I walk into the living room with its rose petal windows. The mural on the ceiling is obscured. I peer up at it, then turn a circle to take it in. It’s spectacular still, the art, the architecture of the house itself, all the arches, the nooks, the darkness.
I run my fingers over the closed piano lid. I wonder if anyone plays. I wish I did, but I don’t have much of a talent for it.
A clock chimes. It must be seven thirty. I walk out of the living room in search of the dining room. I find it only because I hear the barest hint of sound. Music. Low and dark and so fitting for this place.
As I follow it, I wonder if the rooms form almost a circle around the large hall. I wonder if I were to have an aerial view if the house itself would be in the shape of a rose.
I touch the back of my neck lightly. I saw the tattoo today. I expected a rose, but it’s not that. Or not only that. What caught my eye first was the skull. Then the roses. Then the dueling pistols.
Violence and death and beauty all at once.
I pause when I reach the entrance of the dining room. Santiago is standing at the window, drink in hand, facing away from me. He’s so still I wonder what thoughts he’s lost in. I take a moment to study him because I am hopelessly curious about my husband. I didn’t expect to be. He’s beautiful from here. No, he’s beautiful period, even with his skull face. It’s his pain. I see it even when he’s cruel. Maybe especially then. And it does something to me.
But it’s not his pain that draws me now. It's something much more primal. His height. His broad shoulders. The suit jacket that hugs his muscles. How very masculine he is.
Heat flushes through me as I remember wrapping my hands around his biceps. How strong he is. How much stronger than me. How much bigger.
Just as I take a step into the room, a wave of vertigo hits. I miss the single stair, and when I trip, I just manage to catch the sideboard to stop from falling to the floor but knock something off the other end. It clatters to the floor, and Santiago flinches like he’s startled, then spins to face me, eyebrows furrowed, expression dark as if remembering himself.
“I’m sorry!” I’m embarrassed. I blink hard, keeping my hand on the sideboard to steady myself and hurry around to pick up the antique silver candelabra lying on its side on the floor, grateful nothing is broken.
He stalks toward me setting his glass down on the candlelit table to take me by one arm and the candelabra in the other. He sets it back on the sideboard and turns to me, looking me over.
“Are you all right?” He studies me intently.
I nod, forcing myself to focus. “I’m fine.”
“Do I need to wrap the furniture in blankets?” he asks. I think he’s trying to make light of it. I wonder if he can see my embarrassment because I feel my face burning.
“That was just…I tripped.” In part because I was staring at you. Remembering your hands on me. Remembering how your touch felt. I don’t tell him that, though.
“Antonia said you weren’t quite well earlier.”
“I’m fine.” I pull myself free. This side of him, this almost caring side, throws me off guard, and I can’t let that happen with him. I can’t let myself believe him. And I can’t let myself take comfort from him.
“You lost your balance at the top of the stairs, Ivy.”
“I didn’t lose my balance. I just needed to sit down for a minute. And it hasn’t happened all day.” Mostly.
He studies me like he doesn’t quite believe me.
“It’s why I’ve been asking about the pool. I swim every day. Or I used to. And it helps. As soon as I’m allowed to swim again, I’ll be fine,” I start, finding my irritation again as I say it. “Santi,” I add.
Santiago steps back with a smile. Now we’re on territory we both understand.
I feel myself flush again, sweat breaking out over my forehead this time. When Mercedes had used that nickname earlier, it had grated. I didn’t really register it, but I realize now as I mock call him by her nickname for him, what I felt.
Jealousy.
Because I’m an idiot.
I shift my gaze away momentarily, feeling his eyes on me, feeling that smug grin.
“Mercedes being territorial?” he asks.
I clear my throat and make myself look at him. “I just thought it was funny she had a nickname for you. I mean, you.”
His mood darkens.
I blink, trying to calm my breathing. He can’t see my heartbeat. I just need to relax.
He looks me over, taking his time. I’m wearing a knee-length close-fitting black knit dress with buttons a little lower than I’d usually wear. Not that I have much cleavage to show, but I clear my throat again and adjust the dress when I see his gaze settle there. But maybe he’s just eyeing the rosary beads.
My hair’s been cut but only an inch was taken off. And it’s been styled, which I admit does look nice. I don’t bother blow-drying it usually. I’m also wearing makeup which, again, I rarely do, and I won’t do for him. My nails have been done, and much to my dismay, I’ve been waxed in places I didn’t know you could be waxed. Mercedes’s doing. Or maybe it was at his request.
“You look beautiful,” he says, walking a circle around me, letting his fingers weave through my hair but not hurting me. “But you always look beautiful.”
My stomach growls loudly then, and my cheeks burn again, my hand moving automatically to my belly. He stops in front of me, and for a moment, I wonder if he meant to say that. To compliment me.
“Hungry?”
I nod.
“Please tell me my sister fed you.”
“If by fed you mean some leaves and a piece of cardboard masquerading as chicken breast, then yes, she fed me. She’s seriously awful. I mean, she almost makes you look nice.”
He chuckles at that, then sets his hand on my lower back and guides me to the long dining table set only for two. At least she’s not eating with us. He pulls out my seat. I sit down on the plush chair and drop my napkin into my lap. He takes the seat at the head of the table, and as if the staff have been waiting and watching, they appear out of a door in the wall that must be for the staff like they used to be in old days.
We’re silent as the dishes are laid out, and Antonia describes what everything is. I think there’s enough to feed two dozen people, but I can probably eat for at least two of those people, so I won’t complain.
“Thank you, Antonia. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Thank you, M—sir.”
After a man opens the bottle of wine and Santiago approves, they’re gone, and Santiago begins to heap food on my plate. He doesn’t ask what I want. He just gives me a generous serving of meat, potatoes, and vegetables along with bread and butter.
“It’s a little pretentious to have them call you Master, isn’t it?”
He takes a moment to set his napkin on his lap. “Just be grateful I don’t require it of you.”
“I wouldn’t ever call anyone that.”
“Would you like to test that theory?”
When I don’t answer, he raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to acknowledge his win.
“No.”
“Then learn when to keep your mouth shut, darling.”
I grit my teeth so hard I’m pretty sure I’m going to crack a tooth.