“You won’t hurt me,” I tell him.
“I won’t take a chance.”
I exhale, dropping my head.
He takes my face in his hands and turns it up to his. “All right?”
I shrug a shoulder, very aware I’m pouting. “Fine.”
“I’ll arrange for you to visit Colette tomorrow. Would you like that?”
“Why Colette and not my sister or my father?”
“Don’t push. Not now. This is what I am offering.”
“I just don’t understand. We had fun tonight.”
His phone goes off again. “I need to go. Would you like to visit Colette?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” He leans in to kiss me, but I turn my head away. He clears his throat. “Good night, Ivy.”
25 Ivy
I toss and turn for what feels like hours. Guilt gnaws at me. He was trying. For Santiago. We did have fun tonight, so I shouldn’t have pushed. And he did give me something. He has nightmares. I saw that myself. I want to know what the dreams are. What the cause is. The fire?
That takes me back to the comment The Councilor had made. A second attempt. That fire was caused by a gas leak. Or at least that’s what the public was told. Is that not the case? Did someone try to kill him and succeed in killing so many others? All Sovereign families. All males. I think it was more than a dozen dead, and I remember my father’s reaction to it. I’d just thought he’d been relieved he wasn’t there but also guilt-ridden that he’d sent Santiago in his place when he’d been too sick to go.
Is that what this is about? Does he blame my father? Is he punishing me to punish him?
No. That makes no sense.
I push the blankets off and get up. I want to go to him. I want to sleep in the same bed as him and feel his arms around me.
I want to tell him I’m sorry I acted like a brat.
The house is quiet as I pad down the hallway to his room. Mercedes’s door is hanging at an odd angle. I don’t know which one she moved to, but no one has cleaned this one yet. I bypass hers and get to his. I knock lightly so if he’s asleep I won’t wake him up. I’ll just slip into bed beside him.
I turn the handle, grateful it’s not locked. But from the dim light in the hallway, I can see he’s not here. His bed is still made. He hasn’t slept in it. The clock by the bed tells me it’s past three in the morning. Is he still up?
I turn and head down the stairs to his office. It’s the only other place I can think he’d be. And I’m right. I know it before I even reach his door not only from the light coming from beneath it but from the melody streaming out. Something dark I recognize. Mozart’s Requiem. My father loved Mozart, and I remember this piece especially well. The haunting tune, the escalating soprano.
Without thinking, I let my feet carry me to his door, and this time, I don’t knock. I push it open, and Santiago’s gaze snaps up from what he’s doing. The volume is so high I can’t hear myself think, but from the candles on his desk, I can see how red his eyes are. It makes me wonder how much of the bottle of scotch that sits half-empty he consumed after dinner tonight. I don’t know all that he’s carrying, but it’s heavy. I see it. And I feel doubly guilty about pushing him earlier.
I walk inside and close the door behind me. I don’t say a word as I go to him. He drops the pencil into the notebook and lets it close as he pushes his seat back when I come around the desk. I pull my nightgown off. I’m not wearing anything underneath but the rosary, and I stand before him and let him look at me with his sanguine eyes and his sad skull face.
Something about the look in it breaks my heart a little. What was so terrible that he’s gone from the man driving the sports car too fast through dark, winding streets to this one? This broken man.
I drop to my knees between his legs, and he leans back when I reach to undo his belt, then his trousers. I take him out and look up at his sorrowful face.
He puts his hand on my head as if giving me his blessing, and when I lean forward and close my mouth around him, I hear a choked sound come from deep inside his chest. His hand soon turns to a fist in my hair as he takes over, moving fast, pushing deeper, both hands on me now as I taste the first salty drops before he pulls me off, the pop strangely loud as the suction of my mouth is broken. He lifts me, laying me on his desk, and the leatherbound book digs into my shoulder before he shoves it to the floor.
He spreads me open and looks at me like a starved man before a feast, and when he dips his head between my legs, I arch my back and close my eyes, fisting handfuls of his hair as he licks hungrily. He brings me just to the edge of orgasm before straightening. Tugging me closer, he locks eyes on mine when he thrusts into me, leaning closer to me as I claw at his shoulders. I pull at his hair, wanting him closer still, deeper because it’s not enough. It’s not enough. He’s still too far, and I need him.
“Ivy,” he grunts, these final thrusts punishing. And then he stills, and I watch him, watch his beautiful face as he comes. Something inside me flutters and twists, and it’s bittersweet, this. Our lovemaking. Our violent, raw lovemaking.
And I think
