21. Conrad
“ H ow long did it take for you to know?” I ask, thinking out loud.
My brother pauses, his whiskey poised at his lips. “Know what?”
My eyes land on his wife. She’s sitting so docile. So meekly. But six months ago, she was locked in the basement, beaten, battered, and half-broken from what Magnus did to her. It was quite the art, quite the skill to dehumanise her the way he did; to take a woman as strong as she was and turn her into the masterpiece she is today.
She’s wearing a sheer dress. I can make out those plump breasts of hers, the nice curves of her hips. He likes her like that, on display, because it’s a testament to how much control he now has. Her hair has grown back enough that it sits just above her shoulders, all that bleach she had at the start is gone, and it’s a beautiful shade of copper now.
She looks back at me, holding my gaze with a hint of fire, and I can’t help but smirk. The old Magnus would have had her on her knees for that, would have had her bent over and forced to take us both.
Pity, he’s not into that anymore. I used to enjoy those games, used to enjoy the way she cried and begged.
I clear my throat, reminding myself that right now I have Brynn and if I choose, I can do the same to her. I can beat her, maim her, hurt her until she begs me to stop. Only, I wouldn’t share her the way Magnus did. I wouldn’t let anyone else lay a finger on her. She’s mine to devour. Mine to enjoy. All fucking mine.
“How long was it before you knew it was working?” I ask, “Before you realised you were actually breaking the bitch?”
Liliana flinches.
Just a little. Just enough.
If Magnus sees it, I don’t know. If he does, I wonder if he’ll enjoy that reaction or punish her for it after I’m gone. I know he hasn’t changed; I know in his core, my brother is like me. He wouldn’t grow soft, simply because he loves her. No, the mountain doesn’t bend because it enjoys the caresses of the wind. It stays where it is. Majestic, and unmoved.
“You thinking of your wife-to-be?” He asks, with a distinct sharpness to his voice.
Wife. Not wife-to-be. But yes. My eyes fix on Liliana again, on how perfect she is for Magnus.
She’s sitting there like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but all three of us know what a little bitch she was to start with. The brand on her chest is clear for us to see, it practically glows with the way Magnus had gold tattooed into the scarred flesh once it’d healed.
My lips curl at the notion of doing that to Brynn, of marking her permanently. Maybe that should be a tradition. Something every Blake wife must endure from now on.
I clasp my hands together, contemplating whether the pain would be worth it. But to look at her, to know that every man thereafter would see who she belonged to…
“Conrad?”
I blink, coming out of my thoughts and realise my brother is staring at me intently.
“I’m just coming up with ideas.” I murmur.
“I see, and these include torturing your bride?” Magnus replies.
I shrug. Like he didn’t enjoy torturing Liliana. Like he didn’t enjoy breaking her down, dehumanising her, turning her into little more than an object for him and his mates to enjoy.
Oh, I know she’d die for him now. Magnus even tested that out. But my wife, my wife would probably be the one pulling the trigger if the roles were reversed. I scowl, feeling more fury at the fact that he has her; that he made her so perfect, and my little doll is still anything but.
Liliana lets out a pained sigh, like she knows where my head is. I look up and meet that piercing gaze of hers. Not so long ago we both had her hauled over the dining table, fucking her like the whore that she is.
My eyes drop to her nipples, to where they’re peaked from the cool air of the room.
And just like with every other woman, I’m not tempted by her now. Not interested. Brynn has ruined everyone else for me.
“If you do too much, you know her father will make a fuss.” Magnus states.
Like that’s true. Considering how Quinn treats his own wife, I doubt he’ll have much to say on the matter. Only, I can’t be bothered to have that debate right now. “He can say what he likes,” I say, “I can do as I wish with my own wife.”
It’s the one good thing about the Brethren, they don’t care what happens behind closed doors. A wife is a man’s property; he can treat her how he likes. He can beat her, starve her, rape her, and there would be no repercussions.
But if she were to cheat, if she were to disobey him? Well now, that’s an entirely different thing. Maybe that should have been my move. I should have married Giselle and then accused her of adultery, and ditched her in Oblivion.
I guess it’s too late now.
I get up to leave, feeling thoroughly unsatisfied.
“Conrad.”
God, I hate that tone. I hate the way my brother still thinks he can parent me. I’m thirty fucking eight years of age. I don’t need his advice, or his help, or his damned meddling.
“What?” I reply through gritted teeth.
“This wedding. This marriage. This union with the Monclere’s. It will go ahead as planned. We need them on side. I need them on side.”
I give a curt nod. If only he knew we’re already joined with them now, and soon enough we’ll have an heir that is both Monclere and Blake. When that happens, Quinn Monclere won’t dare to dispute my marriage. He’ll be too keen to avoid a scandal.
I walk out of the room, heading up through to the north wing of the house. It’s all but derelict now, unused. Although the place is pristine, no one comes here. The ghost of our mother still haunts this space.
I cut through the glass atrium and past the intricate chinoiserie murals.
When I get to her suite I pause, wondering if my life, if my brother’s life, if Devin’s life would be better or worse if we didn’t have the mother we did. If we didn’t have her tainted blood. Magnus and I keep most of our urges controlled, measured. But Devin; Devin got the brunt of her poison, of her malign.
My mind flickers to the girl, Paitlyn. She’s locked away in a secure psychiatric unit under a fake name. I don’t like the fact that I’m keeping her from him, I don’t like the fact that I have any connection to her at all. But it is what it is. Once Devin has dealt with the final few items on his to-do list, I can hand her over and I know by the time the sun sets, he’ll have eliminated her from our list of troubles.
When I get to my mother’s bedroom, I glance about, noting that these rooms haven’t changed a bit. They’re cleaned every day, so there’s not even the lingering hint of dust on any of the surfaces. A great canopy bed takes up one half of the space. It’s got crimson red brocade hanging in big dramatic folds. Behind the head is our family’s crest, made of plaster, and covered with gold leaf.
Standing here, it’s easy to remember, it’s easy to see it. Us. Devin as a baby, neatly swaddled up. Me sprawled out on the Persian rug, playing with a toy train, and my mother standing by the window, staring out but seeing nothing. Beside her, Magnus was there like her shadow, like her guard. As if he understood even as a teenager that she was fucked in the head, and beyond saving.
And then our father would walk in.
My mother would become frozen, still as a statue. Magnus would scoop the baby up and the three of us would leave, passing the doctor as he rolled in a machine that seemed to resemble some sort of medieval torture device.
And then those screams.
They’d ring out in the hall, ring out through the entire house.
My hands find my ears, my teeth clench as if I can hear them now.
Make it stop. Make it stop.
I shake my head, burying those childish thoughts. What else was my father to do? He could hardly let her descend further into her madness. No, she needed to be treated. She needed to be stopped.
My hands shake as I open up her jewellery box. Inside I rifle past the smaller items, and my fingers close around the cool smoothness of an emerald pendant as big as a quail’s egg. I pull it out, holding it up, admiring its beauty.
It’s a necklace my grandmother had, one that her mother had before her. It’s a family heirloom, a piece of genuine Blake History. I brush my thumb over the surface, imagining how beautiful this will look nestled between Brynn’s breasts.
As I slip it into my pocket, I can feel the weight of it pulling the fabric down, pressing against my thigh.
Women like jewellery, they like shiny things and pretty pieces. Maybe this will be enough to buy my new wife’s love. Maybe this will make her happy enough that she’ll stop being such a little bitch.
Maybe.