Fingers brush my forehead, then my cheek.
I turn my face into his touch and feel a chill as the blanket is pulled away. But he’s touching me again then, touching me gently, fingers feather-light over my arm, my belly. A hand laid flat there, big and warm.
I want to open my eyes, but I can’t. I’m so tired. I try to move my hand at least, try to touch his, but something doesn’t let me.
“Shh,” he says. “Sleep.” The blanket is tucked up around my shoulders again, warm but not as warm as when he touches me, and I feel myself drift even though I feel him move away. I want to tell him to stay with me. And when I manage to momentarily open my eyes in the dim light coming from a machine to my right, I see him sitting in the chair across from mine, one ankle crossed over the other knee, eyes dark and intent, watching me.
* * *
I wake up because I’m hungry. Ravenous. Someone is humming, and the light is suddenly too bright.
I groan, turn away, blink, but then it’s dimmed again.
“There she is. I know it’s early, but you need to wake up. You need to eat. Doctor’s orders. Come now, love.”
Opening my eyes, I see the needles and tube sticking out of one arm. “What…?” But it’s when I try to pull at my arms that the real panic sets in.
The door opens, closes.
I look up, meet his eyes, and freeze. He freezes too.
“You can go, nurse,” Santiago says, not taking his eyes off me.
“I’ll just give her—”
“I said go.”
My gaze shifts to the elderly nurse standing beside my bed, looking up at Santiago’s face, riveted by it.
He’s wearing a hat, keeping it in shadow. At least half of it. It’s daytime. I see the light coming in from around the blinds. It’s not like him to be out during the day.
“I should make sure she eats, sir.”
“I am capable of taking care of my wife. My family.”
Family? That’s an odd way to say it.
The nurse nods, glancing once at me before hurrying away. I watch her go, and when the door closes, I turn slowly back to find Santiago’s eyes still locked on me.
I don’t speak right away. I can’t. I try to pull my hands up again, but the leather restraints don’t allow me to move.
“What’s happening?”
He pulls up the chair and sits down, taking off his hat and setting it on the table beside my bed. My heart races, my stomach in knots as I watch him roll the tray containing my breakfast closer, something dark in his eyes, something hard in the way his hand is wrapped around the tray.
“You’re going to eat. That’s what’s happening.” He picks up the bowl and spoons up some oatmeal. He brings it to my mouth. “Open.”
I do.
“Swallow,” he says when he pulls the spoon out.
Again, I do.
We don’t speak until I’ve eaten the whole bowl and drank the juice out of the little straw he holds to my mouth.
“Why am I tied to the bed?”
“Where did you get the pills?”
“I…I didn’t mean…I changed my mind.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Did you?”
Did I?
“You changed your mind about dying? Well, lucky for you, you vomited most of the aspirin, or it may not have been up to you.” He sounds angry. “Do you know what happens with aspirin poisoning?”
I turn my face to wipe it on the shoulder of the hospital gown. “Please untie me.”
“Answer my question. Do you know?”
I do. Even if you change your mind, it may be too late for your kidneys. I nod.
“Where did you get the pills?”
“Mercedes left them.”
The hand I can see fists and warring emotions darken his features. “I see.”
“Please untie me.”
He shifts his gaze down to one wrist, and without comment, he undoes the buckle. He then moves to do the same on the other bind.
I watch his dark head as I rub my wrists. “Isn’t it what you want?”
He looks at me. “What?”
“Me dead.” I feel sick to say it. Feel myself start to tremble with a sudden cold.
He stands, runs a hand through his hair, and shakes his head like he’s having some private conversation in his head. He then looks at me again. “You’re pregnant, Ivy.”
“What?”
“You could have hurt the baby.”
“But…” I shake my head, try to remember my last period. Days and weeks all meld together, time lost in my prison where it’s always night. “I can’t be.”
“You are. And you’ll have a guard 24/7 once you’re home. You will not harm my child again.”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to—”
“You will eat, you will get fresh air, you will exercise. Your body will be a healthy host for my child.”
“A host?” I shake my head, hating the hurt inside my chest. “That’s all I am?”
His eyes narrow. “You’ve proven untrustworthy too many times to be anything else.”
“How far?”
“Four weeks. Five.”
“It’s not possible.”
He leans down to take my chin in his hand and force my head up. “It is reality. My child grows inside your belly. You will not hurt him again.”
Does he think I really wanted to hurt a baby? I tug free of his grip. “Get out.” My voice breaks.
“You will never be alone again. Isn’t that what you’ve been whining about?”
“Get out.” I can’t look at him as my hand moves over my belly, my throat tight, vision blurry with tears. I’m pregnant. I am pregnant.
“Marco will bring you home once you’re released later today.”
I look at him now. “Your house is not my home. It will never be my home.”
His jaw tightens, and he stares at me for a long minute before he relaxes it. “Do you think that matters to me, Ivy?” he asks, head tilted. “Do you think I care even a little bit whether or not you feel at home in my house?”
“The other night, you…What happened to us?”
“Us? What us are you referring to?”
“You’re not human. Do you know that?”
His eyes narrow, and I watch his Adam’s apple work as he swallows. “I know what I am, dear wife.” He leans toward me, and I find myself leaning the back of my head into the bed. “I know perfectly well. And more importantly, I know what you are.”
34
Santiago
"How is your wife?" Judge greets me in the entryway.
"She's...alive." I swallow and glance over his shoulder, beyond the vast space of his foyer.
The familiar notes of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” are a distant murmur in another part of the house, and it brings me back to another time and place.
"She will come home soon, I hope?" He gestures for me to follow him into the sitting room.
Home.
That word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Ivy said my house would never be her home, and I know she's right. Too much has happened. We are living like strangers beneath one roof. A practice that is not uncommon in arranged marriages within The Society. But ours feels wrong. Tainted. And there is no fixing it.
"I believe I made a mistake." The confession spills from my lips freely as I collapse onto the sofa and close my eyes. I'm too exhausted to keep the truth inside.
"How so?" Judge asks.
I blink up at the ceiling. The music changes to a faster, angrier tune.
"I never should have married her."
The words settle over us, dark and heavy, much like the current atmosphere of my life.
"But you did," Judge responds, unmoved by my admission. "Why regret it now?"
I drag a hand over my eyes, attempting to revive myself. But how can I? All I see is Ivy, lying lifeless on the floor. I can't erase that image from my mind. I can't deny I'm responsible for her actions. And logical or not, I can
't forgive her for the constant throbbing ache in my chest.
What is this pain? This feeling of suffocation I get when I think of how desperate she was to escape me. I don't recognize it. I don't know how to navigate it or how to make it stop. I've tried, but it won't go away.
She's having my child. Everything is as it should be. But she hates me so much that she would rather kill herself than continue in this life with me. I can't say I should have ever expected anything else. There was never any possibility of changing the rules of the game halfway through.
"This plan was never going to work," I tell Judge. "It was foolish."
The housekeeper appears, asking if I'd like a drink, which I decline. Judge tells her to set dinner for an hour later, and she leaves again. Then he leans back, cocks his head to the side, and studies me.
"You're falling for her."
"Don't be ridiculous." I wave his suggestion away. "This isn't a joke."
"I'm not joking."
When I look at him, I can see that he's not. His face is as serious as ever, and it concerns me.
"You really think me that weak?"
"It's only a weakness if you believe it is." He arches a brow at me. "I think the only real conflict you're having is that you never intended to. But you are. And now you have to face the facts."
"You know I'm not capable of those emotions." I laugh grimly. "I can't believe you'd even suggest it."
"Alright." Leaning back, he crosses one leg over the other and takes a sip from the glass of whiskey in his hand. "Then let’s discuss your options.”
I don't think I'm going to like wherever he's going with this, but for reasons I can't quite understand, I allow him to go on.
"How do you plan to kill her?" he asks. "When all is said and done."
I shift in my seat, my eyes flicking to the clock on the wall. Anything to keep myself from thinking about what he's asking.
"I haven't decided yet."
"You want her father to suffer for his crimes," he points out. "So perhaps, slow torture. Strangulation. Mutilation. You could send her back to her family piece by piece."
Fucking Christ.
My jaw clamps shut as my eyes drift to the empty table beside me, wishing I had taken the housekeeper up on her offer of a drink.
"But first, you need to determine how many times you will breed her," he remarks. "Ideally, you should have at least two sons. There might be girls in between, so that could take time. Although she only needs to be healthy during the pregnancies, I suppose. There's still a possibility for torture in the downtime."
The music from the other part of the house seems to grow more frantic. Haunting. Punctuating the violent images of Judge's words with a soundtrack to match his casual horrific suggestions that I myself had indulged in not that long ago.
"Of course, you'll need to ensure your children hate her too,” he adds. “There would be no sense in fostering an attachment for a mother who won't be around to see them grow. That will surely bring her the suffering she deserves. Effective, but if you really want to break her, death might not be the only option."
My fists curl at my sides, my pulse throbbing in my neck.
"What do you mean?"
"Perhaps when you are done with her, you could send her to work at the Cat House. Offer her up as leftovers to any man who might use her for a few minutes of pleasure. That would surely be a dagger to her father's heart."
"Enough!" I stagger to my feet, pacing toward the fire as I fight to rein in my temper. "I know what you're doing."
"I'm doing what you always said you would," he replies calmly. "You said you wanted to torture her. You wanted every Moreno to pay."
"I know that's what I said," I snarl.
"So, what is the problem?" he presses. "Make your plans and be at peace with them. Unless there is a reason you can't or won't."
I turn to glare at him, and when I do, there is a small hint of amusement on his face. He gives me a moment to come back to myself, to regulate my breathing and calm this strange new beast living within me.
"It would not bother you if you didn't care," he observes. "You can only live in denial for so long. This was always going to be a possibility, whether you saw it yourself or not. Mercedes sees it too. There are rumblings through IVI how your wife has softened you. Changed you."
"No." I shake my head. "I don't accept that."
"At some point, you must. It's the only way to move forward. You can spend your time fighting it or implement a solution to both your problems. You're in it now. Find a way to satisfy your revenge and keep her, or you will lose it all."
"That isn't a solution," I scoff. "When I kill her father and brother, Ivy will never get over it. She isn't like me."
"So, don't tell her." Judge shrugs. "Keep it to yourself and let your wife be happy in her ignorance when she puts her grief behind her."
Doesn't he know I've already considered that? I've considered every option. But I can't. Already, I know I won't. There is no room for emotions in our marriage. We have too many secrets between us, and there is always the potential they would come out later and poison her against me. Why allow something to bloom only to have it snatched away when the truth inevitably comes to light?
"Ivy could never be satisfied without answers. She wouldn't stop until she had them."
"And you couldn't live with yourself if you kept them from her."
When I meet his gaze, I can finally see there is some truth in that. And at least to myself, I can admit that he's right. I couldn't keep that from Ivy. But it isn't because I have the potential to care for her. My father proved time and again that I wasn't capable of such a weakness. It was the only thing he ever praised me for. My coldness. He said it would serve me well in this life, and it has. I would be a fool to think for a second that things could be different. These feelings inside me are only temporary. They are new and unfamiliar but not permanent. They will go away, and I will return to the same man I've always been. The same unfaltering, empty, soulless shell.
The music in the other part of the house stops for a few moments, and when I glance in that direction, Judge watches me closely.
"She's playing again," he says softly.
A new ache lances through my chest at his confirmation. Mercedes hasn't played since our father died. And it gives me a strange sense of hope for her. Perhaps, she will be alright after all.
"Would you like to see her?" Judge asks.
I consider it carefully, weighing my options. Truthfully, part of the reason I came here was to see her. I needed to ask her about the aspirin. But now, I am questioning it.
"She would like to see you," he adds. "I am certain."
When I don't respond, he rises to his feet and sets his glass aside, gesturing for me to follow. "Come. I'll take you to her."
* * *
Mercedes sits at the piano, her body swaying as her fingers whip over the keys with a proficiency that betrays a lifetime of study. The tune is beautiful and violent. Melancholy and deep.
I had forgotten what it was like to witness her this way. In our father's absence, I have often noticed my sister molding herself to be more like me. For reasons I have never understood, she idolizes me, and she has made herself colder because of it. She would have everyone believe there is no passion in her heart, but when she plays, it is undeniable. She feels deeply. But she has become too good at hiding it.
When I glance at Judge, he's watching her with an expression I'm convinced I've never quite seen before. Equal parts awe and frustration, maybe. But something else. Something much more intense.
I glare at him, and it seems to break the spell, at least momentarily.
He clears his throat. "She's very good. But she can do better. I make her practice several hours a day."
The sound of our voices behind her alerts Mercedes to our presence, and she glances over her shoulder briefly, her fingers halting over the keys.
"Don't stop," I tell her gruffly. "Finish the song."
<
br /> Relief shines in her eyes, and she offers a tiny nod, swiveling back around to resume. For the next two minutes, Judge and I watch her in silence. The performance is moving, even for me, and I find that it brings up unexpected feelings. There is a tightness in my throat and chest. A gloomy shadow settling above me as if to say this is what sadness feels like.
The song makes me think of my wife. My child inside her. And for a moment, I consider perhaps there is some truth to what Judge said before. Maybe I am broken. Because I can't deny that there are feelings in me I don't recognize. Feelings I still haven't figured out how to identify. But they are there, lurking in the depths. And the notion of extricating them now feels almost as unbearable as ending her life.
Still, there is a part of me that knows I must extinguish them. These seedlings will continue to grow if they are fed in her presence. It has to be now or never. I have to figure out how to hate my wife forever or live with the uncertainty that the decision might not be my own.
The song comes to an end, and Mercedes turns, eyes shining with sadness. She's searching my face for the hatred she is certain she'll find.
"Santi?" she whispers. "You came to see me?"
"Yes." My tone is cold, and a small part of me wishes it wasn't when her face falls. "I came to ask you about the aspirin you left in my wife's room."
She clasps her hands together in her lap, answering softly. "Aspirin?"
"Yes," I grit out. "The aspirin you gave her. The aspirin she used to try to kill herself and my child."
"Child?" she repeats, her voice fracturing. "You... you got her pregnant?"
For a moment, her anger returns. Her eyes harden, and she shakes her head as she rises to her feet, sneering in disgust. "How could you? She's the enemy, Santiago. What part of that don't you remember?"
Judge walks to her, his shadow falling over her face as he clasps her jaw in his hand, leaning in to whisper a threat that seems to hold more power over her than I'd expect.
"Behave."
She glances up at him, her face softening a fraction before she dips her head and nods begrudgingly. Admittedly, I am surprised by this. I knew Judge to be more than capable of guiding her, but I did not expect her to be so pliable just yet. It leaves me to wonder if there is more between them than he is letting on. If I should have even left her here at all. But Judge wouldn't betray my trust by exploiting Mercedes’s vulnerability. He wouldn't risk his position within The Society by ruining her for another man who actually would intend to marry her. And I feel more confident in that knowledge when he turns back to me, his expression as cool as always.
Reparation of Sin: A Sovereign Sons Novel Page 18
