I must fall asleep at some point, because I wake up when the bedroom door opens. It takes me a minute to remember where I am, what happened. I sit up in the bed, looking around. My shoes are on the floor, along with one stocking, and I’m lying on top of the bed. I have a headache, and my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.
A woman enters, pushing a tray, and I draw the blanket over myself. I smell breakfast. Another two follow her, and I notice they’re all wearing uniforms. Two are housekeepers. The other, room service, maybe? Do they have room service here? I’ve never spent the night, but I guess so. The building is run like a very exclusive hotel.
The two women draw the curtains aside, letting in the bright morning sun. I turn away, feeling like the bride of Dracula as I cover my eyes, then I wipe at the corners of my mouth. A glance at the pillow shows smears of black that have to be eyeliner and mascara. I can imagine what my face looks like.
“What time is it?” I manage hoarsely. There’s no clock on the bedside table, and my phone is in my clutch, which must still be in the other room.
“Nine o’clock, Miss,” the one taking the lid off the breakfast plate says. I glance into the corridor through the open door behind her. Val is gone, but I don’t see anyone else. Is Santos back? What did he do? The way he left here last night, raging, was a little terrifying—and I know one thing for sure. I don’t ever want that rage directed at me.
The two women draw the curtains of the other window open. I didn’t realize it was a two-person job, but okay. We have household staff, too. We don’t need them, if you ask me, but it’s a status thing to our father.
“Breakfast is ready, Miss. Is there anything else you’d like?” the nearby woman asks, the three of them standing back once the curtains are opened and the breakfast plates are uncovered.
I’m not sure how many people Santos thinks will be eating, but there’s enough to feed me about four times over. Then another thought comes. Is he going to come in here and eat with me? Are we going to have breakfast together?
“Where is Santos?” I ask the woman, because the thought of sitting across a table from him for something as mundane as breakfast makes me a little uneasy.
“Mr. Augustine won’t be dining with you. Shall I pour your coffee?”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know, Miss. If that’s all…” She trails off and raises her eyebrows at her two helpers. They all turn to leave the room, and I slip out of the bed. I need my phone. The woman almost has the door closed, but I grab hold of it. She doesn’t fight me off. I’m not sure I expect her to, but she does seem surprised as I draw it open.
“My purse,” I say, although I don’t know why I’m explaining anything. I take a step into the hallway but stop dead in my tracks when a woman who looks to be in her late forties steps into view. She’s dressed in a tweed fitted suit that looks like it was custom made for her, along with a pair of stiletto heeled boots. Her makeup is perfect, her skin dewy with vibrance. Her blond hair is cut short and falls in a sharp angle, and I notice not a single line forms around her eyes when she smiles the tiniest smile at seeing me.
I look down at myself, remember the smear of black on the pillow, and attempt to at least tamp down my hair. This woman is all elegance and style. Right this moment, I am the opposite.
“Ma’am,” the woman in charge of the housekeepers says with a nod to the older woman, who doesn’t bother to acknowledge her. Is this Santos’s mother? I’ve never met her, and the photo or two I’ve seen were older, of when she wore her hair longer in a less severe cut. But her eyes, those are familiar. Like Caius’s eyes.
“So, you are Madelena De Léon,” she says, entering the bedroom and walking me backward into it. “I hope breakfast is to your liking?” she asks, picking a raspberry off the plate of fruit and popping it into her mouth. She doesn’t close the door. I won’t run past her, but I’m not a prisoner here, surely.
Last night was different. Last night was… I don’t know.
“Where is Santos?” I ask because breakfast is the furthest thing from my mind.
“My son left in the early hours. Business.”
“Oh. Uh, I should—”
“Bathroom’s there. Start with washing the night off, perhaps? They say you age seven days when you don’t wash off your makeup before bed.”
I self-consciously touch my face.
“Everything you need should be there. I’ll pour you some coffee. Go on. You have a little time yet.”
I want to ask her what she means, but she turns back to the tray and pours two cups of coffee. She takes hers to the window, looks out over the rough, gray ocean, and sips. I go into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. This is weird.
The towel I’d used last night after washing my hands is still on the countertop, and I run the tap. I take in my reflection. Jesus. I think Dracula’s bride may look better. I’ve got more of a zombie vibe going.
Bending down, I wash my face. I have to use the hand soap to get the makeup off, but I don’t have a choice. Once my face is as clean as it’s going to get without proper makeup remover, I search the drawers for a toothbrush and am grateful when I find two sets of toiletries, his and hers, filled with toothbrushes and sample size toothpaste, hand lotion, and a tiny manicure kit. I unpack a toothbrush and brush my teeth, then smear the lotion onto a cotton swab to wipe away the last of the eyeliner that I couldn’t get off with the soap. I finger comb the tangles out of my hair. It’s a little wavy but not too bad to manage. The dress is wrinkled, but I’ve definitely looked worse.
I take a deep breath in and hope that maybe she’ll be gone before I open the door. No such luck.
She turns to me from the same place at the window. She brushes her hair down over the right side of her face and I realize the skin is damaged there. It looks like an old burn. She smiles. “Now I can see your face. Not too bad,” she says, although she is clearly unimpressed.
“Gee, thanks,” I tell her, annoyed, and move toward the tray to take the cup of coffee she had poured for me. I add cream and sugar, then sip. I watch her as I do. She seems to have no qualms studying me so openly. She’s very much giving off wicked stepmother vibes.
When I clear my throat and glance away, she comes closer and pushes my hair over my shoulder. She touches a long, blood-red fingernail that is just this side of sharp along my cheekbone. “Youth is a gift we all squander,” she says. She brushes my hair back and is standing so close I actually take a step backward because she’s creeping me out.
“Excuse me,” I say, setting the coffee down. “I need my phone.”
“Mother, there you are,” a voice says when I’ve barely taken a step to the door. We both turn to look. Opposite how she looked at me, Evelyn Augustine actually smiles. I guess she isn’t thrilled to have me for her soon to be daughter-in-law. News flash for her, I’m not exactly jumping up and down for joy at the prospect of marrying Santos Augustine or having the evil queen as my mother-in-law.
“Caius, darling.” She goes to him.
He smiles casually, hair still wet from a shower, and glances at me over her shoulder as she kisses his cheek and bids him a good morning. He’s wearing a charcoal cashmere sweater and a pair of black slacks. He has his hands in his pockets, and I see on his wrist the deep blue stones on a bracelet that matches the one I’ve glimpsed on Santos’s wrist. Lapis Lazuli, I think. They look like prayer beads, but honestly I can’t see either of these men praying.
More like they think they’re the gods.
“Mother, I’m not sure Madelena wants to see you first thing in the morning after her first night in Santos’s bed.”
Santos’s bed? This is not his bed. Every drawer is empty. I open my mouth to say that but Caius winks at me.
“Walk of shame and all,” he adds.
“I… What?” Is this really happening?
Evelyn looks back at me with clear disdain. “Don’t worry, dear. We know you’re not that kind of girl. And even if you were, Santos is not that kind of man. He’ll wait until the wedding night. Caius is just being Caius, aren’t you?” she says to him, playfully tugging at the hair behind his ear.
I make myself walk toward the door. I mean to get past them. “I need my phone,” I say to Caius because he’s the one blocking my exit.
He glances to his mother, and they exchange some silent communication. I’m not sure if the brief movement of his head is him telling her to go or what, but Evelyn turns to me with that same empty smile and, without another word, leaves. Caius closes the door behind her and turns to me.
The smile is gone, and I wonder if it was for her benefit. For a moment, he studies me, and I make myself do the same. I can’t be afraid. Or at least, I can’t show it. They won’t hurt me. They need me.
As I study him, I think about how the brothers look nothing alike. Not a single thing. Santos has dark hair, almost black. Caius’s is a dirty blond, darker than his mother’s but similarly thick, too. Santos’s forest green eyes are worlds apart from Caius’s blue ones, bright like a summer day.
But there is nothing summery about this man. There is nothing light about this man. I know it in my gut.
Caius Augustine is dangerous.
“Do you mind?” he asks, picking up a strip of bacon.
“Go ahead,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed because I don’t know what to do with myself.
“I’m starving. Missed dinner,” he explains. “And Santos and I had a little to drink after you went to bed.”
I didn’t exactly go to bed. I was locked in. I get the feeling he knows that, though.
“Needed it after…” He trails off, his gaze moving over me before returning to my eyes. “Well, let’s just say my brother is very protective of you.”
I feel the blood drain from my head, and I’m glad I’m sitting down. “What did he do?” I ask cautiously.
He eats another piece of bacon, then butters toast as he speaks. “I heard what your father did. Pretty shitty.” He bites into his toast, sending crumbs everywhere. “Good news is, I know for a fact he will never lay a finger on you again,” he says with a wide smile as he chews the rest of the toast before picking up my juice and drinking it all, washing his breakfast down. He makes a satisfied sound and sets the glass back on the tray.
“What does that mean?”
He wipes his hands on a cloth napkin then drops it. “Those details aren’t for a young lady’s ears.”
What the fuck is wrong with him? He’s enjoying this, without a doubt, and I don’t know what’s going on.
“Is my father okay?” I ask, scared of the answer as soon as the words are out.
He shrugs a shoulder. “Mostly. He won’t hurt you again. That’s what counts.” He checks his watch. “You should eat something. We have a few minutes.”
Feeling a sudden chill, I hug my arms to my chest. “I want to talk to my brother.”
“Oh, he’s fine. Odin, right?”
I nod, relieved. Although he could be lying.
“I need to call him. He’s probably so worried. I fell asleep. Santos… The man he left, he wouldn’t even let me out to get my phone.”
“Val. He’s very loyal to my brother. Bit of a cement block up here,” he says, tapping his head, “but I guess that’s what you want in a soldier. All muscle, no brains.”
I get up and take a step toward the door because this conversation will go nowhere. Caius Augustine will play with me. That is all. But before I take another, he’s in front of me—blocking my path, standing too close.
“Hmm…” he trails off. “There’s been a change of plans.”
I try to sidestep him, but he matches my movement. “I want my phone.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not possible.” He checks his watch. “In fact, we should go. You sure you don’t want anything to eat?”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, then, the car should be downstairs.”
“I don’t need a car. My brother can pick me up.” I do drive but we’d come to the charity together. I try once more to pass Caius, and this time, he catches my arm to stop me.
“He’s probably occupied,” he says.
That makes me stop. “I want to go home.” I need to see Odin. Talk to him. Make sure he’s really okay.
“Home where your dad beat you?” he asks, no joking in his tone or facial expression. “Home where you’re unprotected?”
“I…” I pull free of him, rub my temples because the headache is worse. “What’s happening? Where is Santos? I have two more years. I know I have two more years. It’s in the contract.”
“When your father beat you—”
“Can you not say it like that?” I say, taking a few steps away.
“How should I say it?” he asks, stalking toward me, any joking—even if it was fake— gone. “When he whipped you? When he turned your legs black and blue?” He gestures down, and I cover what he can see. The bruises on my inner thighs are exposed every time I move, and the dress splits now that the stockings are gone. “How else? Any other way to put it?”
I don’t respond and he sighs.
“Like I was saying, when your father beat you, he breached the contract. He attempted to damage what was not his. What is ours.”
I look up at him, very, very aware of the word he just used. I belong to Santos. I know that. My brain has had time to process the insanity of it.
But I do not belong to this man.
“We’re taking ownership now,” he says.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
His phone buzzes with a text and he lifts it out of his pocket. He types a reply, then puts it away and turns back to me. “Car’s ready. I’ll take you home to get a few things. We’ll have the rest packed up and sent. Your flight is in a little over an hour, so we won’t have much time.”
“What flight?” Panic has me going along with him when he takes my arm and walks me back into the room.
“You’ll want your shoes.”
I look down at the discarded stocking, the shoes lying on their sides. I slip them on absently, then follow along as he takes me out of the bedroom.
Evelyn is standing at the window, talking to someone on the phone. She turns her back to us as Caius leads me out the front door where a different soldier accompanies us on the elevator, down to the lobby.
“What flight?” I ask again as we cross it, only a few people milling about. The rest will be passed out in their beds. The ones who are here watch us go. “School starts—”
“I’ll explain it all on our way,” he says as we exit the building and a man opens the door of an SUV with tinted windows. I climb into the back seat, and Caius follows. The door closes, and the soldier settles into the passenger seat as the man who opened the door for us takes the driver’s side.
“Explain what?” I ask Caius, who makes a point of dragging my seatbelt across my chest in a move that feels much more oppressive, much more foreboding, than it should.
“Safety first,” he says with a raise of his eyebrows. He puts on his seatbelt too.
“Explain what?” I ask more loudly, really panicking now.
“Turns out you won’t be attending the local art school after all. You’ll be happy to know I’ve found a small, but highly regarded school down in Georgia, in Savannah in fact. Very pretty city. Have you been?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’ll assume that’s a no?”
“Just tell me what’s going on.”
Again, he sighs, then leans his head against the headrest and studies me. “Like I said, my brother feels very protective of you. I can guess why, but not sure I agree with his methods. Regardless, I will do what he wants. Like Val, I’m loyal to my brother too.” There’s a momentary curling of the lip, but it’s gone so fast I’m not sure I didn’t imagine it. “You’ll attend the school in Georgia for the next two years, after which the wedding will take place and you’ll come back to Avarice as Santos Augustine’s wife. My sister-in-law.” He sets his hand on his chin like he’s thinking. “Too soon to call you sis?” The last part is said with a questioning look.
I’m struck mute for a moment.
“But… What about my brother?” There’s no one else to ask about. I don’t have friends. I don’t care about my father. But Odin?
“You’ll have to discuss visitation with Santos.”
“Visitation? What am I, a prisoner?” It was meant as a joke, but my voice quavers.
He just looks at me like I’m either the stupidest person he ever met, or I’ve just said the most obvious thing in the world, and I exhale.
Because I am exactly that. Because last night, I was locked in that room. Because I still don’t have my phone or any other way to contact Odin or anyone else—not that there is anyone else. They’ll lock me away for the next two years until I marry Santos Augustine, then I’ll be a prisoner in a different house.
“You can’t do this,” I say, my voice quiet, as we turn onto our street.
Caius types out a text, his attention on his phone, not on me when he speaks. “We can. We are,” he says, and looks at me just as the car comes to a stop. “You’ll find when you’re an Augustine, you can do whatever you want, whenever you want, to whomever you want.” His words sound ugly, his expression uglier.
He climbs out of the car when his door is opened, then comes to my side to open my door. He takes my arm in a grip a little harder than it needs to be.
Once I’m out, he smiles his cool smile. “Lucky for you, you’ll soon be an Augustine.”