1 Year Later
My father hung on a lot longer than the doctors had expected, but still not long enough. The funeral was hard, really fucking hard, and I need to get away.
Just for a night.
“Just about there, sir,” says the driver, nearly startling me.
I nod, shift my gaze back out the window, and watch the fading lights of Savannah, Georgia.
I’m not actually sure why I came here. It makes no sense. I won’t find comfort here. I know that. I tuck my hand into my pocket and feel the small velvet box there. This is why, I remind myself. It’s bullshit, but it’s what I tell myself.
I have weekly reports about Madelena’s progress at the all-girls private art school where she’s enrolled. Like in her various schools in Avarice, she hasn’t made friends and isn’t trying to, according to the headmistress. The college is a small, Catholic college where most of the classes are taught by nuns. The students all wear the same uniform and attend mass weekly.
I’m not sure why I like the idea. I’m not a religious man. My time with the Commander may even have me repulsed by the idea, but there’s something to it, to the ceremony, the ritual. Maybe it’s the old-fashioned nature of it. Although the scent of incense makes me nauseous. Too many bad memories. Even today, at my own father’s funeral mass, I almost choked on it.
The SUV slows, and I sit up to watch as the large Gothic style mansion comes into view beyond the gates. The mansion is original, and the school itself sits on acres of land enclosed by twelve-foot stone walls. The grounds are gated, the classes given in one of the more modern buildings. The dorms are housed in new construction built to match the old.
Madelena has the best room in the original mansion. I made sure of that. She is also one of the few without a roommate. I knew she’d want her privacy.
A little farther, I can see the hulking shadows of the outer dorm buildings and the chapel. It’s two in the morning. The campus is asleep—apart from Sister Catherine.
My phone rings as the SUV slows. I take it out of the breast pocket of my jacket and consider not answering it, consider switching it back off. But what comes next, what comes after the burial, is not something I can put off forever.
I accept the call. “Brother.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Caius asks without a greeting. “Where are you?”
The funeral was a few hours ago. It was larger than I’d thought it would be, although I suppose it’s not surprising that the good folk of Avarice paid their respects to the newest and most powerful family to join their ranks.
But it was overwhelming in a way I didn’t expect and I was unprepared. What I needed most after that, what I wanted most, was to be alone.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I say.
“The will is scheduled to be read in seven hours. Think you can make it by then?”
No, I won’t. I rub my forehead, then sigh. He doesn’t know what’s coming, doesn’t know how disappointed he will be tomorrow. I do. I was privy to the details—another gift from a father to his favored son. His blood son.
“I needed to get away, Caius. Just for a little bit. Surely you can understand that today of all days.”
“And you left me behind.”
“Mom needed one of us. She prefers you.”
“Like Dad preferred you?”
“Caius.”
“Besides, she doesn’t need anyone,” he says, sounding more vulnerable than I’ve heard him sound in a long time. “Where are you?”
“Savannah.”
“Ah.” I hear him sigh, then take a swallow of something. It’s whiskey, most likely, although he does have a bad habit of drinking good wine straight from the bottle.
“Look, I needed to be away.”
“I get it,” he says after a long silence.
“You going to be all right?” I ask him, feeling a little guilty for having left him behind.
“I’ll be fine. When are you coming back?”
“Tomorrow. Put the reading off until the next morning.”
“Fine. But why go see her? What will that do? What are you hoping for?”
“I don’t know. It was the only place I could think of.”
“Well, if you’re expecting a warm welcome, I have a feeling you’re going to be disappointed.”
That I know. Her letters have told me as much, letters I required of her, but it hadn’t been entirely unexpected. I cut her off from her life entirely, from her brother, although I am aware she’s had contact with him.
The other girls have cell phones. She’s been using one of theirs. As far as her father, I don’t imagine she cared much about keeping in touch with him.
I required her to write to me once a month. I don’t know why, and I’m not sure what I’d expected—maybe to hear from her that she was all right even if she hated me. It’s stupid. I said it on a whim to the headmistress, maybe half-expecting the letters not to come, but they had. Although they weren’t exactly letters. They were sketches—self-portraits—of her flipping me off. I smile a rare smile at the memory.
I used to write letters when I was younger, too, with Alexia, the girl who never got to become a woman. The girl who Madelena reminds me of, though not in looks or behavior or anything I can put my finger on. It’s just something about them both. A vulnerability. Maybe that they both need protecting from those closest to them because in looks and personality, she and Alexia couldn’t be more different. Alexia and I used to write to each other during the summers when she was away visiting family on the west coast. I still have every one of them.
"Look, I need to go. I’ll be back tomorrow evening. We’ll talk then.”
“All right. You take care, brother.”
“You too.”
I disconnect the call and slip my phone back into my pocket. When the SUV comes to a stop, a light goes on in the foyer. Sister Catherine opens the front door. By nature she’s not a very welcoming woman, but she does paste a false smile on. She doesn’t like me. Honestly, the feeling’s mutual. I don’t like her either, and I hadn’t from the moment I’d met her.
But by then, Caius had arranged everything for Madelena, so I just made sure the nun knew my expectations of her where they concerned Madelena.
“Mr. Augustine. Always a pleasure,” she says flatly, closing the door once I enter.
“I doubt it’s a pleasure at this hour, sister.”
Without any more pleasantries, she reaches into her tunic pocket and retrieves a single key on a thin chain.
I take it. She looks at me, and I wonder if she’d say something if I wasn’t Santos Augustine, if my money didn’t ensure the survival of Sacred Heart College of Art for Talented Young Ladies and keep her very comfortable. But it does. Anyone who thinks nuns don’t care about material comforts has never met Sister Catherine.
“Up those stairs. Room 1.”
“Thank you. Please go to bed, Sister. I’ll see myself out.”
She nods, and I wait for her to leave before I head up two sets of stairs to the narrower one that spirals upward to the third floor. It’s where the two best rooms are. Madelena has one, and a student one year older than her has the other.
The halls are lit by soft lights, but the corridors are dark. I swear the faint smell of incense permeates the ancient wood here. I breathe through my mouth. But maybe I’m imagining it because the chapel is housed in a separate building far from this one.
I arrive at Madelena’s door and listen. All is quiet. I’m sure she’s asleep. I insert the key into the lock and hear the click of it unlocking. I turn the old doorknob and push the door open, careful so it won’t creak too loudly.
The room is shadowy, but there are two windows where only the sheerest lace curtains are drawn. One of them is open a crack to let in the cool night air. The heavier drapes are left open, and the moon casts enough light for me to take in the details. The desk with its books stacked on one corner, a notebook open with the pen laid across the page. A sweater draped over the back of the desk chair. Textbooks stacked on a chair pushed against the wall.
Two framed photos sit on the edge of the desk, a selfie taped to the front of one. I pick up the first frame to study it. The photo that’s stuck to it is printed on plain paper. Odin’s arm is outstretched, and Madelena has her head against his shoulder. They’re almost smiling. The one inside the frame is a woman and a boy of about three. Odin and their mother. Madelena is a carbon copy of her mother who is heavily pregnant in the photo.
I wonder how much of the events of the day her mother died Madelena remembers. She was quite young. It would be a blessing if she had no memory of it, but I get the feeling that’s not the case. The fact that her mother had meant to take Madelena with her—and that the imbecile father blames her for her mother’s suicide—must make it all much more complex for Madelena to navigate.
I set the photo down and pick up the second one. Something twists in my gut to see it. It’s brother and sister standing on either side of their uncle, Jax Donovan. They all have big, goofy smiles on their faces, and in the background is a roller coaster. The night she met me, she’d buried her beloved uncle. I’ll never forget the look on her face. How she looked like she’d been crying forever.
I put this photo face-down on the desk and shift my attention to the wall where she has a multitude of sketches haphazardly taped up. I recognize her style and have to grin. This looks to be the wall of obscenity. They’re like the rude sketches I receive. I’ve kept them all because strangely, they’ve made me laugh. The ones here are more serious. Most are self-portraits, while others are line art I can’t quite make out in this light.
One draws my attention, and I peer closer. This one is different. It’s her and it looks like she had a mirror in front of herself to draw the sketch because her head is resting in one hand, hair like a veil, golden eyes the only thing of color in the sketch. I peel it off the wall, and it rips a little where the tape sticks. I look closer. She’s not wearing makeup. And I’m wrong. The gold is not the only color. There is a subtle blue beneath her eyes, shadows like bruises. I try to read the expression in them because I’m not sure why this one has caught my eye. For one thing, it’s not her flipping me off, and it’s not flattering either. It’s too raw for that. Too real. Too vulnerable.
That’s it, I realize. That’s why.
I fold it carefully and tuck it into my breast pocket beside my phone.
A dresser stands against the far wall with a mirror on top. It’s tilted downward since it’s so high. The door to the bathroom beyond is left slightly ajar. I walk to it, lean in to see it. It’s small with a stand-up shower that would be too tight for me. There’s a cracked mirror over the pedestal sink and a toilet. A makeup bag sits open on the edge of the sink. It’s smeared with foundation. A tube of lipstick lies on its side, and I pick it up, open it. It’s a deep, dark red and it’s almost gone. I read the name. Car-crash red. With a shake of my head, I set it down. It’s apt, the name. Our lives are like a fucking car crash.
Back in the bedroom, I turn my attention to her bed. It’s pushed to the wall directly beneath one of the windows. I go to it and there, beneath a heavy duvet, is the sleeping form of Madelena, her back to me, with hair longer than I remember spilling across the white pillow.
I watch her. I just stand there for a long, long minute watching.
Why did I come? Why here? Why to her?
She makes a sound. I wonder if she can feel my presence, feel my eyes on her. She shifts from her side to her back as I hold my breath. Did I wake her?
No, she stills, and I draw the blanket up to cover her bare shoulder, taking a moment to run the back of my hand over the soft, pale skin of it.
As if she feels the tickle of my touch, she stretches her arm out and turns her head toward me. She doesn’t normally wear jewelry. I noticed that before too. Nothing. Not even to her prom or to the formal charity event.
Her arm is slender, the muscle of her bicep lean, her narrow wrist so small I’m sure if I wrapped my thumb and pinky finger around it, they’d overlap. Her fingers are long, her hand delicate. The bitten-down nails are painted black but have chipped badly.
I give myself one more minute to look at her face while it’s relaxed, while she’s relaxed. Then I clear my throat.
She startles, eyelids flying open, and bolts upright with a gasp. Big honey-colored eyes stare back at me as her hands clutch the duvet and she presses her back against the wall. “What the—”
“Shh,” I say, putting a finger lightly to her lips. “We don’t want to wake your neighbor.”
She stares up at me, and I see realization dawning as a cloud drifts from the moon and its light shines in from the window. A furrow forms between her brows, but she relaxes a little too, beginning to look more curious than scared. She surveys the room as if expecting to find others, then looks down at herself. I follow her gaze. She’s wearing a light pink tank top. It’s the first time I’m seeing her in something other than black, and I like it. I like her in color.
But then my gaze shifts to the pebbled nipples of her breasts, and my mind moves in a different direction. As if sensing this, she draws the duvet up to cover herself and shudders.
I clear my throat, walk to the window, and close it. When I turn back to her, she’s reaching to the foot of the bed where the ugliest green cardigan I’ve ever seen is draped over the footboard. She straightens, draws back against the wall when I pick up the sweater and hand it to her.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks, taking it, slipping it on and buttoning just the top two buttons. Her gaze moves the clock on the bedside table. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Do you always wake up angry?”
“Only when I wake up to strange men lurking over my bed.”
“Well, I hope I’m the only man who’s lurked over your bed. If not, I’ll have to talk with the sisters.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, pushing the duvet back. She’s wearing short shorts. I wonder if she’s aware just how much of an eyeful she’s giving me as she reaches to switch on the lamp on the nightstand. She looks up at me, and I clear my throat for having been caught looking. “You’ve made sure not a single man came near me for the last four years.” She gets out of the bed and crosses to the dresser while I lean against the wall and watch her slender legs, the curve of her ass.
“I beg to differ,” I say, distracted. “On several occasions, I’ve had to rescue you from various men. Just think what would have happened if I hadn’t been there.”
She glances back, rolls her eyes, and opens a drawer, which promptly gets stuck. She tugs, cursing. I fold my arms and grin because she really has no idea how appealing she is to me right now, all damsel in distress.
It’s not that I have a thing for damsels in distress. Just her.
She tries the drawer again, but it doesn’t budge. She gives up, bends to open the bottom one, giving me an excellent view of her ass as the shorts ride up. I adjust myself. On her way up, she hits the back of her head on the bottom of the stuck drawer and curses again.
I chuckle, and she turns to glare at me. She flips me off and walks into the bathroom, where she slams the door.
I put the stuck drawer back into place while she’s gone, and a moment later, she reappears wearing a pair of sweats. The green sweater is buttoned all the way and her hair is brushed.
“You didn’t have to do all that for me.”
“I did it so you’d stop gawking. What’s the matter? Not enough action from the blonds you like to date?”
“Careful, Little Kitty, or I’m going to think you’re jealous.” I walk her backward to the wall.
“I’m not jealous.”
“Good. Because like I said last time, I prefer brunettes. And besides, I haven’t had a blond or a brunette or redhead or anything for the last decade.”
That stops her and, quite frankly, me too. Why the hell did I just tell her that?
“Right,” she says, her forehead still furrowed in consternation as she studies me.
I touch the line between her eyebrows, rub it. She relaxes her face.
“I like you without the makeup,” I say, brushing her hair behind her ear.
She swipes my hand away. “Are you drunk?”
“Am I drunk because I like you without a pound of makeup on your face?”
“Just in general.”
“No, I don’t drink for the most part.”
“Everyone drinks.”
“Not me.” I pick up a lock of hair. The ends curl around my finger. “I can see you without all that crap on your face. You’re very pretty, Madelena.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Fake compliment me. I don’t care what you think,” she says defensively, clearly uncomfortable with the attention.
“It’s not fake. You’re pretty. That’s all.” I let her hair slip from the palm of my hand and brush the line of her jaw with the knuckles of two fingers. Holding her gaze, I slide them down over her throat, her collarbone, to the pulse at her neck. “Are you afraid of me?”
She bites her lip, looking uncertain.
I let my hand wander lower to undo the top button of her sweater.
She grabs hold of my hand to stop me. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I want to see you.” She studies me with caution. “Just see.” I’m not sure she believes me. Hell, I’m not sure I do.
She swallows audibly as I move a little closer so she can’t slip past me as I undo another button. She watches me continue, breathing in short, shallow breaths. When I’ve undone the top three, she closes both hands over mine and looks up at me.
“Stop,” she says, and I see how dark her eyes have gone, how the gold has turned into a deep amber around enlarged pupils.
“I want to see you.”
I’m hard. And it’s not just her breathing that’s ragged. She’s beautiful. Maybe not to society’s ridiculous standards but to me. But there’s more. There’s a brokenness inside her. An aloneness. A hurt. And alongside those things, determination. Strength, even. Not enough of it, but it’s there, and if nurtured, it will grow. To a certain extent, she seeks a guiding hand. She’d never admit it, but there’s a part of her that is searching for it.
Maybe that’s what it is, my own selfish need to be that person. I don’t know. Hell, after this day, I don’t know anything, and that’s part of it too. She’s clean. She’s innocent. She’s not part of the ugly world of Avarice. I’ve rescued her from it. Kept her safe from it. For now.
I shake my head. I feel drunk even though I haven’t had a drop. She does that to me, makes everything so much more. All I know for sure is that right now, I want to see her. Touch her. Feel her beneath me. Right now, I need to be close to her.
When I brush off her hands to continue, she allows it and I peel her sweater open to look at her nipples pebbling against the soft pink of her tank top again. I lean closer to her, bend to bring my nose to her neck and breathe her in, picking up the lingering scent of aftershave. My aftershave.
“You smell like me.”
I watch her throat flush red as embarrassment creeps up to her cheeks.
“Don’t worry, Little Kitty. I like it.”
I cup the back of her head and kiss her throat as I slip my other hand under her tank and hear her intake of breath when skin touches skin. I kiss her jaw, her cheek, then hover my mouth over hers when I weigh her breast in one hand and feel the tight nipple beneath my thumb. I watch her face, her eyes dark now, ringed with a fiery copper.
When her mouth opens, I kiss her, and fuck me, I don’t remember a kiss feeling like this or tasting like this. It must be the years of self-imposed celibacy.
I’ve only been with one other woman in my life, but as I deepen the kiss, as I slip my tongue inside her mouth and taste her, I think how much I want this.
Need it. Need her.
I realize that somehow over these years, she’s become a part of me. My oath did more than bind her to me. It bound me to her.
Her hands come to my chest, and she mutters something against my mouth. The words are a jumble I swallow, because right now I need this woman more than I’ve needed anyone in a very, very long time. Maybe it’s the day, the funeral; maybe it’s the years that have passed. Or maybe it’s what’s coming. But right now, I need her every breath, every sound, every touch.
“Madelena,” I whisper against her skin. She’s soft and warm, and I taste her on my lips. I slide my fingers back down over her belly past the elastic waist of the jogging pants and I breathe in her gasp when my fingers slip into those tight little shorts, the tips just brushing against the hair there when she bites my lip hard and shoves against me.
“Stop!” she cries out.
I step backward as if struck. I touch my thumb to my lip. It comes away red. “What the hell?”
“What the hell? I said stop! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Out of breath, she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth.
I clench my teeth, watch her, see how the wall is holding her up. What the hell am I doing? What was that?
She gathers her strength before my eyes. It’s something to see. “You may dictate my life, but I have another year. I know that. Another year before you force me into your bed!”
I shove my hands into my pockets, make fists, because I don’t like where this is going. Not necessarily because what she’s saying isn’t true, but it’s that one word. Force. “Your name is on the contract. You offered your hand willingly.”
“If I hadn’t, wouldn’t you have taken it?” I open my mouth to smooth things over, but she continues. “Like you were about to take something else?”
Those final words stop me dead. “What did you say?” I close that space between us and back her into that wall again.
She looks uncertain for the second time this night, but she’s more stubborn than smart because she sets her jaw and folds her arms across her chest. “You heard me.”
I snort, but I’m furious at her, furious for what she’s suggesting. I wouldn’t force her or any woman into my bed.
I set my hands on either side of her head and watch her eyes shift left, right, then back at me. That pulse that was racing moments ago is racing again, throbbing against her neck, but this time it’s an adrenaline rush of fear. Not arousal.
“Don’t ever say anything like that again. Do you hear me?”
“Then don’t do anything like—”
I slam my hands against the wall, and she jumps. “Do you hear me!”
She nods fast, hands against my chest again as she tries to keep me back. I glance away, my gaze catching on our reflection in the mirror over the dresser. When I see us, I’m taken aback. I see how her back is pressed against the wall, see how I hulk over her, trapping her there. The beast who very clearly terrifies the beauty.
She’s a decade younger than me. A hundred pounds lighter than me. Barely a woman, and a completely inexperienced one at that. What am I doing here?
I shouldn’t have come.
I push off the wall and walk away, my back to her as I force myself to breathe in, breathe out. To calm the fuck down.
“Apologize,” I grunt without turning to her, because I am pissed. I’m just not sure if it’s at her or myself.
“Will you leave if I do?” she asks, rebellion still in her trembling voice. I’m glad to hear it.
I nod once. I’m not welcome here. Coming here was stupid. Giving her the engagement ring was a stupid excuse I fed myself. My brother was right. What the hell did I hope to gain by coming here?
“Then I’m sorry if what I said upset you.”
I hear her non-apology and turn to face her, look her over. I shake my head on an audible exhale. Just a little thing, my Little Kitty. Her claws are no match for my teeth, and tonight is not the night for this. I need to leave before I do something stupid.
“Come here,” I say, reaching into my pocket.
She hugs herself as if she’s cold but steps toward me, never taking her eyes off me as if she could run from me if I pounce. But she comes. I’ll give her points for that. I take her arm. She resists at first, but I draw it out, hold her hand. I look again at the chipped, bitten-down nails. I turn it over to look at her palm, tracing the scar I left. One of many to come, I think, even if they are the kind you don’t see. The thought weighs heavy on me as I slide the ring onto her finger.
Madelena gasps, clearly not expecting this. I shift my gaze to hers and watch her take it in, watch the play of emotions on her face. Confusion. Curiosity. Caution. Confusion again.
She draws away when I release her.
“I will come for you in one year’s time. You will be my bride. Prepare yourself. Do whatever you need to do to wrap your brain around that. Because you are right. You will sleep in my bed. You will be mine in every way. And if you fight me, it won’t be you I punish.”
“What does that mean?”
“You love your brother very much, don’t you?” It’s a low blow, but there it is.
“Wh… What?”
“Just be ready, Madelena.”
“How dare you—” she starts, but I stalk toward her, take hold of her, and spin her around so her back is against my chest and I have my hand over her mouth.
“Close your mouth. It’s not your turn.” She opens it again. “And if you fucking bite, so help me…”
She shuts her mouth. It’s the first smart thing she’s done tonight, yet her stubby fingernails don’t stop digging into my forearm.
“You just make sure you keep yourself on my good side. Because being my wife will offer you some protections. But being my enemy?” I lean my mouth close to her ear so I’m sure she hears my words, feels them to her core. “That will only get you one thing. My wrath. And you do not want that, Madelena. You do not want to be my enemy.” She shudders. Good. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, I understand you, Santos. I’ve always understood you.”
“Good.” I release her, unsatisfied. “That doesn’t come off,” I say, pointing to the ring. “You eat with it, sleep with it, shower with it.” I step toward her and, with a finger under her chin, tilt her face up to mine. “And when you use your little fingers to finish what I started tonight, you think of me as you press that diamond against your soft little pussy when you come.”
“Get off me.” She jerks her face away, but I see how red her cheeks are.
I grip her jaw and make her look at me. “It never comes off. Clear?”
“Crystal!”
I nod, take one more look around the room and cross it to the door.
“Why did you even come here tonight?” she asks.
I look over my shoulder.
She holds up her hand and I look at the oversized diamond on her small finger. She’ll feel the weight of it every minute of every day. She’ll think of me every time she looks at it.
“You didn’t fly all the way here to give me this in the middle of the night.”
With those words, with all that just happened, I feel more wretched than I did when I got here. I don’t fucking know why the hell I came.
“I buried my father today,” I say, feeling those words deep in my gut, feeling them devour me from the inside out. That beast I keep buried in that black hole that lives inside me, that is so much a part of me, throbs and comes alive. It wants to smother me, to swallow me whole.
But it’s not that that does me in in the end. It’s her. It’s the look on her face, how her mouth opens into a surprised O. It’s the way her eyes soften. It’s the step she takes toward me.
It’s those things that have me turning away and walking down the stairs and out of that building into the back of the waiting SUV. It’s those things that have me telling the driver to take me to the nearest hole in the wall that’s open all night and drinking myself into oblivion. Because even though as a rule I don’t drink now, I used to. I know what men are capable of when they drink. I know what I’m capable of.
But some nights, it’s not a choice.
And tonight is one of those nights.