And for a moment, the weaker part of me, the scared part thinks maybe I should have kissed his shoe.
But then he’s reined himself in, and I think this side of my husband is more frightening than the outwardly angry side. This quiet is more terrifying.
Because his eyes hold a promise inside them.
I’ll deal with you later.
“Close your eyes,” he says, voice low, not a whisper but simply quiet.
I do.
He pulls me close, and I gasp when he kisses me hard on the mouth, my hands coming to his chest as his fingers claw painfully into the ruined twist of my hair, his hard body against mine as I bend over backward to take his kiss. A small taste of what he’ll do tonight.
15
Santiago
De La Rosa Manor is quiet and dark when Marco drops us off at the front entrance. My wife peers up at the mansion with what I can only guess are equal parts apprehension and curiosity. The exterior is constructed from stone in a gothic revival architectural style. Carved buttresses, Palladian windows, ornate gables, and rambling vines of ivy lavish the historic structure she will come to know as her own personal prison.
An almost ever-present fog seems to lurk around the property, lending to the mystery of the area. Small groups of terrified tourists often peer through the gates outside while their guides whisper hushed rumors of the hauntings that occur here. But the only ghosts Ivy will need to concern herself with are those of my father and brother, calling out from beyond the grave for her Moreno blood.
She swallows and clutches the torn shreds of her dress to her body as her toes dig into the earth. It’s these tiny signs of protest I study with interest. Though the air is sticky tonight, there’s a noticeable chill moving through her as goose bumps break out along her skin.
Some traditions have no merit in The Society, but it is a selfish need that leads me to scoop her up into my arms and carry her across the lawn. She is still without shoes, and I want her soft for me. The scars I leave will be with careful deliberation, and it would be careless of me to let her injure her feet already. There is still much to be done tonight, and I won’t waste my time tending to wounds so easily prevented.
She glances up at me with wide, confused eyes as I carry her up the stairs and across the threshold. Uncertainty clouds her features as the heavy door slams shut behind us, sealing her in with the monster she didn’t want me to be.
“I’m capable of walking,” she says, but her voice lacks the conviction to fight.
She is tired after the day’s events, a fact made obvious by the heaviness of her eyes. It’s already past three in the morning. But I have no doubt she will revive when a cascade of adrenaline and cortisol flood her body. Fear has a way of waking up even those near death.
I continue up the grand stairs to the second level, carrying her down the corridor with an efficiency she doesn’t seem to appreciate. From my arms, she’s craning her neck, trying to take in the details of her surroundings. An opportunity I steal from her without regret.
When I enter the guest suite, I finally deposit her onto her feet. She takes a moment to glance around the space, examining the antique furnishings, ornamental rugs, and rich shades of plum and black. Everything is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, a detail Ivy doesn’t miss as her eyes flick to the light switch.
“Is this your room?” she asks.
“Let go of your dress,” I command.
She glances up at me, renewed defiance in the set of her jaw. Her obstinance isn’t doing her any favors, as she couldn’t possibly know how much I love the thought of breaking her. I step closer, my fingertips moving to her throat. Already, her pulse is escalating, and she can’t hide the nerves in her eyes.
I reach down to the torn dress she’s clutching to her body and yank it out of her grasp. The remaining seams of fabric give way with a splitting groan before falling into shreds at her feet. She slaps her hands over her breasts, and my dark laughter pierces the space between us.
“There’s no place for your modesty here.” I lean in to whisper the words against the shell of her ear. “I will own every inch of you, dear wife.”
A shudder moves through her as I forcefully pry her hands away and pull them back to her sides. She is completely naked and completely mine. A beautiful, shivering feminine form of gently sloping curves and valleys my palms are burning to explore.
But first, control.
“Kneel.”
She hesitates, her eyes darting to the door behind me.
I slide my fingers into her hair and fist a handful, forcing her to arch back until she has no choice but to let her knees buckle and do as I request. Once she is on her knees, I release her, leaving her face only a few inches from the heat of my throbbing cock. Her eyes dart to the bulge in my trousers, and she licks her dry lips as her nerves bleed into every muscle fiber of her body.
I nudge my leather shoe between her knees and force them apart until just a hint of her pussy peeks through. From my trouser pocket, I produce the rosary necklace I’ve been carrying all day. An ornate design with a white gold cross flanked by sturdy obsidian and shungite beads. It’s lengthy enough that when I drape it over her shoulders, it dangles between her breasts. I could wrap it around her neck twice and still have room to play.
Ivy glances down to examine the jewelry as I curl the beads in my fist. She may understand the significance of religion and punishment, as it is deeply ingrained in our society, but she could never know the extent of it like I do. I want this necklace to feel heavy on her soul, always. A constant burden she must carry around like the weight of her sins. A permanent reminder of who she is and who she belongs to.
“Never take this off,” I tell her. “Do you understand?”
When she doesn’t answer, I tighten my grip and increase the pressure around her throat. Her hands come up to mine, panic blotting out the light in her eyes.
“I understand.” She winces. “Please.”
I relax my grip, and without thinking, my free hand comes to rest on her head, petting her hair until her eyes flutter shut. It wasn’t my intention to calm her, but it appears that’s exactly what I’m doing, and I can’t understand it. How can she possibly find any solace in my presence? Doesn’t she realize what she’s signed her life over to?
“You defied me.” My voice is unusually gruff. “Again.”
She opens her eyes, and she does not need an explanation. She understands exactly what I’m referring to.
“It’s demeaning,” she clips out.
“It’s the life you agreed to. You knew the rules when you pledged yourself to The Society.”
“As if I had a choice.” Her voice wavers, and moisture clings to the edges of her eyes, but she’s trying desperately not to let it fall.
“We always have a choice.” I tilt her chin up and stare into her eyes. “You still have a choice. You could choose to run at any moment, but you should know it would be a wasted effort. I would track you like a bloodhound, and I would always find you and bring you back to me. This is a promise I can make you. But it is only one of many. I think you understand there is no limit to my power over your life. There will be much bigger battles to come, so why choose defiance over something so small?”