Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I study his face. This is the closest we’ve been when he’s allowed it. And it’s the most he’s shared with me ever, even given his admission in the chapel when he’d punished me. That was fact. His father beat him. This is something else. Not a mere statement of fact.
This admission carries emotion.
I don’t know if it’s at the mention of his mother or at what happened, but he is unnerved and almost vulnerable. I remember what Antonia told me about her. That she’d gone back to Barcelona and died there. That her grief killed her.
Is that what I see here? Is he grieving?
I shift my gaze to the vial again, remember those stories of poisonings within The Society. I always thought they were just that, stories, but now I’m not so sure.
“I don’t want it,” I say even though I know he can make me drink it. He can make me do anything he wants.
As if he’s read my mind, he brings the strange little bottle to his lips and takes a sip, then puts it under my nose again.
He releases my jaw. “It’s not poison. It will help you. I promise.”
“No.”
“Drink it.”
“Or what? You’ll make me?”
“Yes.”
“What did I ever do to you to justify what you do to me?” I ask, snatching the bottle away and sniffing the contents. I smell herbs, something sweet. I tilt my head and swallow what’s inside. It’s only two sips. I hand it back, feeling the liquid slide down my throat almost as strong as the scotch I’d barely sipped earlier.
I exhale, lean back against the pillows when he nods, and takes the vial like he’s calmed a little by my drinking it.
I don’t know what I expect. Violent cramping. Vomiting. But all I feel is relaxed.
“Lie down,” he says, already helping me do just that.
I don’t fight him. It’s no use anyway. We both know he’ll win.
“What is it?” I ask when he walks around the room, lighting a few of the candles.
“Just some herbs to help you relax and sleep. You need to sleep now and regain your strength.”
“So you can repeat my punishments tomorrow?”
He doesn’t answer.
I look around the large suite at just a few furniture pieces I’d guess are antique. On the headboard above my head, I see the skull and roses, the dueling pistols. His family crest carved into the wood.
My eyes start to close. I try to keep them open and roll onto my side to watch him because I need to keep an eye on him. I can’t let myself fall asleep in his presence. What will he do to me if I sleep? I need to watch him, but my eyelids are so heavy. My body feels so relaxed.
He lights the candles on a candelabra in the sitting area a few feet from me then sits in the large, comfortable-looking armchair.
I must drift for a while because when I look again, I find him watching me, eyes dark and intent. His hair is wet, and he’s drinking from a crystal glass and wearing a close-fitting, V-neck charcoal sweater and dark slacks. Did he shower? I try to sit up. I want to go to my room.
He’s at my side in an instant. Too fast. Did I nod off again? On the table beside the chair is that notebook I’d seen in his study. I recognize the leather binding.
I try to say something. Tell him I want to go to my room.
“Relax, Ivy.”
I don’t want to relax.
He tucks the blankets around me. “Don’t fight it. You’re safe.”
“I’m not safe. Not with you.”
“Shh. Sleep.”
Okay. Yes. I take a deep breath in and let my eyes close. It’s warm in his bed. And his smell is around me, and I’m safe, like he said.
I startle.
No. Not like he said.
I have to fight whatever it is he gave me. Because I’m not safe. Not in his house. Not in his bed.
I’m going to put a baby inside you.
I can’t let that happen.
When I wake next, it’s to a familiar humming. A familiar scent. And light.
“You’re sleeping the day away, dear.” I open my eyes and have to squint against the bright light.
Is that the sun?
Sitting up, I feel the silk of the nightgown against my skin. I look around my room. My room. Not his. My bed. My pillows. My room.
“What time is it?” I ask Antonia as she arranges the curtain to filter the sunlight.
“Almost noon.”
I rub my eyes, look at the place where a small square had been my only source of light. It’s bigger now. A rectangle. Like a panel has been removed to expose the window behind it.
“Santiago said to make sure you have lots of juice this morning, so I brought extra. And there are fresh beignets. His request. It’s really not like him.”