They look at each other, then back at me. "And?"
"I propose that I will execute her punishment myself, as is my duty and responsibility as her husband. It is me who was slighted, and therefore I request that I am the one to dole out a penalty of my choosing."
Hildebrand dips his head, his face a mask of emptiness that makes it hard to discern his feelings. "Let's hear what you have in mind."
"I propose that I will disgrace my wife as she has disgraced me. I will leave her with a permanent disfiguration for all to see."
"What sort of disfiguration?" He arches a brow at me.
"A tattoo on one side of her face to match my own."
There is a long stretch of silence as he studies me, considering. "You would not have your wife put to death for the attempt on your life?"
"No." The muscles in my shoulders go rigid as I consider that they are prepared to fight me on this.
"Explain," he commands. "Explain what deems her worthy of saving. How would you ever trust her again? Why should IVI trust her?"
"I take it upon myself to guarantee her unwavering loyalty to The Society," I assure them. "And if there were to be any sign of falsehood in that regard, I give you my word that I would end her life myself."
"The sentence is too light to satisfy the requirements of this court—"
"She is pregnant with my heir," I clip the words through gritted teeth. “And for that reason, she is still of value.”
Hildebrand frowns. "We need a moment to consider. Leave the room and we will summon you back once we have made a decision."
I reluctantly leave the room, jaw clenched and irritation stirring up a fury inside me that will be difficult to hide. Ivy has put me in this position. Lying to The Tribunal to save her life, and for what? So she can continue in her self-righteous hatred and disgust every time I am near her.
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. But I know what I'm risking by covering for her. By offering this one thing I know they will not deny me. The Tribunal is aware of the importance and expectations for Sovereign families to bear heirs, and particularly mine, considering it will be my sole responsibility now that my father and brother are dead.
I pace the length of the corridor while I wait, using my phone to search the directory of Society doctors. Then it occurs to me that I cannot use a Society doctor to examine her at risk of the truth being revealed. I need her fucking pregnant, and I need it now.
Christ.
I swipe a trembling hand through my hair and consider my options. I'll have to bring someone else in. That's the only way.
I'm scrolling through names of specialists from other states when the door to the courtroom opens again, and a guard summons me back inside. The Councilors are waiting for me in silence, their faces empty. I want to believe I know what they will say, but nothing in life is ever certain.
"You are to bring your wife to her assigned court date with visible proof that you have fulfilled the punishment as laid out. We will see it in person," Hildebrand says.
"As you wish."
"We are only granting this request on one condition," he adds.
"Yes?" I reply hoarsely.
"We want the name of the accomplice who acquired the poison for her. Either you get it out of her by the time of her court date, or we will imprison her until she produces a viable name."
"She will have a name for you," I assure them.
"Then this session is adjourned for now. We will reconvene next week. You are dismissed."
* * *
I'm walking through the courtyard of the compound with only one intent in mind. I need to get home. Before Ivy's court date, some things must be in order, and I can no longer put them off.
Fury is a living, breathing animal inside me. I lied to The Tribunal to save her, and in doing so, I put my family at risk. It isn't just me I have to think about. If this goes badly, Mercedes will bear the brunt of the impact too.
Fucking poison.
That's what my wife is. She's poisoning my thoughts. My every waking moment. My hunger for her. This need that is turning me into someone I don't even recognize anymore. It has to stop. I have to fix this.
"Sir!" someone calls out as I breeze past them, but I ignore the voice, continuing to my car where Marco is waiting.
"Mr. De La Rosa, please!" The breathless voice follows me out of the courtyard, lingering behind me as Marco opens the door for me.
I turn to see a girl I recognize as Jackson Van der Smit’s wife. She’s a face I know well, considering how much Mercedes dislikes her. Young, innocent, and heavily pregnant. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth as my eyes settle on her belly. They haven’t even been married that long. It looks as though Jackson doesn’t waste any time. I can’t help but wonder when I will see my own wife heavy with my child. A thought that only serves to irritate me further.
"What do you need?" I demand.
She flinches at my tone, shrinking into herself and then squares her shoulders, seeming to rebound quickly with her primary motivation in mind.
"I was hoping I might speak to you a moment to request a visit with your wife. If you don't mind."
"My wife?" I growl.
I narrow my gaze at this girl who can’t be much younger than Ivy, but she looks much younger somehow. I don't know what she could possibly want to speak to her about.
"How do you know my wife?"
She hesitates to answer, and it only encourages my suspicions. Surely, she couldn't be the one who gave Ivy the poison. She is far too innocent for that. But I have been fooled by innocence before. Eli's innocent request for my family and me to attend that meeting in place of his changed my life irrevocably. If I have learned anything since then, it is that anyone can be a traitor.
"We spoke at the gala," the girl finally confesses. "I'm Colette. Jackson's wife."
"I know who you are," I answer coldly. "Why do you want to speak to my wife?"
"She said she'd like for us to visit sometime, and I just thought... I was hoping I could come visit her, considering the circumstances."
"No."
I slide into the back seat of the car, and Marco leans forward to shut the door when Colette offers me one last parting thought.
"She didn't do it. I know she couldn't have—"
The rest of her declaration is cut short when the car door shuts, sealing me in with my own turbulent thoughts. Colette is still standing on the sidewalk, hoping I'll reconsider as Marco drives us away.
15
Santiago
Ivy screams when I slam open the door to her room and startle her. The sound of the heavy wood crashing into the wall reverberates down the corridor as I stalk toward the chair where she's sitting, a horrified expression on her face.
"Santiago?"
When I don't respond, she rises up, trembling from the force of her fear. She knows what's coming. She can sense the predator in me. There is no more room for softness. There can't be. Never again.
"It's time."
My words echo between us, dark and menacing. When I reach for her arm, she bolts. Pure instinct drives her from the room and down the hall, completely naked. I prowl after her, and panic makes her eyes wide when she glances over her shoulder to see me closing in.
She pauses for a split second when she reaches the landing, trying to decide the best route for her escape, but she should know there are none. When she turns toward the stairs, I growl behind her, reaching out and narrowly missing her as she picks up speed.
I can see it happening as if it's in slow motion. She tilts to the right, stumbling as she grapples for balance. And then her hip bumps against the banister, and it jars her entire body as she rebounds and begins to topple forward.
"Fuck," I snarl, reaching out and grabbing her by the hair just in time, yanking her back against my body. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"
She screams the most horrific scream I've ever heard, wild like an animal as I haul her back and begin to drag her away.
&n
bsp; "Help me!" she pleads. "Somebody please, help me!"
Mercedes appears at the top of the landing, a strained expression on her face as she takes in the scene before her. Ivy is kicking and clawing, attempting to fight her way out of my arms. When she throws her head back into my face, it collides with my lips and teeth, piercing my flesh as blood starts to drip down my chin.
"Fucking stop!" I roar, grabbing her chin so forcefully my knuckles turn white.
"Santiago," Mercedes calls out. "What is going on?"
"Go back to your room. This doesn't concern you."
"Please!" Ivy begs her. "Please don't let him do this."
"Santi—" Mercedes's voice breaks as I drag Ivy back up the stairs and turn us in the direction of my bedroom. She doesn't follow.
Ivy begins crying in earnest as I haul her down the corridor. She renews her fight, trying like hell to get away. Her heels collide with my shins. Her head with my shoulder. Nails down my forearms. When I hiss another warning at her, she only fights harder.
Finally, I come to a stop, forcing her facedown onto the cold marble as I dig my knee into her back and wrangle her arms behind her. When I've got them in place, I hold her down with my weight as I unbutton my dress shirt and use it as a makeshift bind, knotting her wrists together with one sleeve and her ankles with the other. She's hogtied and thoroughly exhausted when I hoist her up again, carrying her down the hall like an animal headed for the slaughterhouse.
"You don't have to do this," she sobs.
"Stop. Fucking. Crying."
She doesn't listen. The entire way, I have to hear those pitiful sobs. That panicked wheeze that sounds like a death rattle as she struggles to regulate her breathing. It's doing something strange to me, and I don't like it.
"Stop!" I demand. "Stop fucking crying."
She keeps at it, and when I finally reach my room and toss her body onto the bed, her sorrow only seems to amplify.
She's struggling against the ties, trying to break free when I head for my closet and grab what I need. When I return, she's halfway across the mattress. I grab her by the ankle and yank her back, wrapping my belt around her face and forcing it between her teeth before I secure it behind her head.
She mumbles around it, a fresh wave of tears falling down her cheeks. But for now, at least the sound is muffled. Once that is done, I remove the knots of my shirt only to replace them with a length of rope, which I use to tie her to the bedposts, one at a time. When I am finished, she is stretched wide, arms and legs pulling in the direction of each corner. She's a panting, sobbing mess, and I can't seem to look at her for more than a second as I force myself to follow through the preparations.
Perhaps I should have thought to drug her first. Knock her out cold. It would be so much easier. I reach for the case where I keep my gun and begin my preparations while Ivy continues to squirm.
“Hold still,” I tell her. “Or it will hurt more than you could ever imagine.”
She closes her eyes, tears clinging to the edges as I loosen the grip of the belt, sliding it down beneath her chin.
“Don’t talk, and don’t move,” I warn.
I go through the motions of cleaning her face roughly and forcing her head down into the mattress with my palm as I apply the stencil from my case. She's staring up at me. I can feel her eyes on me, burning a hole in my flesh.
Another solitary tear falls down her cheek, and I close my eyes, dragging in a ragged breath before I prepare the ink. When I am finished, the fight appears to have gone out of her. She is so still I have to force myself to look into her eyes to make sure she's even conscious.
When our gazes clash, something tightens in my throat and chest. A vise, squeezing me like the smoke in that godforsaken fire.
"You did this," I snarl at her. "This is your fault."
She shudders, a silent sob the last sound I hear before I turn on the gun and hover above the stencil. Her entire body tightens, her chest falling into stillness, jaw clenching.
The needle hovers for long seconds that turn into a full minute. I'm breathing hard. Trying to force my hand to cooperate. This needs to happen. There can be no alternative. She will be the other half of my dead soul, chained to me for eternity. My skeletal queen.
But when I lower the needle into her flesh, piercing her with the first dot of ink, I make the mistake of glancing at her eyes and am rattled by the emotion I see there. I flinch back without thinking, grunting out a frustrated curse as I power off the gun and toss it aside.
"Fuck!" I yank the candelabra from my nightstand and throw it against the wall. The crash does nothing to satisfy my rage. This frustration has no cure.
I can't deny she's made me weak. She's seen it for herself now. She's seen what her fucking tears do to me.
I turn back to face her and crawl onto her body, mounting her with mine as I wrap my hand around her throat and begin to squeeze. She tries to shake her head, and I tighten my grasp.
I'm choking the air from her lungs as I lower my bloody lips to hers, smearing the evidence of her hatred across her mouth. My tongue breaches her lips, and she cries out when I relax my grip on her throat. I swallow that sound, and she drags the breath from my lungs into hers. Greedy. Desperate. Poisonous.
"Santiago," she sputters against me.
She's yanking against the restraints, and I want to see what she will do, so I release one of her wrists before I focus my attention on her throat, biting and sucking my way down the flesh. Her free hand comes to my hair, yanking and gripping and pulling me closer as she continues to repeat my name like a prayer.
"Thank you," she pants. "Thank you."
I close my eyes and shudder when her fingers caress the back of my neck, feeling the scars there. She doesn't flinch away. She's stroking them like she wants to heal them somehow.
"Tell me how much they disgust you," I whisper in her ear.
"No." Her voice trembles.
"You can't pretend otherwise." I pull back to stare down at her, and she uses her free hand to drag me back, forcing my lips against hers.
I don't know how it happens. One moment, she is bound beneath me. And the next, I have her untied, naked in my lap as I piston her body up and down the length of my cock. We're facing each other, eyes locked, breath against breath. I reach up to choke her again because it's too much, but instead, I find myself touching her softly. Reverently.
"Goddamn you," I growl. "You fucking liar."
I roll my hips up into her at the same time I slam hers down onto me, fucking her hard and rough.
"Traitor."
Thrust.
"Poisonous fucking—"
She screams as she shatters around me, her body milking mine and forcing my release before I can stop it. I'm coming inside her. Fingers digging into her hips. Teeth scraping along her collarbone. We're sweaty and sticky and hot against each other, and when I glance down, I realize it's because my shirt is off. We’re skin against skin in a way we’ve never been before. Her perfect silk to my gnarled, inked flesh.
She follows my gaze, half breathless as her eyes roam over the designs on my chest. When her palms come up to touch them, I move to stop her, but she shoves my hands out of the way and does it anyway. Her fingers flatten against my skin, warmth sinking into a space I haven’t allowed anyone to touch, and my eyes shutter closed as I consider what a goddamned mess this has turned out to be.
"I need you pregnant," I bite out.
When I open my eyes again, she's staring at me with a strained expression on her face.
"It's a matter of life or death for you." I brush her hair back over her shoulders and sigh. "No more excuses, Ivy. You’ll see a doctor tomorrow. And you better pray that come next month, that test is positive."
16
Ivy
“What?” I ask.
Santiago’s eyes are locked on mine but my gaze shifts between his eyes and the inked, broken canvas of his body.
His expression is hard again, shut down. For a moment, f
or moments even, he wasn’t closed off to me. He let me look at him. Touch him. And I understand so much more clearly why he lives in shadows.
I knew the damage wasn’t only to his face. But the scars on his body, and the ink with which he has attempted to camouflage them, they tell a story I don’t think he wants told.
“I didn’t mean what I said,” I start, not waiting for his answer. I need to tell him this. It’s been on my mind since the night in his office. Since our blowup.
Since he told me I made him sick.
My stomach twists a little at that.
“What?” he asks flatly with the same tone he used when telling me my life depended on whether or not I become pregnant with his child. It’s strange how unfeeling he can sound when physically, when he touches me, he does so with so much passion. So much rage. So much of himself, even if it is the darkest part.
I force my gaze from a deep groove on his shoulder back to his eyes. When he’s not angry, raging, they lean more toward green.
“You’re not deformed. I never thought that. I just wanted to hurt you.”
He remains studying me that crease still between his eyebrows visible beneath the ink. “My appearance isn’t something I think about. You didn’t hurt me.”
The first part of that may be true, but I’m pretty sure the last part isn’t. I know it in fact. The tattoo on his face, the ink covering his torso, his arms, the giant skull on his back, the candles and dim lights, the constant shadow he—we—live in, it’s all to hide the scars at least to some degree. And I think the saddest part is that he does it to hide them from himself not anyone else.
He shifts me off his lap and stands to cross the room into the bathroom.
“Come,” he calls once he’s inside.
I get up, follow him, hearing the shower switch on. I stop at the door and take it in, the dark walls, the sconces that light the space but barely. He stands naked outside the shower stall, gesturing for me to step in. I take in the wide stone counter, two sinks, the free-standing stone bathtub in the middle of the room.
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