by J. L. Beck
“My brother?”
“He’s so, he’s hostile… so evil,” she finishes in a rush, curling forward to rest her forehead on my stomach.
I shake my head, even though she can’t see it. “My brother is bitter. He’s broken and vengeful, but he isn’t evil. There’s a difference, stellina, remember that.”
She opens her eyes and shoves off my hips with her hands, then her eyes fly wide when she realizes what she’s done and where she’s touching me.
I let her go, even though I’d rather spend more time massaging her head to find out what other noises she can make. The ice pack is still frozen, so I get up and retreat into the bathroom to grab a washcloth. I wrap the blue gel packet inside before handing it to her.
Instead of pressing it to her forehead, she places it over her wrist with a hiss. She mentioned her arm, but I’d been distracted. I gently pull the pack away and inspect the bruises. There’s not much swelling, but there is a deep ring of purple from Lucas’s rough handling of her.
Despite the surge of anger pressing tight through my chest, I keep my face neutral as I gently test the bones. There is no crunching, so likely not broken. “I think it’s just bruised. I’ll make sure you keep it iced, and you’ll be careful when you complete your chores. We can put some makeup over this for the auction, but I don’t want this to bruise and swell even more.”
She scoffs and tugs her wrist from my grasp, my words pulling her out of this conversation and thrusting her into reality.
I only glare and snag it back by the curve of her elbow. Hurting her isn’t on my list of priorities, but she doesn’t seem to have solid self-preservation instincts.
Instead of fighting further, she settles on staring out past my shoulder like she can’t be bothered with my existence. It’s humorous how little she cares for her own safety. Even while injured, she still tempts the beast. If she continues to push me, I’ll have to push back, and she’s in no shape to match me.
I release her, but only long enough to open the jar and scoop out some chilled balm. She sucks in a breath through her teeth but stays still as I slather the paste around her wrist. The tension between us grows thick, making each breath I take harder. When I finally finish, I gently wrap the ice around her wrist and hold the ends together.
“Why are you taking care of me?”
I don’t meet her eyes when I respond. “Profit margin.”
“That’s bullshit. You could have had one of the staff come help me. Why are you doing it?”
This time I meet her direct gaze and force her to maintain it since she wants to push me so fucking much.
“Maybe I want to touch you without seeing hatred in your eyes.”
“I don’t think that will ever happen.”
“Are you sure about that?”
She swallows loudly and drops her gaze. Another wash of pink treks up her neck and onto her ears. All I can do is smile like the son of a bitch I am.
I shift my hold on her wrist so I can sit beside her on the bed. To my surprise, she shifts her legs around to make room for me—an interesting new development.
“What happens now?” she asks almost cautiously. “Who are you going to sell me to? Where are they going to expect me to stay once they take me away?” There’s no fear in her tone, only exhaustion, as if the entire situation has made her more tired than she can bear.
Again, I shrug. “I don’t know. That will be up to them. Once you’re handed over, and we exchange the cash, then your confinement becomes their problem.”
“What if I escape?”
I try to ignore the way my shirt gapes open at her neck, giving me a top-down view of her cleavage. It doesn’t work. My cock is still aching for more.
“Try to escape. I expect chasing you down might be fun for the buyer. I know I’d enjoy it. If you were mine to buy.”
She grunts and tugs her hand away. I allow it this time, monitoring her every twitch.
The idea of someone coming after her isn’t appealing to her. Of course, it wouldn’t be. When rich men hunt, they do it for sport. When poor men hunt, they do it as a matter of survival. She’d have a better chance with one of them than with me. I always catch my prey.
“Thanks for your help,” she says. It’s a dismissal. Yet another prod of dominance from her she might not even know she’s making.
I shift higher on the bed and lie down, folding my hands behind my head to feign comfort.
“What are you doing?” A thread of fear enters her voice now. Finally.
“I told you. If you keep pushing me. I’ll push back. You don’t get to tell me when to leave. I’ll leave when I’m damn well ready.”
She turns to glare down at me. I have to crane my neck to see her face with our height difference. Her heart-shaped face and soft lips draw me in.
“I was saying thank you for helping me. How is that pushing you?”
“You use kindness as a weapon. All your people do. You throw it out like this great precious gift everyone wants to lap up, and when they can’t have it, they crave it, they need it, all for them to become subservient to that need.”
Her forehead wrinkles, and then she winces, stroking gently at the cut there. “I think you have a much higher opinion of me than I do of myself. And why do you keep saying ‘your people’ like you don’t have money yourself? Look at this house. Your clothes, the staff. That’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”
I shake my head and sit up again. “No, we are entirely different species of human.”
The anger I always have tucked away on a low simmer boils before I can put it in check. “You grew up with money and privilege. In some ways, I did, too, until it was taken from me. I didn’t get money or power again until well into adulthood. Your entire life has been one shining example of what the everyday person should strive for. The perfect life for the perfect daughter. Daddy’s little fucking princess.”
Her anger matches mine, her beautiful face twisted in shock and rage. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about my life. My sister is dead. I don’t know a single thing about my parents, and I’m a twenty-three-year-old virgin who has been locked in her house her whole life. What of that tells you I’ve had a charmed existence?”
I shove off the bed to put some distance between us before I do some damage I can’t repair with gentle touches and ice packs. “Thank you for that.” A low growl escapes my lips. “You proved my point. You want to know why my brother is so mean? He watched his mother die right in front of him. Her throat slit from ear to ear.” Somehow, I strip my own grief from my tone. “And you think being a virgin even compares to that?”
She shakes her head frantically, realizing there is no comparison. “No, of course not. I can’t even imagine the pain he’s suffered.”
The pain I’ve suffered. I don’t remind her of that fact, though. Not when her face softens, and all I see is pity.
I stalk toward the door and grip the handle hard enough to rip it from the door. “Remember one thing, stellina. Everything that happens to you is most definitely revenge. And what your father did means it’s earned a hundred times over. You know nothing about the bastard, but if you did, you’d hate him just as much as we do.”
She hops off the bed and rushes toward me, but I slam the door between us and lock it from the outside before she can reach me. I don’t want to hear her excuses or see the pity she has for me in her eyes. I want her hate, her anger, her fear. I want to taste it on my tongue and swallow it down like air.
Back in my room, all is blessedly quiet. I take a moment to gain control of myself and stalk back and forth, glaring at the door separating us. It would only take a few moments to sweep her in my arms, get her good and dripping wet for me, and divest her of her lamentable virginity. Leaving her ruined for any other man.
It would give me relief but not the satisfaction her father’s crimes demand. No. I need to keep my focus with her. Not allow her sweet words or deep eyes to draw me in.
In a few days
, I’ll be wrapping her in a satin bow and sending a thank you note to her father before I drive a knife into his abdomen, gutting him myself.
Only his death will bring me satisfaction and relief. Celia is a means to an end. Nothing more, and to think of her as anything else would be a grave mistake. One I will not make.
13
Celia
Chores keep me busy, but they also give me a lot of time to think. Mostly about home. About the life I lived and how I might have been blind to everything around me. Too consumed by my own wants and needs to notice anything else. To notice my sister hurting so badly, she’d rather kill herself than marry a stranger. To notice my mother drinking more and more every night to dull her pain. To notice my father, so straight-backed and stoic, that he could be hiding the soul of a monster.
I no longer wear the blinders of a child when it comes to my family life. For years, we’d been drifting apart inch by inch. But the accusations Nicolo laid at my father’s feet… I don’t want to believe them. In my time here, I’ve learned enough about my captor to know, at the very least, he believes them. What motive does he have to lie to me? I’m already locked away.
Nicolo must have spoken to Sarah about my chore assignments as she’s taken me off sheet duty, and now I wander the house dusting already immaculate fixtures. Is this a chore or someone’s fantasy playing out? Setting me loose, half-dressed with a duster in my hand. I shake the thought away. I’m just grateful Lucas hasn’t tried to come after me again.
Nicolo’s words keep ringing in my ears. Everything that happens to you is most definitely revenge. If my father is such a heartless bastard and doesn’t care what happens to me, how is my captivity revenge against him? Questions continue to rattle in my head as I drift through the house, being useful to no one.
Then I remember, the actual revenge hasn’t even started yet. A shiver races down my spine as I think of whoever is going to buy me. I’m sure they will have vile things planned for me. I should be terrified, and part of me is, but I’ve known I’d be sold in some way or form my whole life. Not much has changed, only the seller.
Speak of the devil. Footfalls meet my ears as he passes down a perpendicular hallway, and I freeze in the act of dusting a sconce on the wall. My heart jumps out of my chest, and I almost drop the duster at the surprise of his presence.
Just when I think he’s gone, he pops his head back around the corner, and I quickly jerk my arm down from the light fixture and turn toward the next one. In the opposite direction. The one I’d already dusted that didn’t need dusting to begin with.
What does he want? Why is he watching me?
I focus too intently on the dusting as his footsteps echo off the hardwood on his way toward me. Each step causes the knot of anxiety to tighten in my gut. When he reaches me, I quickly turn and hustle to the next wall sconce, completely ignoring his presence.
As if that were even possible.
He dominates any space he’s in, as if the world itself bows to his will. The air feels denser as I suck it into my lungs. The hallway which felt cavernous a moment ago, has somehow shrunk with him so close. This feels like a cat-and-mouse game, except I’m the mouse, and there is no escaping Nicolo. It’s either his sharp claws or a mousetrap.
There is a heavy weight on my tongue. Part of me wants to confront him, find out why he’s so intent on looming over me all the time. The other part of me, the one that wins, scurries down to the next sconce and decorative table underneath. I would like to make it through one day without a confrontation.
Of course, the click of his shoes alerts me he’s followed. I swipe non-existent dust off the sconce and carefully move the decorative vase on the table to dust that surface as well. All the while, he stands there. I can’t see his face, so I have no idea what he’s doing or thinking.
When there are no more things to dust, I twist around and risk a glance at him. I find him staring down at me, his eyebrows tucked in tight, the tiniest upturn in the corner of his mouth. As if he finds my games amusing. As if I’m some kind of pet.
I narrow my eyes, toss the duster onto the table, and storm past him. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see a smile spread across his face, which only angers me more.
Right now, I don’t have much of a choice in things, but I have a choice in standing here letting him watch me like I’m some type of entertainment.
My door makes a loud, satisfying sound when it closes. That’s the best part about high-end houses. The doors sound so much better when they meet the frame with a purposeful shove.
I wait for a little while, thinking he’ll follow me in, demand answers for my attitude, or give me another lecture, but he doesn’t. One of the maids brings lunch to me later, and I stay in my room to eat. Not risking another run-in defeats boredom in my mind. At least for now. Another couple days of pacing back and forth within the same four walls, and I might go back out begging for chores, but not right now.
If he wants me, then he’ll have to come and get me.
It isn’t until I’m lying in bed later, legs stretched out in the fresh shirt Sarah brought with dinner, that he hunts me down. I’m already showered; I tied my long brown hair into a bun at the nape of my neck. I considered asking Nicolo for another hair tie, maybe some more personal hygiene items, but I’d rather eat glass.
When he walks in without knocking, of course, he carries two low ball tumblers in one hand bunched together between his fingers. He holds the glasses toward me without a word. While I don’t trust the amber liquid inside, nor the man offering me the drink, I take it anyway. I need something to break up the jumble of thoughts in my head.
Especially with him standing there looking so… disheveled. Usually, his clothing is meticulous. Except for the night I met him when he was caked in blood.
Tonight is different, though. He’s less dangerous and more chaos. Like he’s one second away from exploding. His shirt is untucked, the tails hanging out, and his collar is open, revealing hints of black ink beneath. I want to trace the ink embedded in his skin, if only to know what it feels like. I don’t know anything about this man. Knowing what he feels like might mend the kind of disconnect I’m feeling.
He roughly swipes his hand through his dark hair, only adding another layer to the mantle of exhaustion seeming to hang off him.
He slumps on the end of the bed, bringing the glass to his lips, and takes a long sip of his drink. If he can drink it, hopefully, I can too. Swirling the amber liquid around inside the glass, the fragrant scent of vanilla and caramel fill my nostrils. I give it a tentative sip. Well, at least it’s not scotch. A few ice cubes tinkle together as I take another gulp. After the first couple of sips burn down my throat, the bourbon becomes smooth, filling my belly with warmth. My experience is limited as I usually stick to white wine.
Nicolo sits in silence, and I take the rare opportunity to watch him. For once, he’s not crowding me, nor in motion, forcing me to get the hell out of the way. In the light, I notice that there’s a faint scar under his right earlobe that cuts into his deep five o’clock shadow. For half a second, I allow myself to think with compassion for this man in front of me, and I wonder… What happened to him?
His voice jolts me from my thoughts, shooting my heart into my throat. “I set the auction date for a couple of days from now.” He doesn’t look at me when he speaks, and I continue studying his profile while he talks. “You’re going to be my centerpiece. I think you’ll bring in a substantial amount of money.”
I swallow another gulp of the alcohol, letting it burn down all the way into my gut. It takes everything in me not to lash out, but what will lashing out do? It won’t help me escape. It won’t stop the warmth that fills my veins when he enters the room. It will change nothing.
Instead, I choose to act completely uninterested. “Well, if you say so. How much do you think I’m worth?” I tap my chin with my finger. “A virgin in her twenties with no interest in sex. You know, one of my high school boyfriends even called me f
rigid when I refused to put out for him. He called me ice queen and told me no one would ever want me.”
He shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “I doubt your new owner will give you much choice. A wet hole is a wet hole.”
I’m half tempted to ask him how he could say such a thing, but then suddenly realize who it is that is holding me hostage.
“The least you can do is look me in the eye when you so casually describe someone raping me.”
He turns his head and stares down at my foot, still in contact with his pants. Then so very slowly, he lifts his chin. His dark gaze clashes with mine when he downs the rest of his drink. I watch the column of his throat as he swallows and the way the light dances off his long eyelashes. He’s so handsome it’s almost frightening.
He is the perfect predator, drawing you in with his beautiful eyes and charming smile. Even the tattoos and scars somehow add to the appeal. He looks dangerous, but there is something about him that twists that feeling into the need to entice him, to have him on your side. Maybe it’s the thought of having him protect me. He could… but he won’t.
When he finishes his drink, he lowers the glass to his lap, his eyes never wavering from my own. One side of his mouth tips up into a half-smile. “I’m not worried about your frigidity one bit, stellina. Like I said, a wet hole is a wet hole.”
I sip the drink to give myself more courage. There’s not enough booze in the world to give me the strength to go head-to-head with this man. “And how is that?”
He reaches down and trails his index finger over the top of my foot to my ankle. I pretend I can’t feel the jolts of his touch zinging through my body.
“When I fucked your thighs the other day, you certainly didn’t seem frigid to me.”
Oh god. I’ve tried my hardest to forget that day, even though the memory lingers in the back of my mind every night. Instead of answering, I hide my shaking hand inside the sleeve of my shirt and clutch the drink to my chest with the other.