Ivy is finishing up the light meal Antonia provided her when I return to her room. A fresh set of candles burns at her bedside, and it's brighter than the last time I saw her.
The gash on her head looks worse than before, and it bothers me more than I’d like.
"Tell me about the cut." I glance down at her. “How did it happen?”
She wipes her hands with a napkin and then folds it over the tray. Her eyes are cast down, and I can tell she's still trying to keep her secrets. But I will not allow it, and she should already be aware of this.
"Ivy." My voice is a warning, but my fingers are soft as they graze the back of her neck.
"I stumbled and fell."
Almost immediately, I contribute this to the faintness Antonia mentioned earlier. But then I remember the bruises on her body. And her reluctance to answer for them as well. She blamed them on the doctor, another matter I have yet to contend with. Though I suspect there is more to it than that.
"Why did you stumble and fall?"
She toys with the hem of the black silk nightgown I purchased for her. "Because I do that sometimes."
In the soft light, she looks more vulnerable than I've ever seen her. Perhaps this is the reason I find myself tilting her face up, so I can study that emotion and try to understand it.
"You can have no secrets from me." I pet her face beneath my palm, and she closes her eyes with a soft shudder. "We can do this the hard way or the easy way. The choice is yours."
"I have vestibular dysfunction," she admits reluctantly. "Sometimes, I get dizzy. Blurry vision. It can affect my balance. It’s a defect I can’t control."
I consider her words carefully, focusing on the term defect she chose with obvious disdain. She believes she is defective. Her eye, and now this. It brings me a strange sense of satisfaction to know this about her. The intimacy of her secret and the realization she is ashamed of it are both a balm to my own scars. But they shouldn't be.
My fingers fall away, and she peeks up at me.
"We'll have to be more careful with you then," I answer ominously. "I didn't realize you were quite so... breakable."
Her eyes harden, and I leave her to stew in her anger as I retreat to her bathroom, gathering the supplies I need. When I return, she is still sitting at the small table, staring down at the hands tangled together in her lap.
"It's time to clean your tattoo," I inform her.
She straightens her spine and tries to glance back at me as I step beside her and drape her hair over one shoulder. She shivers, and I turn her chin away from me, forcing her gaze forward.
Slowly, I peel off the sanitary wrap. I use a wet, soapy cloth to wash over the ink, and fight the strange desire to trace over the symbol of my ownership with my fingers. It’s my family crest. A crowned skull and crossbones flanked by roses and dueling revolvers. This image leaves no question who she belongs to. And to witness my mark upon her skin is more powerful than I expected.
Ivy sucks in a breath as I wash her with a gentleness I'm certain she doesn't expect. I want to inform her it isn't for her benefit, but only so I know the wound will heal properly.
When I have finished cleaning her, I apply more salve, rubbing it into her skin until she bows her head, as if to say it feels good to have a monster's hands upon her. I rub her longer than necessary and then wipe my hands.
There is still work to be done this evening, and I feel as if I am behind already. But it is no longer at the forefront of my mind when my palm skates down over her shoulder and dips into the silk nightgown, skimming over her breast.
Ivy closes her eyes and leans back into me, unaware of how much it affects me when she melts into me. I close my eyes too, hating her for tempting me this way. Hating her for her name. Her blood. Her sweetness that I want to imbibe, even as she poisons me.
My free hand grazes over her neck, reaching for the rosary, only to come up empty. Her shoulders stiffen, and our eyes collide at the same time. Mine dark and hungry, and hers, terrified.
"Santiago," she whimpers.
I grasp her jaw and squeeze it shut. She swallows audibly, and I lean down to her face, my lips a breath from hers.
"I'm beginning to think you actually like my punishments, dear wife."