Just after dusk, Mercedes stirs me from my fitful sleep, waving a cup of coffee beneath my nose. She's perched on my bed in a tight black dress, looking much like a vampire herself. I knew she wouldn't be able to stay away.
"What are you doing?" I glare up at her.
"Tell me everything." Her eyes are dark, lined with kohl, and she can't contain the eagerness churning in their depths.
"There's nothing to tell." I toss the covers off me and sit up, gesturing her out of the way. "Nothing that you should hear anyway."
"Santiago." She pouts. "Don't toy with me."
I offer her a sharp look over my shoulder and catch her staring at the ink on my back. She hasn't seen this piece yet. I'm not in the business of showing the art to anyone, much less my sister. I can tell she's surprised by it.
The art on my face is my own, as is much of the work on my arm. But it wasn't within my capabilities to tattoo my own back, no matter how much I would have liked to.
"Who did that?" she asks curiously as I drape last night's shirt over my body.
"A friend."
"It's beautiful," she murmurs.
"It's a means to an end."
My ink serves one purpose, and despite what some people may believe, it isn't to scare anyone. I was capable of that on my own before I ever had a single scar on my body. I just don't like to look at the memories of that night branded into my skin, and this was the only reasonable alternative.
I walk to the closet and retrieve a white dress shirt and a pair of black slacks. Mercedes continues to annoy me by touching the things in my room, gliding her fingers over the ornate bedposts, and scanning the space with snake-like eyes. She's looking for evidence that my bride was in here last night, determined to destroy any perceived weaknesses in my plan.
"She's in her own room,” I inform her. “She has been since last night."
"I know." Her lips curve into a mischievous grin.
My eyes narrow. "How long have you been back home?"
"Since this morning." She shrugs. "Presumably not long after you went to bed."
"I trust I don't need to warn you to leave her alone." My voice carries an edge to it Mercedes doesn't miss.
She eyes me speculatively. "Of course, brother. I would never dream of interfering."
Now she's toying with me.
"I have work to do," I tell her. "If you're going to lurk around The Manor, you will need to stay out of the way. And find something productive to do with your time. I can't have you sitting idle."
"No, we can't have that," she says bitterly. "The elders surely wouldn't like it."
"Mercedes." My jaw clenches.
She rolls her eyes. "I'm going to visit the chapel. I'll pray forgiveness for my many sins."
"I expect that should keep you occupied for the rest of the night," I answer dryly.
She snorts and leaves me to shower and dress. It is already later than I would like, and I have work to do. Since the incident, I have not been able to sleep through the night. I often find myself wandering the halls of The Manor or working until the sun has risen before I am exhausted enough to close my eyes and seek rest.
Typically, my day would begin in the study downstairs. My position within IVI consists of managing the funds. I am tasked with distributing payments, investing collective earnings to amplify our wealth, managing stocks and bonds, and shuttling money into offshore accounts.
The founding families within The Society come from old money. They were wealthy to begin with. Now, they are gods among men. In no small part, thanks to me.
Since I took over Eli's position, I have elevated our status considerably. Numbers are what I'm good at. I can stare at the data all day, recognizing patterns, predicting trends, deciphering the undecipherable. I do not possess the same talent for humans.
Ivy Moreno is an abstract equation, and I feel as though I'm missing a variable required to understand her. I had so many notions about what she was, but so far, she is proving most of my theories incorrect. There is a burning need in me to analyze her until I crack her code and all of her pitiful little secrets spill out.
This desire unsettles me. And still, I can't deny it. As I walk down the corridor, I forget about going straight to my study and continue to her suite. Work will not come until I have looked at her at least once. This much, I think is a logical indulgence.
The lock unbolts, and the door creaks open, and I am greeted by only a few waning flames from the candles nearly gone. The room is silent and still, a sliver of moonlight slicing in from the window to bathe the silhouette of Ivy's body in the large bed.
I move closer to examine her, noting the way her dark hair spills across the silk pillow. She is curled into herself, and even in sleep, she appears tormented. It puzzles me exceedingly as I consider the reasons. Beyond myself, I am certain other things haunt her dreams. But I am not yet sure what they could be.
I sit down beside her on the bed. She does not stir, even as I smooth a strand of hair away from her face. She is beautiful. I will give her that much. Already, my groin is tightening in memory of the way she felt around me last night. The way her body came alive for me, despite how much she wanted to resist.
The question is why. Why did she marry me without a fight? Why did she give herself over so willingly? There must be a reason. And it will eat at me until I uncover it.
She murmurs something in her sleep and then clutches her stomach as if it pains her. My brows furrow, and I don't realize my hand is moving to touch her until it's already there. On top of hers.
The cold of my skin against hers startles her awake, and she gasps as her eyes fly open to meet mine.
"Santiago." My name falls from her lips like a curse.
She pulls herself upright, curling her knees into her chest, peering back at me with an innocence I want to despise. But when I see the gash on her forehead, an unidentified emotion rolls through me like a black cloud.
"What happened?" I reach out to touch her and she dips her head.
When my fingers fall across her skin, she does not flinch. She does not close her eyes or shudder. Instead, she seems to draw in a sharp, shaky breath as if to fortify herself. I suppose she is trying to be brave. To prove she is not frightened of me. But her silence is grating at my last nerve, and the clawing desperation to know who hurt her is poisoning me from the inside out.
"Ivy." My voice comes out so sharply, she does finally flinch. "Tell me."
"Don't act as if you care." She yanks away from my grip and glares up at me with watery eyes. "Why should it matter? You are the biggest hypocrite I've ever met. Starving me all day and then coming in here to act as if a cut matters to you."
A deep grimace settles over my features. "Starving you?"
Her lip trembles and she looks away. "You hate me. I can see it in your eyes. I don't know why you want me here. Just so you can torture me? Then go on and do your worst. Show me how terrible you truly are."
I should. Because she's right. I do hate her. I hate her more than I ever knew I could hate anything. Yet I can't bring myself to prove it at this moment. I can't allow her cutting remarks to slide as if they are of no consequence. There are so many ways I will apply my cruelty to her. But she is to carry my child, and if she thinks I would starve her while she does so, she is mistaken.
"Tell me what you ate today." I grip her chin and force her gaze back to me.
She looks at me as though I'm teasing her. "You know the answer to that."
"Tell me," I growl.
She wavers, trying desperately to hold onto her stubborn refusal, but is still tethered by the values ingrained into her. She knows she is to please her husband.
"I ate the only thing they brought me!" she hisses. "Toast and orange juice. Does that satisfy you, Lord of Darkness?"
My fingers bite into her skin under the force of my anger, and she cringes. When I realize the power of my grip, I soften it and close my eyes, trying to rein myself back in.
"They brought you only one meal today?"
She is quiet for a moment before she answers, her voice softer this time. "Yes."
"That was a mistake," I answer darkly as I release her.
My thunderous footsteps startle the housekeeper awake before I even reach her door. She is scrambling out of her bed, clinging to her bedsheets when the glow from the hall spills into her room. I never come to this part of The Manor, so she knows something is amiss.
"Mr. De La Rosa," the words falls helplessly from her lips. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything is not okay." I stalk toward her, and she stumbles back, nearly tripping over the sheet in her pale grasp.
"This is about the food, isn't it?" She winces. "Oh, please have mercy. I beg of you."
"Mercy?" I spit the word from my lips with such vehemence she begins to shake. "What mercy should there be for a woman who can't perform the most basic task of feeding my goddamn wife!"
Tears begin to cascade over her cheeks as she shakes her head in denial. "But it was your order, sir! And I know I fed her against your wishes, but she was feeling faint, and I simply could not..."
I draw in a sharp breath and try to calm myself.
"Master, please," Antonia sobs. "I did not mean to offend."
I turn away from her and drag a hand over my face. I hate it when she calls me that. Antonia has known me since I was a boy, and truly, it does not please me to see the old woman cry. She showed me kindness when so many others did not. She cleaned my wounds and kept me fed and never once treated me to a repulsive glance, even at my worst.
In my gut, I know this was not her doing. She is not capable of such betrayal. And for a moment, I wish I could express that sentiment to her. But the dynamic has changed so much since I returned from the hospital. My unpredictable moods and harsh demands have left the staff scurrying around the mansion like church mice, trying their best to remain unseen and unheard. They do not know what to make of the cold, reclusive man who walked out of the flames that night. And I am certain they only see me as the monster I am now.
"Tell me why my wife was only fed once today." I turn back to her slowly, watching Antonia dab her eyes with the sheet.
She takes a shuddering breath and collects herself with a nod. "Mercedes came to me with the instructions this morning," she says softly. "She told me they were your orders. I was only doing as I was told, sir."
Mercedes.
Darkness creeps into the edges of my vision as I give her a stiff nod. "Let me be clear, Antonia. My wife's health is a priority until I say otherwise. That means any orders pertaining to her will only come directly from me. She will eat when she is hungry, and should she have any other needs, I trust you will meet them accordingly."
Relief makes her shoulders sag. "Yes, master."
I grimace at her and shake my head. "And from now on, call me Santiago, for God's sakes. You have known me since I was in diapers."
Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "But, sir, what if the other staff hears me address you as such? It would not be proper."
"To hell with that custom." I wave my hand flippantly. "I am not my father, and you can inform them you have my permission if you must. I don't want to hear another word on the subject."
"Yes, sir." A small, kind smile crosses her lips. "If I may?"
I tilt my head to examine her. "Yes?"
"Mrs. De La Rosa is very beautiful. You have done well for yourself."
I feel my lips tilting at the corners before I dip my head curtly. "Thank you, Antonia. Now, please, attend to her."
Despite Mercedes’s assurance of finding useful employment for her mind this evening, I find her on the computer in the library, stretching the limits of her credit card with luxury clothing.
When she hears me approaching, she nearly knocks the chair back in her haste to get up and greet me. She can tell by the look in my eye that I am not pleased.
"Santiago." She pleads with me as I stalk toward her.
I wrap my fingers around her neck, applying enough pressure to make her sputter. "What the fuck do you think you’re doing?"
"I'm looking after our best interests," she chokes out. "You are letting her get to you already. Giving her that suite. The dress. The ring. This manor. She should be locked in a basement with nothing more than the shame of her family name to keep her warm."
I shove her away with a snarl. "How easily you forget your place."
"My place is beside you, as your equal." She rubs at her throat. "We are De La Rosas. Our blood is stronger than any other. That is why you survived, Santi. So you could lead. And I am here to help you."
"You are here to get in my way."
I pace the length of the floor, conflicted.
Perhaps Mercedes is right. I am letting Ivy get to me. I can see how she might draw such a conclusion, given the luxuries bestowed upon my wife already. But I have a plan, and I trust that will not alter. It is not for my sister to question me, and I must make that clear to her now.
"Betray me again, and you will not like the consequences," I say. "For now, you can accept your punishment graciously."
"Punishment?" She stares at me incredulously.
I seize her Gucci wallet and cell phone from the computer desk and pocket them.
She lunges for me, an expression of horror on her face. "No! You can't do this to me."
"You can have them back when you've shown some contrition for a change. Perhaps it will do you good."
Her jaw sets, and already I can see her plotting her revenge.
"Don't do anything stupid, Mercedes," I warn her menacingly. "You won't like the results if you test my patience further."