My legs wrap around him naturally as he impales me, his face so close I can feel his breath on me. Using the wall to balance me, he puts his hands on either side of my face and brings his mouth to mine. I lick my lips, but he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he takes my lower lip between his teeth and bites just hard enough to break skin and draw blood. And I wonder if the taste of it arouses him even more because he feels thicker, fucks me harder, more frantically as my arms come to his shoulders, my breathing uneven as he draws more blood and I close my eyes because I’m going to come. I’m going to come so hard as he hate fucks me, and when I do, I cry out, digging my fingernails into his shoulders, hoping I’m drawing blood even through his shirt.
When I open my eyes again, he’s watching me intently, and with one hand, he grips my jaw and forces my head against the wall.
“You stole that one,” he says.
He thrusts once more, burying himself inside me as he wraps his other arm around me to carry me to the bed, to pull out before throwing me down and spinning me so I’m facedown. He grips a handful of hair and twists, forcing me to look back at him as he slides his thick cock into me and closes one finger over my back hole. He’s been doing that, and I know that’s coming too, and I wonder how much it will hurt.
“Do you think you’ll come when I fuck this tight little hole? Because I don’t think so, sweet, poison Ivy.” He jerks my head back so painfully I swear I hear something pop.
“You’re… hurting me.”
With a snort, he lets go of my hair and grips my hips, splaying me wide as he drives into me. He’s close. I can hear it. I know the sounds he makes now like he knows the sounds I make. And I want to come again just to piss him off, so I slip a hand between my legs and finger myself. He slaps my ass hard and drives deep inside me and stills, cock throbbing, emptying, the sensations calling one more orgasm from me before he’s finished, before he pulls out and stumbles backward like a drunk man.
I slip to my knees onto the floor, turning so my back rests against the bed. I draw my knees up, feeling his seed spill out of me.
He tucks himself back into his pants, murderous eyes on me. That fuck did nothing to dispel his hate. He comes to crouch down in front of me and takes my jaw in his death grip.
“You steal what I don’t give, and you will be made to pay.”
I try to jerk out of his grasp, but he just tightens his hold on me. I wonder how much more pressure before my jaw breaks.
“Do you know what the difference is between me and you, Ivy?”
“What?” I spit.
“I know I am hated. I don’t care. I use it as a strength. You? You care. Hate steals your strength. My hate of you weakens you. Makes a pathetic victim out of you.”
I swallow, shuddering in this arctic chill of his hate as I stare up at him.
“You think you will ever win against me?” he asks.
“No, Santiago, I don’t.” That must surprise him because I swear there’s a momentary flash of confusion in his eyes. I don’t think he expected that answer or any answer. “I have no doubt you will beat me. No doubt you will bury me.” As I say the words, I know they’re true, and they feel like a weight in the pit of my stomach.
We stay like that for a long moment just looking at each other. And then, without a word, he releases me and gets up. He turns to the door.
“I won’t beg you for mercy,” I call out when he opens it.
He stops and turns around.
“And I will never stop fighting you,” I add.
He grins, walking back inside, and the look on his face is that of a victor as if he’s already won. He comes close, so close the tips of his shoes press against my bare toes. It makes me think of the bones of the dead mice in that cellar. How they crunched underfoot.
He leans down and brushes his knuckles over my cheekbone so gently that it takes all I have not to lean into his touch. Not to close my eyes and take comfort in him.
He chuckles. He must see it. And he straightens to his full height, looming over me like the shadow he is.
“I hope you won’t ever stop fighting because I will enjoy breaking you bit by bit.”
11
Santiago
"Antonia said you wanted to see me as soon as I got home."
I blink up at my sister in the doorway of my study, eyes bleary. I'm not even sure what time it is, but it seems late.
"Where have you been?" I demand.
She crosses her arms and shrugs. "Shopping."
I suspect she's not telling me the full truth, and it's something I'll have to follow up on with her driver and guard later. But for now, I have other things to worry about.
"I need you to make sure Ivy bathes tonight. By force, if need be. Take two of the maids and Marco with you. He will remain in the bedroom if you need assistance."
Mercedes stares at me with a vacant expression. I was expecting a fight, but her protest is minimal.
"Why can't Antonia do it?"
"Because Antonia is getting too close with her. She feels sorry for her, and I will not tolerate anyone's sympathy toward her right now. This is why it is the perfect job for you."
"I see." She offers a stiff nod. "Call in the emotionless robot when you need her."
"You've always been so proud of it." I arch a brow at her. "Why change your tune now?"
"There is no changing anything," she answers somberly. "I am who I am, Santi."
She turns to leave, and I stand and walk around my desk, calling her back.
"Should I be worried about you?"
"No." Her response is flat. Toneless. And before I can say anything else, she is gone.
I spend the next hour going over the file for Angelo while I wait for my meeting with Judge. He arrives on time, punctual as always.
"Don't you ever get sick of sitting in this office?" He takes a seat across from me and notes the disarray of the space. I haven't allowed Antonia in here to clean in days.
"I have a lot of work to catch up on."
"That must be the reason for the exhaustion on your face," he muses.
I lean back in my chair, eyeing the bottle of scotch I've been sipping from all day. It is unlike me to be so indulgent, but it seems to be the only thing keeping my mind from going to the darkest spaces.
"The final meeting with the Tribunal is this week," I tell him.
He nods in understanding. "And they will want to know your recommended sentence for your wife's crime. Or else they will impose one themselves."
I twist the cap off the bottle and take a long pull as Judge studies me.
"You’re not in an easy position," he says. "Have you decided what you will tell them?"
"What is there to say?" I close my eyes and savor the burn in my throat. "She is guilty. I have nothing to offer in the way of her defense."
"That may be. But her guilt isn't the issue. The issue is what her punishment will be, and if it will be enough to satisfy them."
I tilt my head back, staring up at the shadows dancing across the ceiling. "You're the Judge. You tell me. What would you do if you were in my position?"
"She will already bear the shame of her crime every time she enters the public," he observes. "She will be shunned, whispered about, and despised. But the question is what punishment could be equal to the shame she has cast on you?"