.
As he hands me into the backseat, he says, “If you’re worried about Ian, don’t be. He’s the most hard headed person I know. Not even that errant ball could knock any sense into him.”
I nod but I also take care to keep my face averted rather than risk Edward seeing how I really feel. I am worried about Ian but I’m also worried about myself. Whatever the reasons behind his behavior, I’m at risk of shattering.
But not here, not in front of anyone, especially not him. Pride and an instinct for survival both demand that I not let him know how much he can hurt me.
I hold myself together well enough during the drive back to the house. But once there, in the privacy of my bedroom, I surrender to the storm of emotion the day has brought. I have scarcely cried since awakening that but I make up for that now. My tears soak the pillows. By the time they sputter out, I truly do have a vicious headache.
At some point, I revive enough to strip off my clothes and stand in the shower briefly before crawling back into bed. I pull the covers up over myself as though they can somehow shut out the world.
It is still dusk beyond the tall windows when Adele comes to check on me. She opens the door softly and peers in but I deliberately keep my eyes closed, hoping she will think that I am asleep. After a moment I hear her soft sigh as she departs.
Deceiving my grandmother leaves me feeling even worse about myself but I can’t regret it. I’m simply not up to dealing with anyone just then. The night passes with aching slowness. I drift through long periods of wakefulness interspersed with dreams of Ian that are arousing and disturbing in equal measure.
At one point, lying wide awake on my back star
ing up at the canopy of the bed, I wonder if this is what it feels like to be adrift at sea, tossed helplessly between remorseless waves with no refuge in sight. The stark truth strikes me. I want Ian to be my refuge and to be his in turn.
Yet I fled from him twice at the palazzo. Once when he told me the truth about myself and again when he seemed not to care if I stayed or went. Each time I had provocation but that doesn’t mean what I did was right for either of us.
The last stars are winking out when I come to the realization that I have to choose. Move on with my life without him. Or stand my ground, refuse to be controlled by fear, and fight for what I want.
My eyes are still red and the headache hasn’t let go but I can feel the beginnings of hope. And rather more to the point, of a plan.
Chapter Twenty-three
Amelia
A week later, I have to face facts. Whatever I thought I would be able to accomplish when I saw Ian again isn’t going to happen. He has stopped appearing at any of the exhausting round of social events that I’ve forced myself to attend. To all intents and purposes, he has vanished.
Adele and Marianne have not. In our frequent encounters, I get no indication that they’re at all worried about him. Surely, if he were ill or suffering unexpected aftereffects from the blow he received they would know?
I tell myself that rather than care so much about his well-being, I should be angry at him both for his behavior in the Rolls and afterwards. Instead, I can only hope that he really is all right. My foolish weakness turns my anger inward and leaves me even more confused.
If he is well, what accounts for his absence? Is it just that having withdrawn from me, he no longer has any reason to endure the social round? That is the simplest explanation but it is as frustrating as it is painful.
I struggle to take an interest in the activities going on around me but as the Ian-less days pass that becomes increasingly difficult. Only with Sergei do I manage to remain focused and then only because he won’t tolerate any such lapses. However, he does comment on the deepening shadows under my eyes and even goes so far as to remind me that I need to eat.
Anew: Book One: Awakened Page 23
