Requiem of the Soul: A Sovereign Sons Novel

by Zavarelli, A.

  I shake my head, sniffle. I’m not sure what’s worse, the anticipation of the cane or the cane itself.

  He stops in front of me, looks me over, slides the instrument of torture between my legs.

  I stiffen.

  “More than I could give,” he says, drawing it away. “I spent countless hours where you are now, and I can tell you I did not sob when lines crisscrossed my back. I did not so much as sniffle when the bottoms of my feet burned, the skin opening with each step.”

  My mouth falls open. I glance at the photo of the stern-looking man on the altar, then up at him. I try to imagine him as a little boy kneeling here. And I think of my own father who has never in my life raised a hand to me. I think about my mother’s punishments, but they were never calculated. Hers were impulse. The momentary, uncontrolled rage of a dissatisfied woman.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him when he’s in front of me again. “I’ll wear it. Like you said.”

  He walks behind me again.

  “Please don’t,” I plead. It’s taking everything for me to stay still, kneel up, and not cover myself.

  “Lean forward and put your hands on the floor.”

  I glance back, then, after a moment, I do as he says. I put my hands on the floor, presenting myself to him. The pain that is surely to come overrides my humiliation.

  When he slips the cane between my legs, I cry out, but he doesn’t strike. Just taps for me to spread them wider.

  “Like that,” he says when they’re as he wants them. I’m sure he can see all of me. “Don’t move.”

  I hear him walk away, watch as he slips into a pew, setting the cane against it in the aisle. I dare a glance and find him sitting back watching me.

  We stay like that for a long time, and as cold as the stone is beneath my hands and knees, sweat drips off my forehead as I wait for him to make his next move. I swear an eternity passes before he does. Before he finally rises, and I breathe a sigh of relief when he comes to me without the cane. When he kneels behind me and puts one hand on my hip and slides the other one up along my back, exerting pressure as he reaches the space between my shoulder blades, then closes his hand over the back of my neck. It’s still tender from the tattoo. His fingers weave into my hair to curve around my skull, and I know what he wants, so I lower myself to my forearms and rest my forehead on the cold stone, and when I hear him unzip his trousers, I claw my fingers into the narrow crevices between the large stones and brace myself.

  He takes hold of both hips and splays me open, fingers digging into skin.

  I close my eyes when I feel him at my entrance, and I’m hungry for it. I feel that hunger slide down the inside of my thigh, and I know he sees it and feels it, and when he enters me, it’s in one fell swoop. I can’t help my cry. It takes all I have to keep my forehead on the ground as he takes me, keeping his hands firmly on my hips, not touching me where I need him to touch me. I know this is my punishment. His pleasure. He will use me for his pleasure tonight. And I’ll take it.

  And when our breathing is ragged and his thrusts frantic, and I feel him thicken even more inside me, I feel his fist at the back of my neck as he winds that rosary around it and draws me up, the sensation different like this.

  With one hand, he chokes me with that rosary while with the other, he digs his fingers into my hip, those fingers so close to my clit, so close to my throbbing, wanting clit. And when he comes, he wraps that arm around my middle and holds me so tight that for a moment, I can’t breathe. As he empties inside me, I can’t breathe.

  When he’s finished, when he’s loosened the choking rosary, when his arm isn’t a steel bar crushing my ribs, he takes the shell of my ear between sharp teeth, and I still want. Even as I feel him draw out of me. Even as I feel his come slide down the insides of my legs, I still want.

  And when he finally speaks, when he finally moves his hand and cups my sex to press his thumb against my hardened clit, I come. Just like that, I come. Even as he warns me not to disobey him again. I come as his seed spills out of me onto the church floor. I come as the hand that wielded that cane cups my sex and reminds me of what he told me last night.

  That I belong to him.

  21

  Santiago

  Ivy is quiet as she follows me back down the corridor inside the house. She's stepping gingerly, feeling every bit of her punishment, but no complaints leave her lips.

  A strange sense of turmoil roils in my gut. I am overly aware of the pain she must feel. How many times have I walked these halls with that same tenderness burning the soles of my feet? I imagined it would bring me satisfaction to watch her suffer in a way that I understand so intimately. But her lack of tears and silent resolve has brought me little of what I seem to need from her.

  I want to bury myself in her again and again. Feel her warmth and her body clenching around me. The possibilities in which I could take her seem endless. Eternity doesn't seem long enough to explore them.

  But she won't be here for eternity, I remind myself as I lead her back to her room and seal us inside. She stands on the center of the rug, watching me with uncertainty that makes her seem smaller yet.

  A pliable little doll.

  My jaw sets as I study her, considering how long it will take for her to break. How long until she is so miserable looking at me every day, feeling my hands upon her skin, that she decides to put an end to it?

  Or will I be the one to break first?

  Perhaps, that would be easiest. Maybe it's what I should have done all along. I could wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze until the light dims from her eyes. There would be no question then. It would be done. And this strange new torment inside me would die with her.

  But even that notion doesn't seem to satisfy me as much as it should.

  I drag a hand through my hair, smoothing it back into place. The silence has stretched on for too long, and the tension thickens in the space between us. She's glancing at me like she doesn't know what to expect from me anymore.

  "Sit down." I point at the same chair she vacated earlier.

  She does as I request, the rosary dangling from her neck like a beautiful collar. It is heavy, and I know she feels it. I want her to think of me every time she moves. I want her to feel the weight of my ownership pulling her down.

  I step behind her and smooth her hair back over her shoulders. She shivers but does not try to look at me, keeping her gaze forward. How quickly she is proving capable of abiding by my orders.

  The first-aid kit is still on the table, so I reach for it and open a packet of alcohol. Gently, I press my fingers against her chin, tilting her head back until I have access to the cut on her forehead. She watches me with a curious expression as I dab the dried blood off around the edges, but when I feel her gaze burning into the scars beneath my ink, I pause to look down at her.

  "Close your eyes."

  She hesitates with a sigh but then does as I ask. I continue to clean her wound and then apply some salve and a bandage.

  "Why do you care if it gets infected?" she asks.

  "Because it would be too easy to lose you to something so simple."

  Her eyes flutter open, meeting mine again. "I don't think you are as cruel as you would like everyone to believe."

  "Then you are delusional." I release her with an irritated scowl and return the items to the first-aid kit.

  "If you hate me so much, then why am I here?" she demands.

  The wrappers crumple in my hands before I toss them into the garbage. "You know exactly why."

  She glances at me as if she's trying to decipher the hidden meaning of my message, and at the same time, I'm trying to decipher her skills of deception.

  Truthfully, I am uncertain if she is aware of the events that transpired. I have questioned it so many times over the years. How much does the rest of her family know about Eli and the explosion? Ivy is close to her father, so there is certainly some level of trust there. But it is difficult to say whether she knows the truth
, or she really is as naïve as she pretends. Regardless, until I know for sure, I will assume that the traitorous Moreno blood running through her veins knows perfectly well why she is here.

  "If I knew the reasons, then why would I bother to ask?" she challenges.

  "Because you are a Moreno," I sneer. "And that makes you a traitor by default."

  "And you are a De La Rosa. So, I suppose that makes you an asshole by default."

  My palm slides around to the front of her throat, fingertips digging into her pulse as I force her head back until she can't bend any farther. Her fingers come up to mine, prying at my hand as she struggles to free herself from my grasp.

  "You're insane," she hisses. "Do you realize that? Just let me go. Let me leave here and you will never have to see me again!"

  "Let you leave?" I laugh darkly, leaning down to let my words fan against her lips. "The only way you're getting out of this marriage is through death."

  Her shoulders stiffen, and she stares up at me with unadulterated hate. "So, what then? You will see me dead? Is that truly what you wish?"

  I force her head to the side, dragging my nose along her temple and into her hair, inhaling her drugging scent before I confess the truth.

  "Nothing would give me greater pleasure."

  * * *

  Three days pass. Ivy remains locked in her room, and I do not visit her. Instead, I ask Antonia for reports, a detail she finds rather curious. She provides me updates as I request, informing me of Ivy's eating and sleeping habits. She tells me that my wife has requested access to the pool, and I return my order to deny her.

  I know she will have to come out soon. Certain things will be expected of her. She is to attend events with me. There will be meetings with other wives regarding their endeavors and contributions within The Society. They take turns planning events, luncheons, dinners, and ensuring the businesses run smoothly by keeping them adequately staffed. Ivy will be expected to participate at some level, although not as much as the others. She married a Sovereign Son, so many expectations are cast upon her. The way she dresses, speaks, and carries herself will all be scrutinized. But because she bears my mark, nobody will ever dare whisper their judgments in a space where she or I might hear them. It is her duty to sew herself into the fabric of our organization and truly become one of the upper echelon.

  My wife will need rules. A schedule. Something to occupy her time until she is round with my child. I should be working on that now. Night and day, until I have made her mine in every sense of the word. But the longer she remains in the house, the more difficult it becomes to remember my control.

  I don't know what I'm trying to prove by my absence. Is it for her benefit or mine?

  I drown myself in my work, staring at the wall of monitors in my office, picking apart the data and scrutinizing it to death. Mercedes comes to me often, trying to wear me down with her questions.

  Sleep doesn't come for me. Instead, I wander the halls of The Manor at night, pausing outside Ivy's door. More than once, I have stood there with my palm on the wood, considering our last conversation. I showed her my hand, and now she understands what I want.

  Will she run the moment my back is turned? Will she stay and fight?

  I truly don't know.

  Tonight, finally, I give in and curve my fingers over the knob on her door. When I open it, I find her sitting in the chair by the fireplace, curled up into herself as she flips through the pages of a book. Upon hearing me enter, she glances up, her eyebrows pinching together when she sees me on the threshold. She’s pale, dark shadows cast beneath the fringe of her lower lashes. In place of her normally smooth hair, there is an unruliness that screams of her desperation. She is already unraveling in her captivity.

  It feels as though it has been an eternity since our eyes last met. Does she feel it too?

  She studies me, folding the book into her lap and waiting for me to announce my purpose.

  "Starting tomorrow, you have my permission to access The Manor. Everywhere except the staff quarters, my office, and my bedroom."

  She sits up slightly, the strap of her black nightgown falling down over the curve of her shoulder. "And what about the pool?"

  "The pool is off-limits until your tattoo is healed. Two weeks at least."

  She frowns at this but nods anyway.

  "You'll need to get settled in here. Soon, we will be required to attend events together. Mercedes will be here to teach you what is expected of you. She will go over your schedule with you and show you around The Manor.”

  Her eyes narrow. "And if I say no?"

  "You know what happens if you say no." My fingers itch to reach out and grab her, and my cock is already hardening at the mere suggestion of her defiance.

  She seems to consider my words carefully before shaking her head in frustration. "And what about school?"

  "That part of your life is in the past. You're my wife now. You’ll spend your time doing something productive for The Society."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as bearing my children. Offering your assistance where it's required. And most importantly, pleasing me."

  An expression of horror flashes across her face as she echoes those words. "Children?"

  "Don't tell me you haven't even considered it," I mock her.

  "But you said you wanted me dead."

  Those words sound bitter repeated back to me. "Well, there is time for both."

  She falls quiet, and I don't like it. I need her words, her thoughts.

  "When can I see my sister?" she asks. "My father? When will I be able to visit my family?"

  "If you behave this week, then you will be granted those privileges accordingly."

  She stiffens as my unspoken threat settles over her, but after some consideration, she seems to come to a silent conclusion as determination steels her eyes.

  "Fine. I'll do what you ask as long as I can see my father and Evangeline this week."

  Her insistence on seeing that scum grates at me. But a deal is a deal. If she wants it, she will have to earn it.

  "Come here."

  She rises from the chair slowly, her legs stiff as she takes her first step. I shake my head and point at the floor.

  "On your knees."

  Her jaw hardens, and she hesitates, silently considering if it's worth it. Then she lowers herself to her knees and begins to crawl.

  The sight of her submission is so enticing, it takes more restraint than necessary to wait until she's before me to wrap my fingers in her hair and tug her face up. I rub the erection in my slacks against her cheek, and she closes her eyes with an agonized sound in her throat.

  "I hope your visit will be worth it." I slide the delicate straps of her nightgown down until it slips over her arms and bares her breasts to me.

  Nothing would please me more than to watch her struggle to take my cock in her mouth. But that will have to wait for another time.

  Unzipping my slacks, I tug my length free, and she peeks up at the monstrosity bobbing in front of her face with wide eyes.

  "Stroke it," I command, my fingers tightening in her hair. "Stroke it until my come covers your breasts. And if I am satisfied, then I will consider your request."

  She reaches up and wraps her palm around me, and I shut my eyes, relaxing into her touch. I told her she would have to earn it, and she does. With every firm slide of her hand, she earns another piece of my shattered restraint.

  Gripping and sliding, she indulges me with her palm unlike anyone ever has before. In my mind, I know women have done this for me. But I can’t seem to recall another time, another face. Only hers. And when I explode across her chest, the undeniable evidence of my pleasure dripping down over her tits, the deal is done. But the humiliation does not feel adequate when she looks up at me with soft, hooded eyes. So, I drag my fingers through the liquid adorning her skin and smear it across her lips, forcing her to lick my fingers clean. Only then do I concede in granting her what she wants.

&n
bsp; "One visit to start," I tell her as I tuck my cock back into my trousers. “The rest we will determine based on your performance.”

  22

  Ivy

  The next morning, I’m already dressed when Antonia arrives with my breakfast. She’s been the only thing keeping me from going mad in this room the past few days. I only know how long it’s been because I am marking days on a piece of paper inside the desk. I started the second day when she brought me breakfast. It’s silly maybe but keeping me locked up in here, even for just these three days, is taking its toll.

  I need to swim. To move. I need to see sunshine. Open a window. That little square of light isn’t doing it, and besides, it’s been raining. I swear it feels like it always rains at this house.

  But he said I’d get to see my dad today. And I feel like Santiago is a man who keeps his word.

  I close the tube of salve I’ve been instructed to put on my tattoo and am up as soon as the door opens, the pain on the bottoms of my feet finally gone. That was two strokes. How had he taken more? What had he said when his back had been crisscrossed? When his feet opened up when he walked?

  God. Is that how his father punished him? What a horrible man. Yet he has a photograph of him on the chapel altar.

  I don’t understand my husband. He’s a complete mystery.

  “Good morning, dear,” Antonia says cheerily, although I always notice that little bit of concern when she comes in here in the mornings and shifts her gaze nervously around the room, looking me over. I wonder what she’s looking for. A noose maybe. After only three days, I’m ready to hang myself, but I don’t need rope for that. I’m pretty sure I could hang myself on the end of this rosary that’s nestled against my bare skin. I’ve got it tucked under my sweater, and I’ve only taken it off to shower and sleep.

  I know she doesn’t like locking the door. She’s said as much. But it’s what the Master wants.

  The Master.