Blackthorne Manor is the pillar of excess, a fortress designed to divide the rich from the poor. My great-grandfather had the castle built on the highest cliff, where it could be seen from anywhere in Tempest Cove. A grim reminder to generations that followed why one should never cross paths with a Blackthorne. It’s said the foundations, upon which this place was built, are the crushed remains of his enemies’ bones. Dramatic really. Even my own family isn’t immune to making up fables.
The ocean view morphs and sharpens into my reflection in the glass, where a cluster of grisly scars stretch across the lower part of my cheek. Twisting my head slightly to the side shows the unaffected half, the part that wasn’t torn away that night. Touching it with my hand offers palpable evidence to the visuals of the grotesque, uneven landscape of my skin. Gashes so deep that not even scar revision could hide them.
As the familiar revulsion bubbles to the surface, my hands instinctively ball into fists. I’ve punched enough mirrors to know that breaking things doesn’t make it go away. Doesn’t change what happened. But the pain feels good.
“Master?” At the sound of Giulia’s voice, I tamp down my frustration and turn only slightly to face her. “Will you be needing my services this evening?” she asks, setting down the cup of coffee on a coaster atop the desk.
Sometimes we fuck. It’s part of the contract I have with her, which keeps her employed, and her daughter at a prestigious boarding school instead of public schools on the mainland that’re riddled with drug dealers.
“That won’t be necessary.”
As much as I enjoy the pleasures of a woman, it’s not enough. It never is. Giulia is accommodating, indulging in whatever I ask, but what I need is something that would turn her stomach.
And I just don’t have the energy to slog through the mundane tonight.
If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I’d almost mistake the chasing expression on her face for disappointment. I know better, though.
“Very well.”
Wasn’t that long ago, she would’ve scoffed at the idea of bowing her head in acquiescence. Nowadays, she’s far more agreeable, without much commentary, or objection. Not that she’d object to my dismissal. In spite of the moans, the kisses, seemingly kind caresses, I’m certain the sight of me repulses her enough to feign enjoyment during sex. Even her climax is achieved through shuttered eyes, as if one glance would ruin it.
“This pleases you?” I ask her.
“Your satisfaction pleases me, sir.”
“But you’re relieved that you don’t have to fuck me tonight. The abhorrent, hideous Mad Son.”
“I don’t think of you as such.”
“Everyone thinks of me as such. Including you.”
If she lowered her head any more, she’d be kissing the floor. “Do you need anything else from me?”
Twisting away from her, I catch her fidgeting in the window’s reflection. Aside from Makaio, everyone fidgets around me. If my face isn’t enough to frighten them, the rumors about me surely keep them on edge. “No. Nothing.”
I watch her retreat, the light of the hallway adding a soft glow to the glass as she exits my office.
The ache strikes again, stronger than before, the ringing between my ears like a sewing needle spearing my eardrum. Spasms of pain shoot through my jaw, as I grind my teeth while clutching either side of my head.
Fuck. They’ve gotten worse in the last year. Almost unbearable. The ache reaches my eye sockets, and for a moment the view outside the window blurs into an impressionist painting of green and blue.
Through heavy lids, I try to focus on the water, something that might draw my thoughts away from the agony. An object of focus, the doc once told me. There’s nothing but jagged flashes of light and the vertigo that always follows.
Voices outside the door could be real, or imagined, it’s hard to tell, but as they grow louder, I concentrate on the sound for distraction. A female voice, whose intonation is soft, but enough to break through the ringing.
I stumble toward the door and press my ear to the wood. The cool panels and solid surface I lean against offer some relief, and I close my eyes, listening to her speak. Rand’s voice follows, as he prattles off the history of Blackthorne Manor. Another woman’s voice chimes in, deep and raspy, like a smoker’s, but then it’s the first voice again. The sound is so soothing, and at a melodic vibrato of laughter, I can no longer hear the painful ringing.
I open the door a crack, only catching their backs as they continue down the hallway.
Raven black hair dances around her slim shoulders, as she scans the walls of my home. An older woman moves beside her, perhaps her mother, judging by the hardened lines in her face. The raven-haired girl turns just enough to reveal her profile, and God help me, she’s beautiful, with her golden skin, high cheekbones, and the perfect slope of her nose. A kind of radiant beauty that’ll soon be snuffed by the vapid gloom of this place.
But young. Far too young.
My mother will eat her alive before week’s end.
What a shame that will be.
Chapter 4
Isadora
It takes over an hour to give us a brief tour, which only covered the west wing of the castle. The single theme in every room we passed was opulence. The Blackthornes evidently have more money than any of the locals can probably fathom. Even Aunt Midge, who tends to consider elegance a frivolous waste, stood wide-eyed a few times.
One would never guess, given the abandoned appearance outside the walls, that such wealth and luxury still pulses through its veins.
In spite of my subtle protest, Rand insisted that she come along, because it didn’t take a psychoanalyst to see my aunt’s panties hadn’t unbunched with the small meeting we had an hour ago. I admire her commitment to look after me, particularly after the hell I went through months ago, but her overbearing nature has become one of the many reasons I can’t wait to leave this town. It reminds me of the time I watched two baby squirrels trapped in a cage, when one of the boys down the street swiped them up after they’d crawled up his pant leg. The boys laughed cruelly as the tiny animals ran in circles over the thin bars. Over and over again. Never eating. Never resting. They climbed their barriers as if they didn’t realize something held them inside that cramped space, and eventually, they both died.
That won’t be me. Not in this town.
“Should you get hungry, the kitchen staff is at your disposal while you’re here. We have a gourmet chef on staff, who is happy to prepare whatever you like.” Rand breaks my thoughts with even more of the amenities of this place.
Gourmet chef? What the hell would I ask of a gourmet chef? I don’t even know what gourmet chefs cook.
“Fancy,” Aunt Midge whispers as we follow Rand down a dark corridor. “Still don’t like this place. Makes the hairs on my neck stand up.”
I trail my gaze over the high ceilings and dark walls, the elaborate portraits either side of us. Relatives, I’d bet. A richness in the history of a family like nothing I’ve ever seen before. “I like it. And I’ll be home on weekends.”
“What happens on the weekends here? ‘Sat when they hold their séances?” Aunt Midge chuckles at herself, and I silently groan, taking in another sweep of the walls.