Requiem of the Soul: A Sovereign Sons Novel

by Zavarelli, A.

  My hand comes to rest on the seat between us. Close enough to feel the warmth of her body, but far enough away to feel the arctic chill taking over her.

  Without a doubt, I have fucked up.

  And I wish she could hear the thoughts so loud in my head. The words unspoken, too proud to fall from my lips.

  I'm sorry for it. More so than I have ever been.

  27

  Ivy

  He lifts me in his arms before my bare foot even touches the ground. The cloak he wrapped me in almost falls away, but he catches that, too, keeping it huddled around me. And when I try to push away from his hard chest, when I try to free myself of his grip, he only tightens his hold on me.

  “Let me go, Santiago.”

  “No.”

  Marco opens the front door, and Santiago carries me in. I’m still shivering even though it’s warm in the house. The cold I feel is so deep inside me that even a raging fire wouldn’t touch it.

  What he did tonight, that display, another very public humiliation and his utter lack of concern for my well-being? I don’t forgive him for that. And I don’t believe he cares about me. No, I’d sooner believe any concern was that maybe he’d gone too far and broken me. Killed me, even. Like he’s threatened to. He doesn’t want me dead yet. He hasn’t had his fill of torturing me just yet.

  “Let me go!” I twist in his arms as he carries me past my bedroom and farther down the long corridor. I’m exhausted and weak, but I have to fight.

  He doesn’t budge. My struggles don’t seem to impact him at all. He’s stone-faced as we head up into this darker part of the house.

  “I hate you,” I hiss. I have to say it because I have to feel it. It’s the only thing I should feel after that.

  At that, he glances down at me, but it’s too dark to read his eyes. It’s hard enough when it’s light.

  He doesn’t reply, though. No smart comment. No strikes against me like at dinner last night. Just him as he usually is. Cold and impassive. Inhuman.

  We stop as he opens the double doors at the end of the corridor, and when we enter the large suite, I instantly know this is his bedroom.

  I can’t help but crane my neck to take it in. Black walls, damask paper, dark, heavy velvet curtains the color of the night sky, moonlight pale through the windows. Ironclad again. Like the rest of the house. And at the very center of the room is a high bed bigger than any I’ve ever seen with four hulking posts, a thick duvet, and pillows he scatters carelessly across the floor while still holding me.

  “I’m not fucking you,” I tell him when he snatches his cloak away, pulls the blankets on the bed back, and lays me down. I smell him on the pillow. It’s his pillow. “I won’t let you touch me again. Ever! Do you hear me?”

  He ignores what I’m saying, but when he lets me go, and I move to sit up, he puts a finger to my chest.

  “No,” he says, pushing me to lie down. “Stay.”

  “I’m not a dog, you bastard.” I slap his hand away, but he catches my wrists.

  “I said stay.” I hear the nightstand drawer open, and he holds up a pair of leather cuffs. “Or I’ll make you stay.”

  “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  “Your choice, Ivy.” How does he sound so calm when I sound so frantic? So insane?

  I look at them, then at him. He means it. So I lie back, and when he is satisfied and releases my wrists, I snatch the duvet and pull it up to my shoulders, then turn my back to him.

  I hear the drawer slide closed, and he moves away. When a door opens, I turn my head and watch. Bathroom. A moment later, he comes back toward me, opening a small old-fashioned-looking bottle. Something I’d fill with sand and call fairy dust when I was little.

  I sit up, needing to keep alert, to watch him. I hold the blankets tight to me. I’m still naked. Still cold. Still filled with hate for this man. My husband. I feel him between my legs still. How rough he was. How hard I came. How I passed out, my head spinning even in the blackness of that mask. All the sounds, all the people. The sex all around me. My senses heightened when he blinded me.

  “I hate you,” I tell him again, this time feeling the heat of tears in my eyes. “I hate you.” I want him to know it. To understand that this hate is something deep inside me, rooted in the ice spreading through my veins even as a little voice inside my head reminds me that for a moment, for one undeniable moment, it wasn’t hate I felt. It was jealousy.

  And no, not for a single moment.

  “I hate you, Santiago De La Rosa,” I say with more conviction in my voice than I feel deep inside me.

  Come has dried on the insides of my thighs.

  I’m going to put a baby inside you.

  No. No. I cannot allow that. I will not.

  “Drink this,” he says, holding out the strange little vial.

  I look at it, then at him. I snort-laugh. “Are you insane?” I push his arm away. “You think I’ll just drink your poison?”

  “It’s not poison. It will relax you.”

  “No, I guess you’re not ready to kill me yet, are you? You’re having too much fun.” I turn my face away. “I don’t want your drugs, Santiago.”

  “Drink it.” His voice is tight, and when I don’t reply, he grabs my jaw, fingers digging into my skin as he forces me to look at him.

  I want to tell him that the tear that slides down my cheek and onto his finger is just a remnant leftover from earlier. It’s not from any emotion I feel now. Certainly nothing he has made me feel. I don’t, though. Instead, I study him as he looks at me, his expression strange and hard to read. He’s almost captivated. And it’s then I see it. Subtle but there. He’s struggling with something.

  Probably his desire to kill me. To just get it over with warring with that sadistic devil inside him.

  I snort, breaking the spell.

  He blinks. I watch him. I sometimes catch glimpses of something akin to pain in his eyes, but those few times I’ve seen it, it’s been there one instant and gone the next. I guess I’m searching for it now.

  I shake my head. Anything I imagine I’ve seen is probably my mind playing tricks on me. You’d have to be human to feel pain, and Santiago De La Rosa is not human.

  He is the devil.

  “My mother made it for me when I was little,” he says, confusing me with the admission. “For when I was agitated or upset. It won’t hurt you.”

  I study his face. This is the closest we’ve been when he’s allowed it. And it’s the most he’s shared with me ever, even given his admission in the chapel when he’d punished me. That was fact. His father beat him. This is something else. Not a mere statement of fact.

  This admission carries emotion.

  I don’t know if it’s at the mention of his mother or at what happened, but he is unnerved and almost vulnerable. I remember what Antonia told me about her. That she’d gone back to Barcelona and died there. That her grief killed her.

  Is that what I see here? Is he grieving?

  I shift my gaze to the vial again, remember those stories of poisonings within The Society. I always thought they were just that, stories, but now I’m not so sure.

  “I don’t want it,” I say even though I know he can make me drink it. He can make me do anything he wants.

  As if he’s read my mind, he brings the strange little bottle to his lips and takes a sip, then puts it under my nose again.

  He releases my jaw. “It’s not poison. It will help you. I promise.”

  “No.”

  “Drink it.”

  “Or what? You’ll make me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did I ever do to you to justify what you do to me?” I ask, snatching the bottle away and sniffing the contents. I smell herbs, something sweet. I tilt my head and swallow what’s inside. It’s only two sips. I hand it back, feeling the liquid slide down my throat almost as strong as the scotch I’d barely sipped earlier.

  I exhale, lean back against the pillows when he nods, and takes the vial lik
e he’s calmed a little by my drinking it.

  I don’t know what I expect. Violent cramping. Vomiting. But all I feel is relaxed.

  “Lie down,” he says, already helping me do just that.

  I don’t fight him. It’s no use anyway. We both know he’ll win.

  “What is it?” I ask when he walks around the room, lighting a few of the candles.

  “Just some herbs to help you relax and sleep. You need to sleep now and regain your strength.”

  “So you can repeat my punishments tomorrow?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I look around the large suite at just a few furniture pieces I’d guess are antique. On the headboard above my head, I see the skull and roses, the dueling pistols. His family crest carved into the wood.

  My eyes start to close. I try to keep them open and roll onto my side to watch him because I need to keep an eye on him. I can’t let myself fall asleep in his presence. What will he do to me if I sleep? I need to watch him, but my eyelids are so heavy. My body feels so relaxed.

  He lights the candles on a candelabra in the sitting area a few feet from me then sits in the large, comfortable-looking armchair.

  I must drift for a while because when I look again, I find him watching me, eyes dark and intent. His hair is wet, and he’s drinking from a crystal glass and wearing a close-fitting, V-neck charcoal sweater and dark slacks. Did he shower? I try to sit up. I want to go to my room.

  He’s at my side in an instant. Too fast. Did I nod off again? On the table beside the chair is that notebook I’d seen in his study. I recognize the leather binding.

  I try to say something. Tell him I want to go to my room.

  “Relax, Ivy.”

  I don’t want to relax.

  He tucks the blankets around me. “Don’t fight it. You’re safe.”

  “I’m not safe. Not with you.”

  “Shh. Sleep.”

  Okay. Yes. I take a deep breath in and let my eyes close. It’s warm in his bed. And his smell is around me, and I’m safe, like he said.

  I startle.

  No. Not like he said.

  I have to fight whatever it is he gave me. Because I’m not safe. Not in his house. Not in his bed.

  I’m going to put a baby inside you.

  I can’t let that happen.

  When I wake next, it’s to a familiar humming. A familiar scent. And light.

  “You’re sleeping the day away, dear.” I open my eyes and have to squint against the bright light.

  Is that the sun?

  Sitting up, I feel the silk of the nightgown against my skin. I look around my room. My room. Not his. My bed. My pillows. My room.

  “What time is it?” I ask Antonia as she arranges the curtain to filter the sunlight.

  “Almost noon.”

  I rub my eyes, look at the place where a small square had been my only source of light. It’s bigger now. A rectangle. Like a panel has been removed to expose the window behind it.

  “Santiago said to make sure you have lots of juice this morning, so I brought extra. And there are fresh beignets. His request. It’s really not like him.”

  I watch her pour coffee and look at the plate piled high with the sweet, fried dough. I love beignets, but since I’ve been here, my breakfast has been pretty standard. Delicious but not like this. Eggs, bacon, and toast. Fruit. Today, I have a mountain of beignets covered in powdered sugar along with berries and a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

  “It’s such a beautiful day. I thought you’d like to get some sun and fresh air before Mercedes takes you to be fitted for your dress.”

  Mercedes again?

  I swing my legs out of the bed, take a moment to let the dizziness pass, then stand. I go to the window, not sure if I’m imagining it. I push the curtain away and touch the glass, look out into the vast garden, the woods beyond, and the light mist gathered in the thicket of trees.

  “I don’t understand.” I look at the wood paneling, and sure enough, a piece has been removed. When? He’s uncovered about half the window.

  “Come and eat while they’re still piping hot.”

  I go to the table and sit down. I let Antonia put two beignets on a small plate in front of me, and I pick one up to eat it. Sugar sticks to my lips and coats my tongue as I break the pastry with my teeth, and for one moment, I just let myself feel that sweetness, taste it. I could use some sweet in my life.

  “They’re delicious, aren’t they?” Antonia says.

  I realize that moan was me. I nod and take another bite.

  Powdered sugar dusts the deep purple negligée. Did he dress me? And when did he bring me back to my room?

  I remember then, at least vaguely waking up last night. First, when he tucked me in. Then a few more times when he’d told me to go back to sleep. He’d been sitting there with that notebook on his lap watching me. Did he watch me sleep all night? Did he sleep at all? I don’t remember him getting into the bed with me.

  I remember one other thing. I saw Mercedes. Well, maybe that part was a dream because we were in the hallway. Me in Santiago’s arms. Her peering at us from a dark corner.

  I realize also then that I’m wearing panties too. He must have cleaned me while I was out. How did I not feel it? What exactly was in that vial he had me drink that knocked me out so thoroughly?

  Heat flushes my cheeks at the thought of him cleaning me while I was passed out, and I pick up the juice glass to hide my face.

  Does he feel guilty? Is all of this out of guilt for what he did?

  No. That makes no sense.

  Antonia pours a second glass of juice when I finish the first. I take it and drink half of it down. I’m thirsty.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “When did he do that?” I ask about the window.

  “I heard something quite early this morning. Had Marco do it, I think.” She’s smiling warmly.

  "Hm.” I eat another bite, and Antonia smiles kindly at me.

  “I’ve known Santiago since he was in diapers, you know.” She puts another beignet on my plate. “His father was not an easy man, but his death and perhaps Santiago surviving it when in his mind at least he was meant to die, it changed him. You’re good for him, Ivy. I see it. I feel it.”

  “I’m not good for him. He hates me, and I don’t even know why.”

  “No, that’s not hate. He has demons, that boy, but inside, he’s good. I know it. And I think if anyone can bring it out, it’ll be you.”

  “If I survive,” I mutter under my breath, then think of something. “Why does he have everyone call him master?”

  She shakes her head. “That was his father. Made sure we all called them Master even when they were children. Cold as stone, that one. But I won’t speak ill of the dead.”

  A knock comes on the door, interrupting us then, and the maid who was here, the younger one who every time I’ve seen her looks like she’s expecting a ghost to jump out at her at any moment stands in the doorway.

  “Yes, Jenna?” Antonia asks with a note of irritation in her tone.

  “Ma’am.” She gestures to me but is talking to Antonia. “Her brother’s here to see her.”

  I get to my feet. “My brother’s here?”

  The girl glances nervously at me but directs herself to Antonia. “I didn’t know what to do, so I let him in. He’s waiting downstairs.”

  “Oh.”

  “The Master is…”

  Antonia clears her throat. “Well, get the man some coffee and tell him Ivy will be down in a few minutes. Surely you know how to receive a guest.” She claps her hands for the girl to go, and the younger maid disappears.

  I quickly get dressed and hurry down the stairs with Antonia telling me to slow down and hold on to the railing.

  Abel is studying the photographs on one of the sideboards in the large living room and turns when he hears me. He’s holding a framed photograph that he puts back when I enter. I notice it’s
one of Mercedes.

  “Abel.” I slow down and just catch myself before I hug him because he is still Abel. God, what a state I’m in if I think running into my brother’s arms is a good place to be. This is what Santiago has reduced me to? “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s good to see you too, sis.” His eyes fall on the rosary, which I quickly tuck under my sweater. “Find God here?”

  “No, actually. Just the devil.”

  He snorts, looks me over. “He’s not beating you, is he?”

  That’s complicated, and I’m about to try to explain it when I realize something. “Has something happened? To Dad? Is that why you’re here?”

  He inhales and exhales, then wanders deeper into the house to glance around. “No, he’s the same.”

  “Thank goodness. Evangeline?”

  “No, Ivy, everyone is fine. I just wanted to come and see how you’re doing.” He turns back to face me, and I know that’s not it. Abel always has an agenda.

  But he’s also the only one who may be able to help me. “I can’t stay here, Abel. You have to do something.”

  “What do you mean? Look around you. You live in the lap of luxury, even if it does have a Dracula vibe going. Is he too cheap to light the place?”

  “No, I think he just…” I trail off because why would I explain to my brother that I think it’s because of his face. I think Santiago doesn’t like anyone to see him. It’s strange, but it’s the first time I register that myself. “Never mind. Abel, I can’t stay here. I mean it. He…”

  “You’re married to a De La Rosa, Ivy. You’re staying. There’s only one way out. Well, two. He can divorce you, or he can kill you.”

  I shudder.

  He chuckles.

  Does he have any idea how close to the truth his words have come?

  “Is his sister home?”

  “What?”

  “Mercedes. Is she home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He shakes his head like he’s disappointed and looks around, then comes closer to me. His voice is lower when he speaks. “You’ll be attending the Gala, I hear.”