Mansions

by Whitney Bianca

  I hate it.

  “He will be happy,” Irina says, genuinely relieved. “When he sees you.” She smiles down at me and I shoo her away. “I will get him.” She turns and exits, leaving me alone again. I slump back in the leather armchair and run my hands over my thighs, the sequins rough under my hands. I ball up the fabric in my hands, the urge to yank it off of my body at the forefront of my mind. I don't know what he wants from me. Is he trying to torture me? Make me angry? Seduce me? I'm not sure. He's never tried this tactic before.

  The door opens then and I hear someone enter the room behind me. I open my mouth to rip him open for making me dress up in this ridiculous way, but when I turn, it's not Dorian.

  It's the man in black, the man from the video.

  The man who fucked Jessica.

  “What do you want?” I say without thinking.

  “Are you ready?” he says. His voice is deep, but flat. His face is flat as well. Blank.

  “Ready for what?” I ask, my heart already pounding. I don't know this man, but I hate him. I hate him for what he did to Jessica, I hate him for doing Dorian's dirty work. I hate him for being here in my room at all. He doesn't reply, just walks forward until he's in front of me. He ignores my gasp as he bends and slides one arm under my thighs and the other around my waist. He lifts me easily and I dig my nails into his forearm instead of wrapping my arms around his neck. I don't want to touch him anymore than I have to.

  I don't fight him as he carries me out of the bedroom. There's no point. I can hear the wind howling against the windows as he carries me downstairs. The temperature is dropping outside. I can feel the big house shifting. Getting colder. He carries me smoothly down the sweeping staircase. I want to ask him about Jessica, to scorn him for what he had done. But there doesn't seem to be any time. When we enter the big dining room, and my mouth drops open. The crystal chandelier above the table matches the one in the foyer and casts prisms of light on the dark walls. Candles are lit in the center of the table, and places set at either end. Fine china and silverware to eat with. Crystal glasses to drink from. A bottle of champagne is chilling in an ice bucket on the table and the air is ripe with the heavenly scent of the meal.

  “What is this?” I ask suspiciously as the man sets me down in the chair closest to us, at the head of the table. He doesn't respond, just puts me down gently. “Do you think about it?” I ask, quickly, quietly before he pulls away, the words spilling out. “Do you think about her? What you did?”

  “No,” he says, then stands at his full height. He turns and walks out of the room without another word. I want to call him a liar, to yell after him, but I know it's useless. He won't talk to me. He barely looks at me. Barely acknowledges what he did, what Dorian did. I sit alone in the room for a few moments, silently stewing. I can smell the food in front of me, delicious smells of meat and herbs. It's rack of lamb with mint sauce, one of my favorites. My mouth waters at the sight of it. When Dorian appears in the doorway at the far corner of the room, he looks just as good as the food. He's dressed in a black suit and a crisp white shirt, open at the throat. His hair is combed back perfectly and he's freshly shaven. He has dark circles under his eyes, though, and he looks like he hasn't had a good night's sleep in days. I study him silently until I can't take the silence anymore.

  “I don't want to see that man again,” I say.

  “Bryan? I thought it was about time that you met him,” Dorian says. “He's been good to you, whether you realize it or not.” He steps further into the room. “Who do you think found you in the hospital? Who do you think hired the staff here to take care of you?” He cocks his head, but he doesn't seem to be making fun of me. He seems to be serious. “He's loyal. To both of us.”

  “What about Jessica?”

  “Jessica is...” he trails off and then shrugs helplessly. “I was too harsh with her,” he says, surprising me. I search his face for signs of insincerity but find none. It can't be right. He's lying, trying to fool me by feigning regret. But I don't have time to focus on that. He's moving toward me, cautiously. Haltingly. I wonder what he's thinking. I've never seen Dorian anything less than one hundred percent confident.

  “I have something for you.” He unbuttons his suit jacket and drops to one knee beside my chair. My stomach tightens again, and it has nothing to do with being angry or hungry. It's something else.

  “What are you doing?” I say, leaning back in my chair. My heart is suddenly beating hard in my chest.

  “Completing your costume,” he says, drawing a blue velvet box out of his jacket pocket. He opens it, revealing a glittering diamond necklace with matching earrings.

  “No,” I say automatically, without thinking, but he doesn't bother to wait for my permission. He unhooks the earrings from the box and motions me closer. I just stare at him for a long moment and he raises an eyebrow.

  “Adrienne,” he says, the word a command. I know this is another fight I can't win. In fact, it's not worth fighting at all, so I lean forward and let him put them on me. His hands are gentle and the metal is cold as he slips the first bauble onto my right ear. I can't resist bringing my hand up to run my fingers over the big diamond's rough edges. It's obnoxiously expensive, but I'm not made of stone. The jewels are heavy and too rich and I'm not used to wearing such things. “Consider it an apology,” he says, his breath light on my cheek as he puts the other earring on me.

  “Not a gift?” I ask, dropping my hand to my lap.

  “Gifts are for mistresses.” He lifts the necklace out of the box and sets the box on the table as he stands. “You're not my mistress,” he says softly and his tone sends a shiver up my spine. I turn so he can fasten the necklace around my throat. His fingers brush my skin as he adjusts the heavy piece of jewelry on my neck. It hangs low and the bottom diamond nestles in my boosted cleavage. The necklace feels like a weight around my neck, like a yoke. I'm already covered with his marks and his brands. Now I'm wearing the signs of his wealth like I can be bought with money just like an expensive jewel. He says I'm not a mistress but he's treating me like one. He stands and stares down at me, a small smile curving over his mouth.

  He thinks he's won.

  He can keep thinking that.

  “Is this supposed to be a date?” I resist the urge to laugh. After all we've been through and everything we've done, a date seems too bizarre. Too wholesome. Too normal.

  “Dinner,” he says simply. He takes his hands away then, going back to the table and grabbing the champagne from the bucket. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “I want to pop the cork,” I say, surprising him. His eyebrows flutter but he doesn't deny me. Instead he hands me the bottle and lets me do it. I always used to pop the cork on holidays. My father always let me do it. I'm twenty-seven years old and I still get the same satisfaction from the loud pop and the hiss of the champagne as I open the bottle. I hand it back to him and lick the spilled champagne from my fingers. He smiles even wider as he fills my glass.

  “Drink slow. You haven't had alcohol in awhile,” he instructs. “I would hate to have you passing out before dessert.” I scowl at him as I lift the glass to my lips. I want to disobey him and get sloppy, but I have a feeling this is going to be a long night. I don't want to lose myself too early. He carries the bottle to his end of the table and fills his own glass. Then he drapes himself in his chair, his earlier cautiousness seemingly gone.

  “Eat,” he says after a moment.

  “I'm not done talking about Jessica,” I reply.

  “I thought we were done with that topic.” He sighs.

  “No we're not done!” I bang my fist on the table, trying to get his attention. The silverware rattles. “What you did to her was unforgivable.”

  “What I did to her?” He lifts a quizzical brow. “I broke her long celibate spell and eased her suffering where you're concerned. I did her a service.”

  “You made her whore herself for information and then you told her I was dead!”

&nbs
p; “She wanted answers. I gave her an answer.” He lifts his glass to his lips again. “Making her fuck Bryan was... a whim.” He tosses his head back and empties his glass. “Not my best moment.”

  “You enjoyed it.”

  “I did, at first.” He sets down his glass. “It was harsh, but I thought it necessary.”

  “To punish me?”

  “Exactly. To punish you.” He picks up his knife and fork. I catch myself fidgeting with my earring and I drop my hand to the table.

  “To take away all hope?”

  “You never had any hope of escaping me,” he says, lifting a haricot vert to his lips. “That's what you have to learn.” He takes a bite and chews. “Are you planning to go on another hunger strike?” he asks, his eyes on my untouched plate. “It's your favorite, is it not?”

  “Would it upset you?” I ask.

  “Of course. I've gone to great lengths to keep you alive.” He takes another bite. “Which you've never thanked me for, by the way.” He leans back in his chair, the coolness melting from his eyes. Under the heat of his gaze, I reach up and touch my earring again. I don't know why I keep having the need to touch the big stone, but I can't stop myself.

  I haven't worn earrings in a long time.

  “You'll get tired of me,” I say. “Then what?” He wraps his mouth around a piece of lamb and my stomach grumbles, but my hunger is the last thing on my mind. “You obviously want Jessica to think I'm dead and to stop looking for me.”

  “You're not dead, you're on a long holiday,” he says with a cruel smile. A memory flashes over me, of the day of my mother's funeral. Of a girl, barefoot and naïve on a stone wall. In that moment, I hate him more than I've ever hated him. I grab my champagne and take a gulp, not caring anymore if it goes to my head. “What makes you think I'll get tired of you?” he asks after a long while.

  “Do you love me?” I ask, putting my elbows on the table and leaning forward, like I really want to know the answer.

  Like I don't already know.

  “No,” he says, leaning forward as well. “But you want to know something else? Something more important?”

  “All I want to know is how much time I have left. A month? A year? Five years maybe?” My fingers find the earring again. “How much longer until you're done with me? How much longer until I'm free?”

  “Do you know how many times I've told my wife I love her?” He cocks his head to the side, his eyes dancing in the candlelight.

  “If you told her that, it was a lie,” I say.

  “Exactly,” he nods. “I've told her I loved her twice in seven years. Once on the altar, as we were pronounced man and wife. Once more after a particularly good fuck in the back of a limo.” He chuckles a bit at the memory, then he darts his eyes back to mine. “I said the words, just to see if I felt anything when I did.” He runs his palm over his perfect hair. “I lied to her then and I lie to her everyday.”

  “How long do I have, Dorian?” I ask again.

  “I could tell you that I love you a thousand times. But I won't.” He sighs deeply and then sits back in his chair. “For some reason, you bring out the truth in me.”

  “So tell me the truth,” I prod, softly. He smiles and returns to his food and I watch him. So unruffled, so calm and serene. I run my hand down the necklace, wanting to rip it off. “How long?” I ask once more.

  “Goddammit, Adrienne,” he says, shaking his head.

  “How long?!” I scream, feeling the hysteria welling up. I want to know the answer, and I refuse to be denied. He stands so abruptly that the table shakes and his fork clangs to the floor. My champagne sloshes over the rim of my glass.

  “Never!” he growls out, his voice getting deeper and more dangerous. “I'll never give you up.” I stare at him, shocked. “How many times do I have to tell you that before you believe me?”

  “And you never lie, right?” I ask. He slams his hands on the table and I jump in my chair.

  “Not to you,” he says. “I'll never lie to you.”

  “Well, aren't I the lucky one.” I run my hand up the necklace again and hook my fingers in the fine chain.

  “Don't you fucking dare,” he hisses, his voice dangerously low. I stare right at him as I yank the necklace hard.

  Hard enough to snap the chain.

  Hard enough to piss him the fuck off.

  *****

  She stares right at me as she rips my grandmother's necklace off her neck and the urge to strangle her to death makes me clenches my hands. I shove my chair back and she knows I'm coming for her. She tips her chair over and lands hard on the floor. As I stalk toward her, she throws the priceless necklace across the floor at me, like it's a piece of trash. It slides across the polished wood and hits my shoe. The diamonds catch the light in a beautiful way. She takes advantage of my momentary distraction and crawls backwards on her elbows toward the foyer.

  This is not how I planned this night to go, admittedly.

  “I'm nothing to you!” she screams, her sequined gown trailing limply behind her. “Let me go! Let me go!”

  “Why can't we be fucking civilized for one fucking night,” I say, feeling myself spiraling even as I try to maintain control. Adrienne has this annoying effect on me. She can make me so angry, so crazy, that I can't think straight. I stare down at the wasted food on the table, the delicious meal I had made just for her getting colder and more inedible with every passing second.

  “You did this to me,” she says. “You've made me into this.”

  “No.” I shake my head, feeling all the anger draining out of me like water through a sieve. “You did this to me.” She looks so fucking beautiful with her upswept hair and her expensive dress and her face full of makeup. She looks like she could easily be a rich man's wife. But not just any rich man's wife.

  My wife.

  It's a crazy thought, but the minute she arrived in my life, I lost all sense of rationality where she was concerned. I've been ineffectual at work. I gave up Cora. Selene's been up my ass, but I'm still here with Adrienne instead of laying low. Because I want her. Because I can't stay away. Adrienne is the thorn in my side that won't go away. It's festering and infecting me more and more. The fever is raging. It's in my blood. But she doesn't understand. She doesn't want to understand.

  She's special.

  I stare down at her as the fever boils in my bones. In the warm light of the chandelier, she could almost pass for a normal woman if it weren't for her eyes. They're alive with anger and a more than a hint of madness. She lifts her arm and I see a flash of silver. She has the knife in her hand and she presses it against her exquisite neck.

  “I should slit my throat right now,” she says.

  “Try it and see what happens,” I reply as calmly as possible, calling her bluff. Her eyes go wide and then she stabs the knife downward into the fabric that pools around her legs. She tears into the dress and starts ripping it with her hands. I step closer to her and she pushes away, across the black and white checkered marble floor.

  “Stay away from me,” she hisses.

  She looks so beautiful and small in the middle of the grand foyer. Her dress sparkles and the light catches the graceful curve of her shoulders. She swipes the back of her hand across her face, dragging a streak of red lipstick from her lips. She's furious with me but she doesn't look away either. She puts the knife back to her neck and presses it into the skin. It's not until I see the bead of red blood, slowly dripping down the blade, that I act.

  Adrienne's eyes widen because she knows I'm coming for her. She starts to crawl, but I don't give her any time to run. I catch her on the second step and grab her dress. I rip it down the middle, exposing her back. I grab her wrist and squeeze until she drops the knife with a pained cry. I grab it and stare down at it. I can see the blood on the tip, shining like a ruby. I hear a scream behind me and I glance over my shoulder. Irina stands in the doorway to the dining room, hands to her face. The tableaux in front of her probably doesn't look too good an
d I can appreciate her protectiveness, but I also don't give a shit. Nothing and no one is going to distract me from what I want. Adrienne beats me to the punch, lifting her hand and waving Irina off.

  “Go,” she says, breathing hard as her bodice slides down her back.

  “He has a knife!” Irina's eyes are wide as saucers.

  “Go away!” Adrienne screams shrilly, pressing her forehead against the ridge of the step. Her heart is beating so fast I can feel it through her skin. I run my hand down the bumps of her spine, then I shove her hair aside and run my mouth over her bare shoulders, biting and sucking across the soft skin. She grabs the balustrade, trying to pull herself up to the next step, but I yank her hips and pull her back into me. Irina is forgotten as I slide my hands around to cup her breasts, pressing my face into her neck. I take a deep breath, the lust swirling through my chest.

  She shoves against the step below her, still trying to struggle. I plant my knees on either side of her and hinge up, throwing off my jacket and tossing it to the floor below, along with the knife. She takes advantage and pushes herself up a step and her dress slips lower, around her hips. I grab her arm and roll her over onto her back. For a minute, I can only stare at her, enraptured. Her chest rises and falls with each breath and she shoves against my shoulders. A smudge of red blood glistens on the side of her throat.

  “Don't touch me,” she whispers, but her eyes say different.

  “You started this,” I say, leaning into her. “I'm going to finish it.” Her perfect body calls me and I can't resist pressing my lips to her throat, tasting the iron of her blood. I lick her wound clean and then I bury my face in her tits and running a trail up the valley of her breasts with my tongue. She fists her hand in my hair and I moan and suck her nipple into my mouth. She drags her hands to my shoulders, her fingernails digging into the fabric of my shirt. I lift up and capture her mouth, needing her taste on my tongue. She yanks on my shirt, popping the buttons. I roll my hips into hers as her smooth hands skirt my bare chest. “Fuck, Adrienne, what is it about you?” I moan in between kisses. “What is it?”