Scorch (Virtues & Lies Book 2)

by Alexandra Silva

  The fabric of his being is as frayed and torn as mine. The only way to fix it is to patch ourselves up with one another.

  Sucking my lobe into his mouth, his hand runs from the small of my back to my thigh, hitching my leg over his hip, opening me up to him.

  He’s so hard that the pressure of his dick on the supple flesh of my thigh is bruising.

  “I won’t risk you for poll position, Arabella.” Nose skimming up to my temple, he braces himself over me.

  “It’s not about poll position. I don’t care about that.”

  Looking down at me, his stare is dark, boring into mine with unguarded intensity. With a hiss he pulls his lip between his teeth, biting like he does when he’s deep in thought and consideration. There’s cool calculation in the way he leans up slowly, kneeling between my legs.

  Fingers sweeping down my neck and décolletage to the phone, he picks it up and throws it on the bed beside us before popping the button holding the shirt closed over my breasts open. His cupped hands round the full, aching globes, squeezing and kneading as he fills his palms until they’re overflowing with my flesh.

  Smarting from his tight, relentless grip, my body bows up to his, the unsteady rhythm of my heart punctuating my shallow, uneven breaths.

  “Please.”

  Glancing down to my thighs, his lip pops from between his teeth as he finds my bare pussy. His breathing falters with a faint gasp.

  “Please what?” Pinching both of my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, he pulls, the weight of my flesh aiding gravity.

  My tummy flips and knots at the sensation, the bolts of pressure and fire shooting down to my cunt.

  “What, Belles? Please what?” he demands, pulling and pinching tighter, higher. “Fuck you? Let you in?”

  My tongue is tied, and all I can do is scream my reply silently as he releases my hard nubs with a tilt of his head and a lopsided grin.

  Both!

  My aching nipples pulse in time with my wet pussy. My flesh throbs, pulsing around bone and spirit.

  “Both, huh?” he chuckles coolly, like he’s not nearly as half as affected as me.

  My mouth waters with the slow, deliberate drag of his fingertips down my body and the debonair quirk of his brow.

  I can barely breathe as he rakes his nails down my thighs to my knees. Pulling them apart, as wide as they will go, he inhales deep.

  “You smell so sweet…so damn wet,” he rasps, hands smoothing all the way back up until he’s bracketing either side of my groin with the V of his hands. “And it’s making me so fucking thirsty.”

  Licking his lips, he eats up my gushing core with his hungry stare.

  Fuck.

  I want him to fuck me so badly that no other thought, feeling, or sensation remains in me apart from the memory of his cock driving deep, hard, and rough.

  “Drink, then…”

  I refuse to beg for anything else out loud, except the chance to avenge our child, but in my head…I can’t help but scream. Visions of me on my knees, at his feet like a Mary Magdalene at the feet of Christ. Begging for forgiveness. Begging for life. Begging for him…

  Please, fucking drink me.

  “You think I don’t know you’re begging?”

  I swallow down the groan that swells my throat as our gazes meet, his taunting and mine wide, desperate, eager to tear and cloud at the feel of my husband pounding into me.

  The idea of my body aching and breaking, bleeding like my soul and my heart, is thrilling. Poetic even.

  “I can hear you. I can always hear you, even when it’s just a green whisper in your thoughts.” Skimming his thumbs down my engorged, sensitive flesh, Christopher licks his lips once again, a flash of thought flickering through his lust-filled face. “But I want to hear you. Loud and clear. Word for word.” His thumbs press into my flesh, squeezing my labia, until his nails pinch and my need is so violent that every fibre of my being is pained with insanity.

  Raking down my slit, he orders bluntly, “Go on.”

  No.

  “Do it.”

  No.

  There’s a silent pause where even our breathing freezes. Eyes narrowing, his mouth quirks up on one side.

  Then with a sudden slap over my clit, he orders, “Beg!”

  It’s a test.

  There is never anything I want over him. Never. Except right now.

  Now, I want the blood of the people responsible for pillaging our happiness.

  Blood for blood.

  A life for a life.

  So no. I will not beg for him. Or his dick.

  Chapter 27

  Arabella

  Like a cruel king, Christopher taunts me. “I want to fuck you, wife. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to feel my cock stretch your tight, little cunt?”

  “Yes. God, yes.”

  He smirks at my breathless, needy reply, and my already racing heart runs away with itself.

  “But you won’t beg.”

  “No.”

  With a chuckle, he stands, grabbing one of my wrists and taking me up with him. “Very well.”

  What?

  Dizziness clouds my awareness, my feet moving in tandem with his even though my vision is too blurry for me to make out anything else but the spotlights hazing it from one of the lamps he turns on, on the chest of drawers by the bathroom door.

  “Do you know what I want?”

  Walking me in front of the mirrored wardrobe, he holds me still as he circles me. Nose skimming the top of my head on a deep inhale, his hand moves possessively around my back to my side and over my belly.

  He fists his shirt tightly as he asks, “Do you want to know?”

  From the way he’s looking down at his hand, it’s impossible for me not to know.

  “Can you hear me as clearly as I hear you?”

  Yes. Yes, I can. Louder than he could possibly ever know.

  With my heart panging, I meet his steadfast gaze. All I can hear are his unspoken words.

  I want to see you.

  Like an echo to my thought, he says, “I want to see my wife.”

  “Christopher…” Unable to look at him, I focus on the way the soles of his shoes sink into the carpet.

  “Blood for blood, Arabella.” Whispering into my ear, he moves to stand behind me, pulling the shirt taught at the small of my back until the buttons threaten to pop. “A life for a life.”

  A shiver rolls through me as he twists his fist and presses his lips to my nape. His exhale tickles my oversensitive skin while he fingers the ends of my hair with his other hand, his hard bulge pressing just below where he fists the shirt.

  “My wish for your wish.” Tracing down the curve of my neck and arm, he squeezes my hand before dropping his to my hip. Smoothing down my front, he cups my pussy. “Need for need.”

  His middle finger presses between my arse cheeks, curling until it nudges and teases my clenching cunt.

  Shudders roll through me with fiery claws. My toes curl into the plush carpet, and all the while Christopher stands steady, breaths deep and hot, bathing my too-tight skin as he circles my dripping entrance.

  “Give me what I want and I’ll consider your request.”

  You’ll consider it?

  That’s not good enough. It’s not a fair trade.

  “There are rules.” Pulling the shirt tighter, he licks the shell of my ear. “It’s not my sole decision. You know how it works.”

  Of course I do. How could I forget the bruises, cuts, and broken bones? How could I forget the moment I thought I’d lost him at the hands of the people I love the most. Father, brother…Kit. His own flesh and blood. Maxwell and Francis did nothing but stand by and watch as Freddie almost drowned him in an icy lake.

  “Appearances are deceptive, child,” Emily, Christopher’s grandmother, murmurs.

  Penny holds my hand so tight it feels like a counterbalance to the crushing force around my heart as I am made to watch my soul toil through challenge after challenge
to prove his salt.

  “The appearance of power does not indicate its possession.”

  “This is what it will be like. Day after day after day.” Penny pulls me closer, her warmth refusing to comfort my cold and brittle being as Freddie pulls Christopher’s almost blue body from the icy water.

  Casper is on hand to jump in, standing at the side with his eyes assessing the situation. His posture straightens as Freddie’s taunts begin again. His jaw tenses.

  My brother’s loyalty to Christopher is obvious, and it helps quieten down the panic inside me.

  He won’t let it go too far. He’ll step in if it gets too much.

  He’s a hero. A soldier. A protector.

  And he is loyal.

  “Beg me to stop!” Freddie’s voice thunders through the still, glacial air.

  The sky is bright blue and unperturbed by clouds. It’s a clear winter morning in the North of England. Quiet with the exception of Christopher’s gasping intake of air. “Say it’s too much. Tell me to stop.”

  How is he not shivering? I think as Christopher stands tall in front of his cousin. Breathing controlled. Body frozen. Gaze unmoving from his tormentor.

  He won’t ask for mercy.

  He will not beg.

  And I love him for it even if it kills me.

  Freddie’s pale hands fist at the end of his diving suit sleeves, and in a flash, they connect with Christopher’s gut, each in quick, unforgiving succession.

  “Fight back!”

  A part of me screams for Christopher to do it. To fight back. To retaliate. To protect himself.

  But he won’t. And that makes every part of me proud. Because even battered, bruised, and worn, he won’t betray his role. He won’t betray the trust the other men standing by the bank have put in him. They believe he can endure it all. They deem him worthy of their bloody crown.

  And so do I. I’m certain he can endure it all too. Even if this is beyond painful to watch.

  He’ll be lucky if he makes it out of this without pneumonia.

  The burgundy welts on his ribs are enough to tell me that there must be at least a break if not more.

  He doesn’t wince or groan or complain. He doesn’t show pain.

  Because that is the test. Resilience and tenacity.

  Strength and honour above self.

  Christopher balls his hands at his sides. Every sharp line of his sculpted body tightens, and I can feel his restraint inside me. I can feel his resilience flowing through me, pounding through my bloodstream.

  Unlike Freddie, he’s in nothing but swim shorts. The light, wispy kind you wear on a sweltering beach somewhere on the equator. Where even the lightest of clothes feel like thermals.

  Taunting him, Freddie whips his hands across his jaw. Fast, relentlessly, and as Christopher starts to inhale, he ducks him under the glossy surface of the water. Fog rises from its façade as their body heat hits the frigid depths, and as Christopher remains under, Freddie re-emerges, shaking his limbs like he wants to be rid of their frozen weight and ache.

  Looking over at Maxwell, he shows his worry. That alone is enough to tell me this could turn ugly. But their grandfather shakes his head, and with a deep breath, Freddie presses the bottom of his foot down on Christopher’s back, holding him down even as his natural defences force him to fight for his life.

  How much further will they push him?

  How much longer must he endure?

  When will it be enough?

  Kit turns to look back at me, his face stony, and for the first time, void of any light or mirth.

  He turns back to the spectacle on the water with a nudge from his father. His grandfather twists, indifference meeting my gaze. If I didn’t know how kind he could be, how doting he was on his grandchildren, I would’ve thought he was the devil. But that’s his son. I want to scream at Lucian to take his violent hand off my friend. But of course, I can’t.

  Instead I continue counting the seconds until Freddie pulls my burning soul from the water.

  There is no fight. No splash. No panic.

  Stillness. Coldness. Quietness.

  That’s all there is in the air.

  The breeze doesn’t breathe. The trees don’t dance. The branches don’t groan.

  Until Freddie yanks Christopher back out of the water. Eyes wide. Water dripping like diamonds shattering in the air. Mouth open and gasping so loud and hoarsely that I am forced to part with my own breath. It feels like he might drain the world’s oxygen supply with the length of his gasp.

  “This only ends when you beg or you die,” Freddie snarls even as he holds Christopher’s body up long enough for him to get his bearings and steady himself. “Do you want to die, Brother?”

  My stomach twists at the proper term of address for the gathering.

  The Brotherhood. An order older than any of the men currently forming it. Generations and centuries. Legacies and history. All to keep power in the rightful hands. In the proper circle and bloodlines.

  Is it really worth all this?

  Looking down I blink back the tears pricking my eyes. But before I have fully blinked them away, Emily nudges my chin up with a crooked finger. It’s a gentle touch, but meaningful nonetheless.

  “Mother…” Penny holds me tighter with a light scold at the woman holding my head high, even with shaking fingers and soft strokes.

  A cruel act bathed with kindness and love.

  That sums up the way of our world—kindness and love held together by cruelty and power.

  Justifications of righteousness.

  Freddie begins the cycle of baptism all over again. The priest watching, sandwiched between Maxwell and Francis, and the three most important men in the country.

  The Prime Minister, Harry Stanton.

  The Deputy Prime Minister, my father.

  The Foreign Secretary, Charles Winterbourne.

  Behind them stands the only woman allowed in their midst.

  Her Majesty, the Queen.

  But even she is just a ceremonial instrument amongst them. No man bows to her here.

  I have to wonder if she feels what I feel—fear, disgust, and pride.

  I have to wonder if she sees what I see—brutal acts made to whittle out the weak from the worthy.

  And I can’t help but wonder if she would allow her son, her heir, to be put through all this savagery even though he was born with the right to his crown.

  Because none of this privilege is won or earned. Christopher was born for this—it’s in his blood and engrained in his being.

  Today is just a vicious and sadistic sport made to make the weaker, inferior beings content with their roles. They may have power, but only the chosen one can yield it.

  Fleeting to Stanton, I narrow my gaze on him.

  Is he really worthy?

  His fair appearance does nothing to disguise the darkness inside him. And I hope to God above that Christopher never loses his light. That despite his roughness and brutality, he remains the man he is. The man I have fallen irrevocably in love with. The warm, caring soul that has become my own, and with which I cannot part.

  Dropping her hand from my chin, Emily holds her pointer finger up as if to ensure I daren’t look down as Christopher endures beating after beating, dunk after dunk…

  Why are they making me watch?

  “You’ll need to stand strong even when he’s weak,” Penny whispers, our hands clawing tighter together. I feel her trembles even as she tries to hold herself removed. Surely, she must feel every slap, backhand, and punch driven into her son’s flesh. She must feel every icy knife daggering into his flesh. “You’ll need to fight when he cannot, no matter the cost.”

  “And it will be great, child. The price we pay is always the greatest. It’s always the one with the most power to destroy our world. But if my grandson can endure lash after lash, so must you.”

  It dawns on me then.

  This isn’t Christopher’s test.

  It’s ours.

/>   Standing taller, I squeeze Penny’s hand back, crushing hers harder.

  “The role of a true queen is to protect the king.” With a kiss to the top of my head, she murmurs, “Even when our hands are tied. Even if it means sacrificing ourselves.”

  “Only the king delivers victory; we are all but pawns in an endless game.” Stroking the back of my hand lightly with the back of her fingers, Emily asks, “Can you be a worthy queen, child?”

  Yes.

  The answer is autonomous. There is no doubt or fear. No hesitation.

  Yes, I can be Christopher’s queen.

  Besides, the queen can win the game, even if she requires the hand of the king. They lead the victory together.

  Eyes glued to mine in the mirror, like he too was reliving that day, Christopher smiles softly. Kindly and lovingly, even as his hand teases my flesh…taunting my will.

  His other pulls at the shirt until the gaps between the buttons gape and the fabric winces with his strength.

  “Give me what I want, wife.”

  Panic, as one of the buttons pops, tornadoes inside me. My toes curl deeper, and my hands claw at his thighs, fisting the rich fabric of his suit trousers.

  “Or beg me to stop.”

  The words are on the tip of my tongue. Rolling heavy, desperate to be released into the barely lit-up room.

  I won’t.

  I can’t.

  Strength and resilience.

  A loud knock breaks the silence, and I use that fissure in our moment to swallow the words down. I push them all the way down, imagining them going through me to my feet. Twisting them, I imagine snuffing out my weakness.

  A dark chuckle rumbles from his lips as he presses firmly to my back. “You do not move until I return. All you may do is breathe and wait.”

  Heated knots pull at my insides. Even in this cruel, dark game, I can’t help but want him. My pussy clenches around his retreating finger, and I have to hold in my moan as he wipes my arousal on my already soaked thighs.

  A tremor rolls through me as he traces back up my body, his hand flattening on my belly.

  With a sigh he trails his chin down my nape to my shoulder as he growls low with the scratch of his stubble, “So fucking soft…so supple.”