My gaze slides to the fire again, and the only sound I can make is a choked sob.
He tugs the chain, making me bow my head, but holds my gaze as he leans toward me, his cheek against my cheek again, the rough stubble on his jaw scratching my skin.
“Move and I’ll use the branding iron, do you understand?”
He draws back to look at me.
I’m trembling, shaking. It’s a good thing I’m already on the floor, or I’d have fallen by now.
“Do you understand me, Ivy?”
I nod frantically, tears falling wildly, feeling just a hint of relief as I see that iron in my periphery.
He nods once, then continues to shorten the chain, and when my head is bowed far enough forward, he locks it.
One of those tears drops on the stone floor. Then another.
He stands, the space he vacated empty and cold, and I find as he walks behind me that I want him close again. A warm body. Even if he will be my tormentor. Because behind him sit more vultures come to pick at the kill.
I try to move my arms, my head, but I can’t, not even a little, unless I want to set my forehead on the dirty ground. He’s immobilized me. Whatever he chooses to do to me now, I will submit. He has made sure of that. The chair behind me creaks. He sets his feet on either side of my hips. I can just see the tip of his shoe if I shift my gaze.
I gasp when I feel the tips of his fingers brush the back of my neck. The rumors were true, then. I realize this is why his sister twisted my hair so tightly. Did she know? Would she herself be submitted to such a degradation one day? Has she already?
But all thoughts vanish as he caresses my skin. He’s gentle as though he’s getting to know the texture of the canvas. Then, abruptly, he grips the already-torn lace top of my gown and rips it farther, making me gasp. The men, our audience, make an appreciative sound as Santiago bares my back, the dress falling to the tops of my breasts, exposing one nipple. I’m hunched over enough that I don’t think the men can see it.
I wonder what a sight we make, the half-monster husband at his kneeling bride’s back, her dress torn, a supplicant to him.
I wonder if he’s aroused.
I close my eyes when I feel something cold and wet touch the back of my neck. I smell alcohol. He’s cleaning the area.
This is really happening. I’m being marked like cattle.
The chair creaks as he drags it forward on the stone bringing his knees to hug my arms tightly, securing me even more before I hear the buzzing of a machine and feel the first prick of the needle.
He’ll tattoo me.
It hurts, and I whimper. But it doesn’t deter him.
It takes about five minutes before the men lose interest, some standing, some talking, only a few remain watching. I fist my hands at my back as the pain intensifies. A branding iron would hurt more, I tell myself. I can manage this.
I know he’ll tattoo the initials of The Society onto my skin. I’m their property as much as I am his. Alongside it, I’ll wear his mark. I don’t know what it is, I realize. Not that it matters. All I can think about is the buzzing of the machine, all I can feel is the warmth of his thighs at my arms. Does he realize it gives me comfort? I’m sure he’s only ensuring I remain in position.
I don’t know how much time passes. The buzzing lulls me, the pricks of the needles somehow grounding me. And all the while Santiago works quietly at my back, thighs strong on either side of me, breath warm on the back of my neck when he leans close to inspect his work. I think about the chapel. About what happened there. How merciless he was.
I think about his hands on me, his fingers inside me. I think about his lips at my neck. His teeth.
My belly flips.
He’ll take me tonight. Consummate our marriage. And there is a part of me that is curious. That wants it. Even knowing he will be as merciless when I lie in his bed.
The buzzing stops abruptly. The back of my neck throbs. It takes me a minute to realize it’s over. I almost panic with the realization.
The bonds at my wrists are first to go. He works without ceremony, freeing me of those and the ones on my upper arms. I bring my hands to the floor on either side of me, my head still down, the chain at my throat still fastening me to the stone. I look at the rings on my finger. The salt and pepper diamond. Strange and beautiful. Another symbol of his ownership of me.
“It’s finished,” he says, voice deep and low and still commanding the attention of everyone in the place.
I exhale. Finished. No branding iron for me. I would count myself lucky, but I know this thing between us has only just begun.
A few of the men come to look at his handiwork and compliment it. No one touches me, but Santiago remains close. I get the feeling no one would dare incur his wrath.
When I next feel his touch, I gasp, muscles tightening with anxiety.
“Don’t move,” he commands.
I still. I don’t expect him to touch me. Not like he is, at least. But then I realize what he must be doing. Applying a salve.
I close my eyes, my breath leveling, my body relaxing at least a little. He’s being careful. Gentle. When he’s finished, I feel something cover the tattoo. I open my eyes and berate myself because he’s not being gentle or careful with me or for me. He’s protecting his work. It wouldn’t do if it got infected.
Santiago stands and walks around me. I remain in position, head still bowed by the chain, back of my neck feeling warm, my arms and shoulders sore. He takes his time as someone brings him a drink. It’s somehow more humiliating when they mingle among themselves. When they ignore me altogether, the collared bride kneeling head bowed at their feet.
But I don’t care. Let them ignore me. Let them forget me.
Because what comes next will be more humiliating than any of it. And again, I know it is only the beginning.
I wonder once more why he chose me. Why he wanted me.
As if my thought reminds him it’s not finished yet, not until I speak the words, he returns to me, crouches down to unlock the chain, then straightens to his full height. At well over six feet tall, he towers over my five-and-a-half-foot frame when I’m standing, so when I’m on my knees, he’s a giant.
Chairs creak as the men take their seats to witness this next scene. I wonder if they go home to fuck their wives with the image of me submitting to my husband on their minds.
But when Santiago touches the underside of my chin to raise me to kneel up, I stare up at him standing in the shadowy, dim light of the candles. I feel more his, strangely. More so than after the wedding.
And I realize I’ve given him more of what he wants when he wipes his thumb across my cheek. He closes his hand over the top of my head, that same thumb coming to my forehead, tracing a symbol there with my own tear as if blessing me. As if he’s some god. His lips move, and I think he’s saying a silent prayer, and again, I wonder what we look like, me kneeling at his feet, his mark fresh on my bloodied neck.
He closes his eyes, bows his head momentarily, then opens them again, and the look inside them is dark.
“Say the words,” he tells me with his hand still on the top of my head.
I know this part. The words. The act. I know exactly what I must do. Every daughter of The Society knows because every one of us will be made to submit no matter how high ranking.
And I know there’s no way around it. There never was, even when I believed for those short six months that I’d somehow escaped and was in charge of my own destiny. I never was.
I hold his gaze a moment longer than is proper or than he’s used to. I see a flicker of anger. Good.
He thinks I’ll be easy to break. He thinks I’m weak. He thinks my tears are weak. I see it. But I’m stronger than he knows. I almost got away. And I’ll survive him. I have to.
I empty my eyes of any emotion. I lock myself off from him, and I tell myself the words mean nothing. This is not an oath I choose.
“Dominus et Deuce.”
But when I sa
y them, it’s as if the act is sealed, and again, I wonder if God truly is on their side.
Dominus et Deuce. My lord and my god.
I take his offered hand with both of mine, the one with which he marked me, and I press my lips to it. Raising my gaze to his, I watch him from beneath my lashes.
I think of my little sister. I think of what I have to do. How I have to play this game to which I don’t even know the rules. Because even if I could run away and I managed to do it, like Hazel did, what would happen to Evangeline? I won’t abandon her like Hazel abandoned us.
My lips pressed to his cool hand, I keep my eyes locked on his as the beginnings of a plan form in my mind.
When Santiago swallows, I watch his Adam’s apple work. He’s impacted. I’m not sure if it’s me kneeling for him or the act of the marking itself. It has to be heady stuff. I get it. But he is affected.
I’ll use that.
And I keep my eyes on his as long as I can as I bend, bringing my forehead to his shoe. I am to kiss it, but I won’t do that. The men won’t see. If my husband knows, he will punish me for it. It’s a small rebellion, but it’s mine, and it’s something, and I’ll submit to his punishment. At least he’ll know where I stand.
When he grips my arm and hauls me to my feet, I know he hasn’t missed my deviation from the rules. My dress slips as I fall into him, then stumble backward. He looks down at me, and I follow his gaze to my exposed breast. He roughly tugs the lace up, and the look in his eyes is darker than I’ve yet seen.
And for a moment, the weaker part of me, the scared part thinks maybe I should have kissed his shoe.
But then he’s reined himself in, and I think this side of my husband is more frightening than the outwardly angry side. This quiet is more terrifying.
Because his eyes hold a promise inside them.
I’ll deal with you later.
“Close your eyes,” he says, voice low, not a whisper but simply quiet.
I do.
He pulls me close, and I gasp when he kisses me hard on the mouth, my hands coming to his chest as his fingers claw painfully into the ruined twist of my hair, his hard body against mine as I bend over backward to take his kiss. A small taste of what he’ll do tonight.
15
Santiago
De La Rosa Manor is quiet and dark when Marco drops us off at the front entrance. My wife peers up at the mansion with what I can only guess are equal parts apprehension and curiosity. The exterior is constructed from stone in a gothic revival architectural style. Carved buttresses, Palladian windows, ornate gables, and rambling vines of ivy lavish the historic structure she will come to know as her own personal prison.
An almost ever-present fog seems to lurk around the property, lending to the mystery of the area. Small groups of terrified tourists often peer through the gates outside while their guides whisper hushed rumors of the hauntings that occur here. But the only ghosts Ivy will need to concern herself with are those of my father and brother, calling out from beyond the grave for her Moreno blood.
She swallows and clutches the torn shreds of her dress to her body as her toes dig into the earth. It’s these tiny signs of protest I study with interest. Though the air is sticky tonight, there’s a noticeable chill moving through her as goose bumps break out along her skin.
Some traditions have no merit in The Society, but it is a selfish need that leads me to scoop her up into my arms and carry her across the lawn. She is still without shoes, and I want her soft for me. The scars I leave will be with careful deliberation, and it would be careless of me to let her injure her feet already. There is still much to be done tonight, and I won’t waste my time tending to wounds so easily prevented.
She glances up at me with wide, confused eyes as I carry her up the stairs and across the threshold. Uncertainty clouds her features as the heavy door slams shut behind us, sealing her in with the monster she didn’t want me to be.
“I’m capable of walking,” she says, but her voice lacks the conviction to fight.
She is tired after the day’s events, a fact made obvious by the heaviness of her eyes. It’s already past three in the morning. But I have no doubt she will revive when a cascade of adrenaline and cortisol flood her body. Fear has a way of waking up even those near death.
I continue up the grand stairs to the second level, carrying her down the corridor with an efficiency she doesn’t seem to appreciate. From my arms, she’s craning her neck, trying to take in the details of her surroundings. An opportunity I steal from her without regret.
When I enter the guest suite, I finally deposit her onto her feet. She takes a moment to glance around the space, examining the antique furnishings, ornamental rugs, and rich shades of plum and black. Everything is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, a detail Ivy doesn’t miss as her eyes flick to the light switch.
“Is this your room?” she asks.
“Let go of your dress,” I command.
She glances up at me, renewed defiance in the set of her jaw. Her obstinance isn’t doing her any favors, as she couldn’t possibly know how much I love the thought of breaking her. I step closer, my fingertips moving to her throat. Already, her pulse is escalating, and she can’t hide the nerves in her eyes.
I reach down to the torn dress she’s clutching to her body and yank it out of her grasp. The remaining seams of fabric give way with a splitting groan before falling into shreds at her feet. She slaps her hands over her breasts, and my dark laughter pierces the space between us.
“There’s no place for your modesty here.” I lean in to whisper the words against the shell of her ear. “I will own every inch of you, dear wife.”
A shudder moves through her as I forcefully pry her hands away and pull them back to her sides. She is completely naked and completely mine. A beautiful, shivering feminine form of gently sloping curves and valleys my palms are burning to explore.
But first, control.
“Kneel.”
She hesitates, her eyes darting to the door behind me.
I slide my fingers into her hair and fist a handful, forcing her to arch back until she has no choice but to let her knees buckle and do as I request. Once she is on her knees, I release her, leaving her face only a few inches from the heat of my throbbing cock. Her eyes dart to the bulge in my trousers, and she licks her dry lips as her nerves bleed into every muscle fiber of her body.
I nudge my leather shoe between her knees and force them apart until just a hint of her pussy peeks through. From my trouser pocket, I produce the rosary necklace I’ve been carrying all day. An ornate design with a white gold cross flanked by sturdy obsidian and shungite beads. It’s lengthy enough that when I drape it over her shoulders, it dangles between her breasts. I could wrap it around her neck twice and still have room to play.
Ivy glances down to examine the jewelry as I curl the beads in my fist. She may understand the significance of religion and punishment, as it is deeply ingrained in our society, but she could never know the extent of it like I do. I want this necklace to feel heavy on her soul, always. A constant burden she must carry around like the weight of her sins. A permanent reminder of who she is and who she belongs to.
“Never take this off,” I tell her. “Do you understand?”
When she doesn’t answer, I tighten my grip and increase the pressure around her throat. Her hands come up to mine, panic blotting out the light in her eyes.
“I understand.” She winces. “Please.”
I relax my grip, and without thinking, my free hand comes to rest on her head, petting her hair until her eyes flutter shut. It wasn’t my intention to calm her, but it appears that’s exactly what I’m doing, and I can’t understand it. How can she possibly find any solace in my presence? Doesn’t she realize what she’s signed her life over to?
“You defied me.” My voice is unusually gruff. “Again.”
She opens her eyes, and she does not need an explanation. She understands exactly what I’m referring t
o.
“It’s demeaning,” she clips out.
“It’s the life you agreed to. You knew the rules when you pledged yourself to The Society.”
“As if I had a choice.” Her voice wavers, and moisture clings to the edges of her eyes, but she’s trying desperately not to let it fall.
“We always have a choice.” I tilt her chin up and stare into her eyes. “You still have a choice. You could choose to run at any moment, but you should know it would be a wasted effort. I would track you like a bloodhound, and I would always find you and bring you back to me. This is a promise I can make you. But it is only one of many. I think you understand there is no limit to my power over your life. There will be much bigger battles to come, so why choose defiance over something so small?”
Her shoulders tremble as she forces the words between clenched teeth. “After everything you made me do already… I just couldn’t. Not that.”
“I think you will discover the lengths you are willing to go in order to please me will surprise you over time.” I smile down at her coldly. “But for now, you may repent by giving me three Hail Marys.”
She seems disoriented by my request but follows through regardless. Bringing her hands together in a prayer position, she watches with curious eyes as I weave the rosary beads between her palms. She bows her head before me and recites the words in Latin with a mastered perfection.
“Good girl.” I praise her as I step closer. So close, her cheek brushes against the aching throb pressing the fabric of my trousers.
When Ivy feels it, her eyes fly open, and everything else seems to disappear. I’m lost and bewildered as I stare into her strange eyes, and she seems to be aware of this as she sucks in a breath.
Abruptly, I sever the odd connection by turning away and stalking to the nightstand, where I have left the items required for tonight’s ritual. When I return with the blind mask I ordered especially for her, Ivy gives the tiniest shake of her head, but she should know her pleas are useless.
Requiem of the Soul: A Sovereign Sons Novel Page 10