The Ruthless Heir

I allow her to pull away and study her face. Her eyes. There she is, inside them. A broken girl.

“Who did this to you?”

She swallows hard, eyes misting, and sits up. She draws the duvet onto her lap, over her breasts. “Like I said last night, it’s none of your business.”

“Santiago?” I ask, not wanting to. It can’t be, but what if I’m wrong? I’ll kill him. I’ll have to.

“No. God! Santi would never” Her voice breaks, and it takes her a moment to compose herself and meet my eyes again. And when she does, hers are hard. Layers and layers of impenetrable obsidian. “What the hell do you think you’re doing by stripping me when I’m passed out?”

Inspecting you and checking for scars sounds weak.

I wanted to see your pussy one more time is closer to the truth.

The image of her earlier this morning when I took the crop to her floats back into memory. Her hips were trapped by my thighs. Her ass positioned to take my punishment. The reddening marks. Her most secret parts are on display for me. For me.

Not. For. You.

“You haven’t eaten anything.”

“Answer my fucking question because I’m damn sure my brother would not have okayed this!”

“Does he know about the scars?” I ask, stopping that line of questioning because, honestly, she’s right.

She falters. Hugs her arms a little closer.

“Does he?”

“No. And you’re not going to tell him.”

“Who did it?”

She sits back against the headboard and stares up at me, lips sealed tight.

“Tell me who, and I may not mention it to Santiago.”

“You’re going to blackmail me?”

“Erica”

“Don’t.”

“Tell me.”Upstodatee from Novel(D)ra/m/a.O(r)g

I watch her. I can’t look away.

“Don’t tell him.” She falters, shaking her head. “Please.”

I study her for a quiet moment. I won’t get an answer from her tonight, but I have time.

“Why haven’t you eaten?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Hmm. I don’t know. Let’s see. You locked me in a room. You whipped my ass. My brother just kicked me out of my own house and out of his life.

I have a maid a fucking maid who takes pleasure in my suffering, and my jailor is a sadist. I don’t know why I have no fucking appetite!”

I watch the fury on her face. It’s flimsy camouflage for her uncertainty. Her vulnerability. “Why are you here, Erica?”

She reaches for her sweater at the foot of the bed and pulls it on, then stands. It’s oversized and comes to the tops of her thighs. “I’m here because my brother is paying you to deal with me while he plays house with that woman.”

Does she know how much she’s giving away?

There’s a knock on the door. “Enter,” I call out, not taking my eyes from Erica, who tries to keep hers on mine, although I see how she glances at Miriam walking in with yet another tray of food.

Miriam sets the large tray down on the table and leaves. Erica glances at it. Her forehead furrows, and she shifts her gaze to me.

I go to the table, and see the cold scrambled eggs, the strips of unappealing bacon, a cold tomato soup, a sandwich on bread that’s gone soggy from the roasted once-warm vegetables and goat cheese.

“Breakfast and lunch. You’ll eat those meals before you’re served anything different. If that’s tonight, great. If it’s tomorrow, fine. Next week? Again, fine. There’s one thing I know, Erica. You will eat.”

I pull out the chair and gesture for her to sit.

She exhales loudly, clearly deciding this is not a battle she will fight. Pain doesn’t bother her. She said it herself. Not the pain of a whipping. Not the pain of hunger. But everyone has a threshold. I just have to find hers. And I will.

Erica glances at her clothes. She picks up the pants I stripped off her and searches for a moment. The panties burn a hole in my pocket as she pulls on the pants without anything underneath and walks toward me, but she doesn’t sit.

She eyes all the dishes, picks up the soup bowl and looks up at me. Her eyes narrow, and she grins, then brings the bowl close, turns it over, and pushes it against my chest.

She giggles as she pours cold tomato soup down my front and over my pants. It’s a strange, almost unhinged sound. Soup drips onto my shoes and the once-pristine carpet.

She lets the bowl drop, wipes her hands with a napkin, and lets that fall too then looks up at me. “There. One down. What would you like next? Eggs?”

“I liked this suit,” I tell her casually, and there’s that grin again.

“I’m sure the money my brother is paying you will be more than enough to order another.”

But what she next sees on my face has her falter. It’s as if the beast looks out at her from inside me. My muscles tighten, the darkness within casting its shadow, ensnaring us.

She takes one step backward, but before she can take another, I grip a handful of that luxurious, thick hair and tug hard. It feels good to do it. She cries out, and I catch myself.

It’s an involuntary sound. I’m sure she wouldn’t give me the satisfaction if she could help it. She grips my arm with both hands as I haul her on tiptoe and pull her so close that our noses are touching.

“That was a mistake.” I push her to her knees.

“Get off!”

“Pick up the bowl and the napkin.”

“Let me go!”

“Pick. Them. Up.”

“Fine! Just…” She stretches one arm to get both bowl and napkin, keeping the other on my forearm while still trying to tug free.

“Miriam,” I call out.

The door opens instantly as if the woman had her fucking ear to it. “Sir,” she says, her voice betraying no emotion.

“Erica has made a mess. She needs a bucket and a sponge to clean it up.”

“Right away, sir.” I keep Erica on her knees until Miriam returns and sets the bucket down, letting water splash out of the sides, then turns to leave.

“Stay,” I tell her.

“Yes, sir.”

I release Erica’s hair, and she drops to her hands, then sits back to rub her head.

“Clean my shoes.”

She grits her teeth but doesn’t move.

“Get my crop, Miriam.”

Miriam spins on her heel, but before she can take a step, Erica has the sponge and is wiping off my shoes. Smart girl. I’m sure she doesn’t want her ass whipped in front of the help.

When she’s done, she sits back and glares up at me. She has the good sense to keep her mouth shut.

I step away, then gesture to the mess on the floor.

“Miriam will supervise as you scrub the carpet. I’ll be back tomorrow morning bright and early to take you to the stables, where you’ll clean the stalls. For starters. What’s the expression? Idle hands are the devil’s playground.”

“You can’t do this to me,” she grits out.

I crouch down, take her chin in my hand, and tug her forward so she has to set her hands down to steady herself.

“Do you remember what I said last night?” She tries to jerk free, but I only tighten my grip.

“Good behavior earns you privileges. Bad behavior earns you consequences. If you think I’m playing a game here, let me be very clear that I am not. I take the Rite very seriously. And you, little monster, need to be tamed.” She swallows, eyes searching mine.

“I won’t fail Santiago or you in my task. I promise you that. Now thank me for my lenience tonight.”

Her eyes narrow to slits, but she says the words. Or more spits them. It’s fine. I’ll take it.

Releasing her, I get up and walk to the door, but I stop before I leave. I turn back to the two women one on her knees and the other standing over her, relishing her task, this humbling of the great Erica De La Rosa. I’ll have to remind Miriam of her place too. But not tonight.

“Miriam will leave once she’s satisfied with your work and only after you’ve thanked her for the opportunity.”

“You fucking asshole,” she says so low I almost don’t hear it.

“What’s that?” I ask, stepping back inside.

She leans away and doesn’t open her mouth.

“I thought so,” I say. “Good night, Erica.”

I walk out of that room on wooden legs. She’s under my skin. Even though I know she’s testing. Pushing. She’s acting out because she’s out of options. A lioness backed into a corner staring down the all-powerful lion twice her size. She only has one option. Fight. It’s in her nature. She’s not one to lay herself down to be slaughtered. Devoured. Not by me. Not by anyone.