I’m so caught up in it that it’s not until I hear the key turn that I realize I’m caught. I stand, hitting my knee into the table and sending the candle to the floor. I gasp as I watch melted wax spill into the fibers of the carpet before whirling to look at who has caught me, knowing there’s only one person, and meeting my husband’s dark eyes as they land dangerously on mine.
26
Santiago
My eyes flick to the sketchbook splayed open on the table. The pages are opened to an image I sketched of my mother from the funeral. I hadn’t been able to attend because I was still in the hospital, but Mercedes ensured it was videotaped for me, and I watched it more than once. That haunting image of my mother so broken burned itself into my mind. It’s a memory that was never intended to be seen by anyone. Least of all a fucking Moreno.
Heat rises in my throat as I stalk toward my wife. She's already trembling, shrinking into herself as she tries to move back. But there's nowhere for her to go. Doesn't she realize it yet? She'll never escape me.
My icy fingers latch around her jaw and force her gaze up to mine. "What do you think you are doing?"
"I... I..." She stammers over the words, trying to shake her head. Wide, terrified eyes peer back at me, but it's the scent of my scotch on her breath that fuels my ire.
"Snooping through my things. Drinking my scotch. Are there any other sins you'll need to atone for this evening?"
"Santi, please."
"Don't call me that." My fingers bite into her skin, and she flinches at the menace in my tone.
I don’t know what she thinks she’s doing, acting so familiar to me. Trying to make me forget who I am. Who she is. As if she has a right to touch my things or stare into my darkest memories. Does she take pleasure in perfuming the halls of the manor with her scent, an ever-present reminder that the enemy is living under my roof? Even now, in my clutches, she’s staring up at me with so much false innocence, it grates on my last nerve. As if she could ever make me forget why she’s here. As if just by fluttering her lashes and speaking so sweetly, she could make me forget the traitorous blood running through her veins. I will never forget.
"You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?" I growl.
She blinks up at me, confusion clear in her eyes. Maybe I'm a little drunk too. My visit with Judge ran longer than expected this evening, and the scotch flowed freely for the duration of it. Perhaps that's the reason the words come so uninhibited.
"I know what you are." I stare down into her strange eyes, forcing her to look at me as the monster I am. "A fucking temptress, trying to lure me in with that sweet voice and those innocent eyes. But you're a goddamned liar."
"No, I'm not." Her lip trembles.
"Shut your eyes," I command.
She doesn't obey. Her arms come up to grip mine, pleading with me as she clings to me. "Please don't be angry."
"Angry doesn't even begin to touch what I am right now." I whirl her around in my arms, and she struggles against me as I yank her head to the side, biting at her throat. "I'm your worst fucking nightmare, wife of mine. It's about time you realized it."
She sucks in a sharp breath as red blooms across her skin from the drag marks I left behind with my teeth. I'm fighting with her clothes, ripping off her sweater and trying to push her nightgown up over her hips, but the silk keeps sliding back down. In a fit of frustration, I haul her to the desk and fold her over it, opening the top drawer to retrieve the scissors.
"No!" she screams.
I force her head back down with my palm, pressing her cheek against the wooden surface with one hand while I cut with the other. It's a messy, frenzied job with her squirming beneath me, but soon, her nightgown and panties are in shreds, the remnants lying on the floor of my office.
Our heavy breaths are the only sound in the room when I yank the ruler from my drawer and slide it over the skin of her bare ass. She's craning her neck, trying to see what I'm doing, so I push her hair over her eyes.
"You lost the privilege of sight," I snarl.
The ruler cracks against her ass cheeks with a sound that echoes off the office walls, but it's soon drowned out by the force of her scream.
"Santiago!"
"That's for snooping where you don't belong."
Crack. Another shriek pierces my ears.
"That's for drinking when you know goddamn well I’m going to put a baby in you."
Crack. A soft whimper bleeds from her lips this time, her tears dripping down onto the desk.
"And that's for being a fucking Moreno."
“Stop it!” She flails under the weight of my palm, twisting her torso enough to scrape her nails down my arm.
I grunt at the sting of her endeavor on my scarred flesh. And that momentary weakness gives her the courage she needs to hurl her bare heel up into my shin.
“Motherfuck!” The word hisses from between my teeth as I bring the ruler down against her ass once more. “You will submit to me.”
“Never!” she bellows.
I smack her again and again, the force of my efforts reverberating through my palm. Ivy fights me at every turn, trying desperately to exert her will. But she is no match for me in size or strength, and eventually, even the ruler cracks under the weight of my anger.
Hot tears streak her pretty face when I toss the now useless instrument aside and stare down at her, chest heaving. I wanted her broken, but she isn’t. Even as she cries into the desk, refusing to meet my eyes, I can see her resolve to withstand me, no matter what may come. As if she could.
It stokes the fire of my rage and a need for something from her I can’t even identify. I don’t know what it is I want as my palms skim over the red lines on her ass. They look so lovely against her flesh. In fact, I’d dare to say I’ve never created any art as beautiful as this. But she isn’t unconsciously arching into my touch anymore. She isn’t bowing under my weight, and she isn’t fighting either. She’s just… disconnected. Her empty gaze is focused on the wall, and she’s never looked so unrepentant. There’s a sudden, aching need in me to touch her softly. To coax her back to life. But that won’t do.
“Beg for forgiveness,” I demand.
She doesn’t respond. I squeeze a handful of her ass and repeat the order, the threat in my tone unmistakable. Again, there is no response from her. And I find that her silence irritates me more than anything else ever has, a revelation that only adds to my frustration with her.
It appears I've been too soft on my wife, and she seems to be under the illusion she actually has a choice to ignore my demands. She’s lost sight of her purpose. The entire reason she's here. But after tonight, she will know it.
When I hoist her up over my shoulder and carry her down the corridor and upstairs to her room, she doesn't protest. She thinks this is the end. That her punishment is over. I can hear it in the way she's calming her breath, staring longingly at the sanctuary of her bed. When I lower her onto the decorative rug instead, her muscles become rigid once again.
I retrieve the things I need from the small dresser I keep in here. When I return with the ropes and kneel beside her, she resumes her favorite activity of trying to defy me. But she is no match, and soon, her body is bound from her wrists to her ankles. By the time I'm finished with her, she's wearing the blind mask and the collar and chain from her marking ceremony. I leave her there to silently pray for salvation while I retrieve my own cloak and mask.