Requiem of the Soul: A Sovereign Sons Novel

by Zavarelli, A.

  “Miss, I’m sorry to wake you.”

  I turn, look at the older woman in a uniform standing on the other side of the bed. There’s another one, a younger one, standing just inside the door. I take in the bed, the bloodied sheet half pulled off one corner of the mattress. The thick blanket heavy as I draw it up to cover myself and sit up a little, wincing and very aware of the fact that I’m still naked.

  “I need the sheets, Miss. It’ll just take us a minute to put clean ones on.”

  I clear my throat, wipe my face and glance around for a clock. “What time is it?”

  “Nine o’clock, Miss.”

  I look back at the woman. She must think me an idiot. “Where is the bathroom?”

  She points. I notice the other girl trying to act like she’s not looking at me.

  “I just need one minute,” I say, hoping they’ll get the hint and leave so I can make it to the bathroom without having to run across the room naked.

  “That’s fine, Miss,” the older one says and turns. She waves the other girl out.

  I take a minute to sit up, still too tired from last night. I try to remember the last time I ate something but can’t.

  “Are you all right?” the older woman asks.

  I smile, hold the blanket to me as I swing my legs off but when I try to stand, the room begins to spin, and my knees give out. I throw my arm out to catch the nightstand but end up knocking a heavy brass lamp over, catching the edge of it on my forehead before it and I go tumbling to the floor.

  The woman gasps and is at my side in an instant.

  I sit up, still holding the blanket, and lean my back against the bed, very aware of the ache between my legs, the rawness there.

  “It’s okay. I’m fine.” This happens all the time, I don’t say. “I just need to eat something. I’ll be fine.”

  She bends over me, worry creasing her face. She nods, calls to the girl she just shooed into the hallway. “Go get some toast and juice. Bring it upstairs.”

  “But the master said—”

  “I’ll worry about the master. You do as I say. Quickly.” She disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a glass of water.

  I take it, drink a sip. “Thank you.” I touch my forehead.

  “You’ve hurt yourself.”

  My fingers come away bloody. “It’s fine. It’s just a cut.” I look at my wrists at the same time her eyes fall to them. What does she make of me, I wonder? A new bride with rope burns on her wrists, those ropes on the floor between us. Blood on the sheets.

  I feel my face get hot.

  She clears her throat and helps me back on the bed, and I try not to look at the blood smeared on it. Try not to think about how he used those sheets to clean me.

  The girl returns then. I hear her coming. She must be hurrying because whatever is on the tray is clattering loudly.

  “Here we are,” the older woman says as she takes the tray and sets it on the nightstand. I glance at the lamp that fell over, realizing there’s no bulb in it. I look around the grim room at the remnants of all the candles. Does he use only candles throughout the house? It’s a behemoth. I saw that much last night.

  The woman hands me a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice, and I happily take it, drinking it all.

  “Better,” I say, feeling the sugar do its work. “Thank you.”

  She pours more into my cup from the small pitcher and I sip that one and eye the toast.

  “Go on and eat something. We’ll start in another room and come back.”

  “But ma’am,” the other girl starts.

  “You hush,” she tells her and hustles her out.

  Once they close the door, I put my cup down and pick up a piece of toast to eat a few bites dry then get off the bed to take the sheets off myself, embarrassed of what they’ve already seen. I bundle it inside the blanket and leave it on the foot of the bed then cross the room naked to go into the bathroom. A shower will make me feel better. And clothes. And then I’ll think about what comes next.

  But first, I need to see the tattoo. Standing in front of the mirror, I look at myself. No new bruises at least. Nothing fresh enough for me to notice apart from the cut on my forehead. It’s small, though, and doesn’t hurt much.

  Will it always be that way with him? A battle?

  I take off the rosary and set it on the counter to splash water on my face and dry it, pull what’s left of the pins out of my hair, releasing the last of the twist. I lift it up and turn my back to the mirror, trying to get a look at the tattoo. All I can see is that it’s carefully covered in plastic.

  I go through the drawers for a handheld mirror to get a look at it but find none. I’ll have to ask him to show me. I hate that I have to ask him for anything. But the truth is, I know I’ll have to ask for everything.

  By the time I get out of the shower, the bed has been remade, the soiled bedding gone, and the lamp righted. Brand new candles have been placed inside the candleholders, a few already lit.

  The large walk-in closet is filled with clothes, all new and all in my size, but hardly any of it my style. I choose the simplest sweater and pair of jeans I can find and put them on along with a pair of comfortable, thick socks. I don’t bother with shoes. They mostly have high heels. I slip the rosary on although it’s cumbersome but then I hear his words again.

  “I think you’ll do exactly as you’re told.”

  I reach beneath my sweater, take it off and set it beside the bed. He can’t seriously expect me to wear a freaking rosary around my neck 24/7.

  I go to the door and try it. I expect it to be locked so I’m not surprised when I find it is. I guess he’s not taking any chances that he’s wrong. That I won’t do as he says. With a shake of my head, I turn back into the room, trying to ignore the part of me that is relieved at least one choice to disobey him has been taken away.

  My gaze lands on that mask. It’s in a glass box set on a stand and I go to it, open it. It’s not locked.

  It’s ugly and beautiful at once, the mask. Made of metal with, if I peer close, skulls and roses carved into it, the letters of the society, I.V.I, the V slightly larger than the I’s on either side woven in with the skulls and roses. De La Rosa. Of the rose. It must be what’s on the back of my neck too.

  I lift the thing out and remember how that weight felt on my head. My neck could almost not bear it. But that probably had something to do with the sex. With how he took me. There’s a flutter in my stomach at the memory, and I wonder how I can be turned on by something like that. By someone like him.

  But I am. And I’m not going to lie to myself about it. I’ve not been with a man before him so I can’t judge, but all I know is I’ve never come so hard as when he made me come. And even given the rawness between my legs, I’m aroused thinking about it.

  There’s another side to this too, though. He was just as turned on.

  “Maybe I’m not the only weak one, Santiago.”

  I put the mask back on its stand and run my fingers under the small chains that dangle from it, crosses hanging off them. I remember the Hail Marys he made me say as my punishment.

  “Freak,” I say to the room and walk to the two windows on the far wall. I have to pull up a chair and stand on it to see outside, and I can’t open either of them because they’re actually bigger windows, but the wood all around the room has been carved to only let in this little bit of light. I wonder if he chose this room especially for me. I’m sure he did. Will he deprive me even of sunlight?

  I step down off the chair carefully, holding onto the back when I feel myself wobble, then lower myself into the seat.

  He could do that. Keep me prisoner in this room. It would be the same as holding me in a cell below ground.

  I rub my face and get up. Walk around. Take in the carvings on the wooden walls. Skulls and roses. Like the posts on the bed. The one he bound me to. The whole thing is stifling.

  It doesn’t take me long to look through everything and then I sit, and I
wait.

  But he doesn’t come for me as the sun begins to descend the sky. He doesn’t come as I light all the candles in the room and wait. He doesn’t come long after I’ve changed into a nightgown and even when my stomach growls so loudly, I’m sure he can hear it wherever he is in this house.

  I’m only grateful for sleep when it becomes apparent he won’t return to even feed me tonight.

  18

  Santiago

  Just after dusk, Mercedes stirs me from my fitful sleep, waving a cup of coffee beneath my nose. She's perched on my bed in a tight black dress, looking much like a vampire herself. I knew she wouldn't be able to stay away.

  "What are you doing?" I glare up at her.

  "Tell me everything." Her eyes are dark, lined with kohl, and she can't contain the eagerness churning in their depths.

  "There's nothing to tell." I toss the covers off me and sit up, gesturing her out of the way. "Nothing that you should hear anyway."

  "Santiago." She pouts. "Don't toy with me."

  I offer her a sharp look over my shoulder and catch her staring at the ink on my back. She hasn't seen this piece yet. I'm not in the business of showing the art to anyone, much less my sister. I can tell she's surprised by it.

  The art on my face is my own, as is much of the work on my arm. But it wasn't within my capabilities to tattoo my own back, no matter how much I would have liked to.

  "Who did that?" she asks curiously as I drape last night's shirt over my body.

  "A friend."

  "It's beautiful," she murmurs.

  "It's a means to an end."

  My ink serves one purpose, and despite what some people may believe, it isn't to scare anyone. I was capable of that on my own before I ever had a single scar on my body. I just don't like to look at the memories of that night branded into my skin, and this was the only reasonable alternative.

  I walk to the closet and retrieve a white dress shirt and a pair of black slacks. Mercedes continues to annoy me by touching the things in my room, gliding her fingers over the ornate bedposts, and scanning the space with snake-like eyes. She's looking for evidence that my bride was in here last night, determined to destroy any perceived weaknesses in my plan.

  "She's in her own room,” I inform her. “She has been since last night."

  "I know." Her lips curve into a mischievous grin.

  My eyes narrow. "How long have you been back home?"

  "Since this morning." She shrugs. "Presumably not long after you went to bed."

  "I trust I don't need to warn you to leave her alone." My voice carries an edge to it Mercedes doesn't miss.

  She eyes me speculatively. "Of course, brother. I would never dream of interfering."

  Now she's toying with me.

  "I have work to do," I tell her. "If you're going to lurk around The Manor, you will need to stay out of the way. And find something productive to do with your time. I can't have you sitting idle."

  "No, we can't have that," she says bitterly. "The elders surely wouldn't like it."

  "Mercedes." My jaw clenches.

  She rolls her eyes. "I'm going to visit the chapel. I'll pray forgiveness for my many sins."

  "I expect that should keep you occupied for the rest of the night," I answer dryly.

  She snorts and leaves me to shower and dress. It is already later than I would like, and I have work to do. Since the incident, I have not been able to sleep through the night. I often find myself wandering the halls of The Manor or working until the sun has risen before I am exhausted enough to close my eyes and seek rest.

  Typically, my day would begin in the study downstairs. My position within IVI consists of managing the funds. I am tasked with distributing payments, investing collective earnings to amplify our wealth, managing stocks and bonds, and shuttling money into offshore accounts.

  The founding families within The Society come from old money. They were wealthy to begin with. Now, they are gods among men. In no small part, thanks to me.

  Since I took over Eli's position, I have elevated our status considerably. Numbers are what I'm good at. I can stare at the data all day, recognizing patterns, predicting trends, deciphering the undecipherable. I do not possess the same talent for humans.

  Ivy Moreno is an abstract equation, and I feel as though I'm missing a variable required to understand her. I had so many notions about what she was, but so far, she is proving most of my theories incorrect. There is a burning need in me to analyze her until I crack her code and all of her pitiful little secrets spill out.

  This desire unsettles me. And still, I can't deny it. As I walk down the corridor, I forget about going straight to my study and continue to her suite. Work will not come until I have looked at her at least once. This much, I think is a logical indulgence.

  The lock unbolts, and the door creaks open, and I am greeted by only a few waning flames from the candles nearly gone. The room is silent and still, a sliver of moonlight slicing in from the window to bathe the silhouette of Ivy's body in the large bed.

  I move closer to examine her, noting the way her dark hair spills across the silk pillow. She is curled into herself, and even in sleep, she appears tormented. It puzzles me exceedingly as I consider the reasons. Beyond myself, I am certain other things haunt her dreams. But I am not yet sure what they could be.

  I sit down beside her on the bed. She does not stir, even as I smooth a strand of hair away from her face. She is beautiful. I will give her that much. Already, my groin is tightening in memory of the way she felt around me last night. The way her body came alive for me, despite how much she wanted to resist.

  The question is why. Why did she marry me without a fight? Why did she give herself over so willingly? There must be a reason. And it will eat at me until I uncover it.

  She murmurs something in her sleep and then clutches her stomach as if it pains her. My brows furrow, and I don't realize my hand is moving to touch her until it's already there. On top of hers.

  The cold of my skin against hers startles her awake, and she gasps as her eyes fly open to meet mine.

  "Santiago." My name falls from her lips like a curse.

  She pulls herself upright, curling her knees into her chest, peering back at me with an innocence I want to despise. But when I see the gash on her forehead, an unidentified emotion rolls through me like a black cloud.

  "What happened?" I reach out to touch her and she dips her head.

  When my fingers fall across her skin, she does not flinch. She does not close her eyes or shudder. Instead, she seems to draw in a sharp, shaky breath as if to fortify herself. I suppose she is trying to be brave. To prove she is not frightened of me. But her silence is grating at my last nerve, and the clawing desperation to know who hurt her is poisoning me from the inside out.

  "Ivy." My voice comes out so sharply, she does finally flinch. "Tell me."

  "Don't act as if you care." She yanks away from my grip and glares up at me with watery eyes. "Why should it matter? You are the biggest hypocrite I've ever met. Starving me all day and then coming in here to act as if a cut matters to you."

  A deep grimace settles over my features. "Starving you?"

  Her lip trembles and she looks away. "You hate me. I can see it in your eyes. I don't know why you want me here. Just so you can torture me? Then go on and do your worst. Show me how terrible you truly are."

  I should. Because she's right. I do hate her. I hate her more than I ever knew I could hate anything. Yet I can't bring myself to prove it at this moment. I can't allow her cutting remarks to slide as if they are of no consequence. There are so many ways I will apply my cruelty to her. But she is to carry my child, and if she thinks I would starve her while she does so, she is mistaken.

  "Tell me what you ate today." I grip her chin and force her gaze back to me.

  She looks at me as though I'm teasing her. "You know the answer to that."

  "Tell me," I growl.

  She wavers, trying desperately to
hold onto her stubborn refusal, but is still tethered by the values ingrained into her. She knows she is to please her husband.

  "I ate the only thing they brought me!" she hisses. "Toast and orange juice. Does that satisfy you, Lord of Darkness?"

  My fingers bite into her skin under the force of my anger, and she cringes. When I realize the power of my grip, I soften it and close my eyes, trying to rein myself back in.

  "They brought you only one meal today?"

  She is quiet for a moment before she answers, her voice softer this time. "Yes."

  "That was a mistake," I answer darkly as I release her.

  * * *

  My thunderous footsteps startle the housekeeper awake before I even reach her door. She is scrambling out of her bed, clinging to her bedsheets when the glow from the hall spills into her room. I never come to this part of The Manor, so she knows something is amiss.

  "Mr. De La Rosa," the words falls helplessly from her lips. "Is everything okay?"

  "Everything is not okay." I stalk toward her, and she stumbles back, nearly tripping over the sheet in her pale grasp.

  "This is about the food, isn't it?" She winces. "Oh, please have mercy. I beg of you."

  "Mercy?" I spit the word from my lips with such vehemence she begins to shake. "What mercy should there be for a woman who can't perform the most basic task of feeding my goddamn wife!"

  Tears begin to cascade over her cheeks as she shakes her head in denial. "But it was your order, sir! And I know I fed her against your wishes, but she was feeling faint, and I simply could not..."

  I draw in a sharp breath and try to calm myself.

  "Master, please," Antonia sobs. "I did not mean to offend."

  I turn away from her and drag a hand over my face. I hate it when she calls me that. Antonia has known me since I was a boy, and truly, it does not please me to see the old woman cry. She showed me kindness when so many others did not. She cleaned my wounds and kept me fed and never once treated me to a repulsive glance, even at my worst.

  In my gut, I know this was not her doing. She is not capable of such betrayal. And for a moment, I wish I could express that sentiment to her. But the dynamic has changed so much since I returned from the hospital. My unpredictable moods and harsh demands have left the staff scurrying around the mansion like church mice, trying their best to remain unseen and unheard. They do not know what to make of the cold, reclusive man who walked out of the flames that night. And I am certain they only see me as the monster I am now.