"What was it?" I ask.
"A chemical nerve agent that has been used in several high-profile assassinations."
"A nerve agent?" I ask incredulously.
It doesn't sound right. How could Ivy possibly get her hands on a nerve agent?
"It's been banned in the US for decades, and by all accounts, the military stockpile destroyed. But like most things, it can be purchased on the black market. It's capable of being delivered as a gas or, in your case, dermally. An innocent touch can be deadly to the recipient since it is rarely tested for unless it is suspected. Fortunately, Dr. Rosseau followed his instincts within moments of your arrival at the hospital, by which time you had already been resuscitated twice. He gave you an atropine injection and an anticonvulsant, and they were able to get your breathing regulated."
Judge's voice becomes uncharacteristically quiet as he dips his head. "You barely scraped through this time, Santiago. If it wasn't for his immediate presence, I have no doubt we'd be planning your funeral. In fact, I was quite certain of it."
His words sink over me like a lead weight. I hung on by the skin of my teeth, narrowly avoiding death for a second time, and I can't help but question why. Why am I still here, trapped in this patchwork frame of flesh and bone and darkness? Because right now, considering the truth I will be forced to endure when I leave, I believe death might be a vacation from this reality.
For a few minutes, neither of us says another word. He allows me to digest the information quietly, processing my questions before I can give voice to them.
"You haven't found an antidote that Ivy may have taken?"
"No." He shakes his head. "She would have had to inject it, likely more than one dose. But there has been no indication where she might have disposed of it. By the time I had her secured at my house, most of her lipstick had been wiped away, which could be intentionally done if she was trying to decontaminate."
"And she has shown no signs of illness since then?"
"No."
I can tell by his tone that he is questioning her guilt, but I cannot. "Then someone helped her dispose of it. Someone helped her access the tools she required."
"It would be the only logical explanation if it is her."
"I need to find out where she has been and who she has had contact with."
"We are already looking into it," he assures me.
"Regardless, I would still like to speak with The Tribunal. And Mercedes."
Judge shifts uncomfortably at the mention of my sister's name, prickling my awareness. "What?"
"Nothing." He scratches over the stubble on his face. "She's at my house. Safe and secure. And pissed as hell that I haven't allowed her to visit."
"You can inform her you were just doing as I instructed," I tell him. "Or I will tell her myself."
"She's been struggling, Santiago," he says carefully. "I know she looks tough, but this week, I saw her crumble. She thought she was going to lose you, and it terrified her."
I draw in a sharp breath and close my eyes. He is right about Mercedes. As tough as she likes to pretend she is, she has made no secret of her terror that she might someday lose me too. Since our parents are both gone, I am the only family she has left. And I have been so focused on Ivy as of late that I have not taken the time to ensure that my sister was okay herself. Sometimes, it is easy to forget with her since she seems so capable. But inside, she is still a scared, broken girl who has been deeply traumatized by the loss of our family.
"I will see to her," I reply gruffly. "Thank you for taking care of her in my absence."
His dark and unwavering gaze meets mine. "I will always take care of her. Never doubt that."
7
Santiago
"Santi." My sister’s eyes fill with tears the moment she enters the room, and there is little time to brace myself before I am enveloped in her arms.
She squeezes the life out of me, and I return her hug awkwardly, uncomfortable with the display of emotion. I am not a man who expresses his feelings well, but my sister is the only reason I understand I am capable of that emotion they call love. For her, I would kill without a second thought. I protect her at all costs, and I would rain down hellfire on anyone who ever dared to hurt her. That is the only explanation of love that makes sense to me.
When she pulls away, she is wiping black makeup from beneath her eyes, choking on silent sobs. Judge was right. She’s a wreck, and it’s impossible not to notice how slight her frame looks.
"Have you been eating?" I demand.
"No!" She renews her crying fit with vigor, collapsing into the chair beside the bed. "Only when Judge forces me. I've been going out of my mind, Santi. I didn't know if I would ever see you again. That asshole has kept me from you, and I hate him. I hate him so much I could stab him!"
Despite her dramatic declaration, her tone lacks the conviction to make me worry. But there is something else I can't help noticing. She isn't looking directly at me. Instead, she dips her head, trying to hide her face, and it is so unlike her I can’t be certain what to make of it.
"Judge is only doing what he has been instructed to do," I say. "He's protecting you. Don't make his job any harder than it needs to be."
"Harder," she mutters. "He enjoys it when I act out. I think the sick fuck gets off on disciplining me."
My lips flatten, and I try to imagine exactly how Judge might be punishing her. He knows better than to do anything inappropriate. But I wouldn't be fulfilling my duty of protecting her if I didn't ask, regardless.
"He hasn’t… he’s left you untouched, right?”
Mercedes peeks up at me with a strange flush on her cheeks. "As if I would ever let that sadist touch me. God, you must really be drugged up."
"I'm perfectly clear-headed," I answer dryly. "Dr. Rosseau is giving me the all clear to leave tomorrow, in fact."
"So we get to go home?" she asks hopefully. "Things will return to normal?"
"For now. But you are to stay away from Ivy. No exceptions, Mercedes. She is dangerous."
"Ivy?" She dips her head again, wringing her hands together in a peculiar display of nerves.
"Yes." I frown. "Have you seen her?"
I don't know why I ask, and when Mercedes goes rigid, I know it was a stupid thing to do. I expect her to be out for blood, and I’m probably due for another tongue lashing about my plans for my wife. But her ire seems to have fizzled out after her outburst about Judge.
"Judge has kept us separate at his house," she says. "But the Tribunal has asked me to be a witness at her trial."
There is something in her voice I can't make out. I don't think I've ever heard it before, but she seems unnerved by the thought.
"It's standard procedure," I tell her.
She jerks her chin in acknowledgment.
“I need you to write down every location you and Ivy visited together leading up to the event. Anywhere you’ve gone together since she’s been in the house. Every detail, no matter how small. I want them.”
“Okay,” she answers quietly.
Silence lingers between us for a few long moments before she clears her throat.
"Do you believe she is guilty?"
"Undoubtedly." I turn away, jaw hard, hoping she can't see the strain in my eyes. But that doesn't stop me from hearing her next question, whispered low.
"What are you going to do with her?"
"Nothing has changed," I reply coldly. "She will pay for her sins. In blood."
8
Ivy
I sit with my feet up on the cot, arms around my knees and my head resting against the cold stone. I don’t know how many days it’s been since I stood before The Tribunal and heard what I’d been accused of. Four or five? A week? Two? It’s impossible to tell with that small window as my only source of light and the trees too dense for sunlight to filter through properly.
They think I tried to kill him.
They think I smeared poison on my lips and kissed him in order to kill him.
And I’m still in a little bit of shock.
I asked how I could have done that without succumbing myself, but they dismissed that with talk of an antidote. I don’t even know the poison they named. I don’t know what it is. Where I would get it. How I would use it.
But they’d have none of it, then absurdly claimed it was a fact-finding mission. A preliminary and not a proper trial.
I guess I still have that to look forward to.
But I don’t think they were after facts. For someone to be poisoned, they need a poisoner, and I fit the bill. Multiple witnesses, including Mercedes, saw me kiss my husband. And besides, there was other irrefutable evidence even if witness accounts were wrong.
They lied, those “witnesses.” I never kissed him. Not that night.
Not that he’d let me on any night even if I wanted to. Santiago has kissed me twice, maybe three times, but never has it been me kissing him. He must allow it. Don’t they know that?
I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. At least my captor hasn’t bound me since I’ve been back. I’m still barefoot, still wearing that white dress although it’s not white anymore. Nothing can stay clean in this place.
Someone tried to kill Santiago. The thought boggles my mind.
And the fact that they think that someone is me? I can’t wrap my brain around it.
But then I get to the next part. The more important part.
He’s alive.
There’s a part of me that feels relief. And, if I’m honest with myself, something else. Something like a spark of hope. And a small bubble of something I don’t want to name that quickens every time the door opens.
I shake my head.
God, what is wrong with me?
When it comes to Santiago and my situation, there is no hope, no spark of some other nameless, ridiculous thing. I can be relieved that he’s alive. But I can only be relieved that he’s alive. That’s just being human. Even if I hate him, it doesn’t mean I want him dead. And the hope I feel is only for my freedom. Hope that when the door opens, it will be him. My husband will come for me.
The devil you know. That's all this is. It’s not that I have feelings for him.
And besides, what would they do to me if he hadn’t survived? If he’d died? The Society and their precious Sovereign Sons. I don’t delude myself into thinking I could ever be precious to anyone but this? Accusing me of attempting to murder my own husband no matter how much I hate him? It’s insane. Unbelievable.
But he’s alive.
And my mind begins its incessant circling again.
I pull at my hair to distract myself. If I could just see him. Talk to him. Explain that I was in the chapel, and when the second gong rang out, I had been hiding in one of the bathrooms. Explain that I couldn’t get out.
Coincidental. Convenient. I can hear him now.
He hates me. He already believes the worst when it comes to me, and this will not alter his feelings. Not in a way that would benefit me.
I tried to explain it to the man who is holding me. I tried to tell him what happened, but he wouldn’t have it either. He threatened to gag me if I wouldn’t keep quiet on the drive back to this horrible place, and when he’s come in to feed me and empty the bucket, he has refused to speak to me.
But Santiago is alive. He’ll come for me. I have to believe that.
I stop, though, because another thought interrupts that never-ending cycle.
What if I’m wrong? What if he doesn’t come? What if he leaves me here to rot until I’m expected to appear before The Tribunal again? What if he’s alive but not himself? Hurt. And what if he’s alive but doesn’t want me back?
At that, I let out a strange, snort-laugh. It’s ugly.
Yes. He’ll want me back. He’ll want to be the one to punish me.
I close my eyes, confused by all this, my own thoughts, my feelings, this isolation, this darkness. I tug the blanket closer, rubbing warmth into my freezing feet. It’s so cold here. My captor must realize it too because he gave me a second blanket. Same as the first one. Rough and terrible but at least it’s something.
Does he think I’m guilty of what they’re accusing me of?
I drift off, snatching sleep when it comes before the cold, and my dreams wake me. Tonight, though, when I startle awake, it’s not either of those things that rouse me. It’s the key in the lock.
I blink my eyes open, my brain in a fog from the lack of sleep, lack of sunlight, and no exercise. Lack of nutrition. A half bowl of cold soup, a wedge of stale bread, and an apple a day are not enough to sustain me.
Whoever it is is carrying a lantern and there it is. That spark of hope inside me. I sit up, but the moment I recognize the cloak, the hood, the spark is extinguished.
He walks in without a word to me. That’s not unusual, though.
I fumble for my blindfold. I forgot to pull it down, but I do now. I wonder if I should ask for a new strip of cloth. This one is disgusting.
“Stand up,” he says.
“What?”
“Up. On your feet.”
This is different. I release the blanket, shuddering as I stand. I’m not sure I’ll ever get warm again.
“Arms.”
“Why? I haven’t done anything.”
“Arms.”
I extend my arms out to him and feel the familiar rope wrap around the healing, scabbed skin. I feel the warmth of tears slide down my face again.
“Are you taking me back? To The Tribunal?”
He doesn’t reply. Weaving the rope around and between my wrists, he pulls me to the center of the room, where I know the ring he has hooked me to on the ceiling is. He turns me to face away from him, my back to the door.
“No, please. It’s too high. It hurts…”
But my arms are stretched above me, and I’m bound in place before I even finish, and then he’s leaving. Gone. I hear him go. Hear the door close. Hear the lock turn. And then the crunching of dead leaves and branches as he passes by my small window.
What does he mean to do? He can’t leave me hanging like this all night, surely. All day.
I rub the side of my face against my arm and manage to push the blindfold up enough to open my eyes. I turn to look behind me, all around me. Can I at least reach the bucket? Turn it upside down and stand on it to alleviate the pain in my shoulders? I try to extend my leg, but it’s too far. I’m stuck with only the tips of my toes on the floor. I shiver as a cool wind blows outside, and the rain starts to fall, the sound pretty, musical almost on the lush floor beyond my cell. It would be pretty if I were anywhere else. Even in my room which felt like a cell at The Manor. What I’d give to be back there now.
* * *
I drift in and out of sleep, jolted awake when my head lolls to my arm then drops. My shoulders ache. My stomach is rumbling. I’m hungry and thirsty. I’m exhausted. So exhausted I can’t think straight.
Rain now pours outside, sliding along the wall beneath the window over the trail of moss and growth on the path it must normally take. I sneeze. I’m freezing. How long has it been? How long has he left me hanging here? And how much longer does he plan to keep me like this?
Something crunches outside. A branch breaks. I hear it even through the rain. Then a moment later comes the familiar sound of the key in the lock.
I turn to look over my shoulder to watch for him, wondering what the point was to stringing me up. The door opens, creaking heavily on its rusted hinges. He’s back, and I’m relieved.
“Thank God,” I mutter. My shoulders ache, and my toes have gone numb.
No lantern this time. Only blackness around him.
I rub my face on my arm but fail to get the blindfold down, so I keep my face averted, my back to the door. To him. I don’t want to anger him. But I listen for him. His steps are always so quiet that only the crunching bones give him away.
I swallow as he nears me, my heartbeat accelerating even more than usual. He lifts my hair and sets it over one shoulder.
He’s closer than expected, and I stiffen, feeling the leather of his gloved fingers running down my arm. The warmth of his breath at my neck makes me shudder.
“I…What are…?” I start, but something tickles the back of my neck, scratches the mark there. It makes my breath catch.
I swallow, my throat dry, a croaking sound coming when I try to speak and tell him to stop.
His hand slides down my side and over my thigh.
“What are you doing?” I ask, voice small as I look down at his big hand, the black glove working, fisting the fabric of the dress. “What are you doing?” I ask again, this time more forcefully. He hasn’t touched me more than he’s needed to since I’ve been here. What’s changed?
But it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?
I just keep watching as my legs are exposed, my thighs, and I tug against the rope needing my arms to fight him when the fingers of that gloved hand brush against my clit.
“Oh god. Please don’t. Please.”
“No?”
I freeze. Even my tears seem to come to a halt.
He draws his arm around my middle and tugs me backward into his body with a jerk. He’s hard and warm and familiar, and my heart beats wildly as a thousand butterflies take wing inside my stomach.
I turn my head just a little, but he clucks his tongue, and I stop. I lick my lips.
“Santiago?”
Something cold and heavy drops over my head then, and I gasp, looking down at the rosary, the cross dangling between my breasts and over his arm, my feet off the floor as he takes my weight.
“Who else?”
I laugh. Almost. I mean, it’s the closest thing to a laugh. It sounds insane, and I feel fresh tears of relief. He’s come for me. He’s alive, and he’s come for me!
“Santiago! I was so scared.” I’m sobbing, trying to turn to him, but his arm is too tight, hurting me. I hear the tearing of fabric and feel the tugging of the dress at my neck before his other hand closes over my buttock and squeezes so hard that I cry out.
Reparation of Sin: A Sovereign Sons Novel Page 3
