Chapter 51 Grace
The high, sun-bleached stone walls seem less like a castle and more like a prison looming over us as we get closer and closer.
This is it. He’s brought me back, and I don’t doubt my punishment will continue.
My stomach clenches, and a cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. He will send me back there. He has to. I defied him.
The car glides to a smooth halt. Antonio gets out, and the humid, floral-scented air feels so thick, so suffocating.
I don’t move, I can’t. My limbs are leaden with terror.
He dismisses his brother with a curt nod and turns to me. His eyes, dark and unreadable, finally land on me. He doesn’t speak, he simply extends his hand.
It’s not a request. It’s a command.
My hand trembles as I place it in his, and for some reason it feels like I’m giving away a piece of myself, some part of my soul that I want to keep.
His fingers close around mine, not crushing but firm, absolute.
He doesn’t pull me towards the side entrance I know leads directly to the doghouse.
He leads me straight up the grand front steps, through the heavy oak doors and into the soaring, cool expanse of the main foyer.
The relief is so sudden, so potent it makes me lightheaded.
The exquisite agony of fear recedes, leaving me weak-kneed.
It’s just the doghouse, I tell myself, clinging to the lie as he pulls me through the marbled halls.
You’re just relieved you’re not being thrown back there.
It’s not him, it’s not this. It’s just not that cage and those horrific memories.
He doesn’t stop until we reach the carved double doors of his private suite. He releases my hand to push them open and ushers me inside before closing them with a soft, definitive click. The sound echoes in the profound silence.
I stand frozen just inside the room, my arms wrapped around myself.
The suite is exactly as I remember it; opulent, intimidating, a space that speaks of his immense power and taste.
The vast bed, the sitting area, the fireplace, the doors leading to a private terrace overlooking the sea.
It smells of him, sandalwood, clean linen and something uniquely, dangerously Antonio.
He watches me for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over my dishevelled state. He was kind enough to let me put my dress back on before we landed, kind enough to tell me to sit properly, saying he didn’t want me to be too dizzy to walk.
I brace for the blow, verbal or otherwise, for the punishment I know I deserve.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, he walks past me towards the bathroom. I hear the water turn on, a rush of sound that quickly softens as it hits porcelain. He returns a moment later, his expression still inscrutable.
“There is a bath drawn for you,” he says, his voice low, devoid of the fury I expected. It is calm, almost neutral. “Get in. Rest. I have business to attend to.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns and leaves the suite, closing the door behind him, but the lock doesn’t engage.
I’m not locked in.
The silence he leaves in his wake is staggering. It’s a reprieve, a moment of space in a world that has felt like it’s been closing in on me since forever. This simple, unexpected act of kindness; no, not kindness, provision is more destabilizing than any threat.
My carefully constructed defences, built on fear and anger and resentment, waiver.
I walk into the bathroom on unsteady legs.
The air is already steamy and fragrant with the scent of lavender and bergamot from the oils he’s added.
The vast sunken tub is nearly full, the water a swirling, inviting oasis.
I strip off the dress, letting it fall to the floor in a heap, like a shed skin.
I sink into the water, and a gasp escapes my lips.
It’s the perfect temperature, almost unbearably hot.
It seeps into my sore muscles, washing away the fear of the journey, of seeing Magnus Blake again if only for a moment, and the lingering terror of the kennels that feels like it still looms over my head.
I slide under, letting the water close over me, and for a few seconds the world is silent, warm, and blissfully simple. I surface, pushing my hair back from my face, and lean my head against the cool marble edge, closing my eyes.
I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t have a fucking clue about how to even handle Antonio – how can I plan an escape, or revenge or – I don’t even know what my end game is.
Do I want Antonio to pay? Yes, yes I do.
Not just for what he’s done to me, but for what he’s done to my parents.
For my mother. A wave of fury hits me as I hear the words he said only yesterday; that he’s been fucking her, raping her in Oblivion alongside who knows how many others.
He has to pay for that, he has to pay for everything.
Right now, I should be back in England, I should be in the Chapter Lord’s Palace.
Safe and happy with my parents, I should be preparing for upcoming nuptials…
I falter again because I never wanted to marry Gideon.
I can admit that now that it’s a done deal, if that’s the one good outcome out of all of this…
No.
No. No. No.
I won’t let myself fall into the trap of counting blessings when my life has been a living hell these last four years.
And Antonio is responsible for that. Antonio is the reason.
I may smile, pretend, and let him fuck me but ultimately it means nothing, he is nothing. Even if I have to slip out in the night, creep down to the kitchens, steal a knife and then slit his throat while he’s sleeping before slitting my own, I will do it. I will.
I cover my face, letting those words repeat again and again in the hope that I might believe my own conviction.
I have to kill him. There is no other way.
I must have dozed off, because the sound of the door opening startles me awake. The water has cooled slightly. Antonio stands with his jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“The food is here,” he says. His eyes travel over me in the water, and there’s a new heat in his gaze, a possessive appreciation that makes my skin prickle as he extends his hand towards me. “Come eat.”
This time, my hand doesn’t tremble when I place it in his. He pulls me to my feet, water sluicing off my body in sheets, but he doesn’t let go. He reaches for a vast, fluffy towel from the heated rail and begins to dry me with the other.
His movements are methodical, thorough.
He pats the towel over my shoulders, down my arms, across my back, over the curve of my hips and the swell of my backside, down each leg. It is an intensely intimate act, performed with a startling lack of eroticism, yet it feels more invasive than if he had simply taken me.
He is claiming me, not with force, but with care.
Marking me with his attention.
When I am dry, he releases my hand only to pick up a robe of deep crimson silk from a hook. He holds it open and I turn, slipping my arms into the sleeves. He pulls it closed around me, his fingers deftly tying the sash at my waist. The silk is cool and sinfully soft against my skin.
He leads me back into the bedroom. A small table by the terrace doors has been set with a silver-domed platter, a basket of bread, a bowl of fruit, and a carafe of water.
He pulls out a chair for me and I sit, the silk whispering against the wood.
He takes the dome away, revealing grilled fish with lemon, roasted vegetables, and sautéed potatoes.
Simple, and yet my mouth waters like this is the most delicious meal I’ve ever seen.
He doesn’t sit with me. He pours a glass of water and sets it beside my plate. “Eat,” he instructs softly, then moves to the large mahogany desk across the room, turning his attention to a stack of papers.
I eat in silence. The food is exquisite, but I taste it only vaguely. My awareness is entirely focused on him. On the scratch of his pen, the rustle of paper, the way he runs a hand through his dark hair as he reads.
The silence between us is no longer empty.
It is thick.
Charged.
Waiting.
This quiet domesticity is a new layer of the game, and I don’t know the rules. I never have.
My body is thrumming with a nervous energy, a dreadful, eager anticipation.
I finish eating and simply sit, my hands folded in my lap, watching the last light of the sunset bleed into the sea beyond the terrace. If I wasn’t so petrified, this view would be breathtaking.
He finally sets his pen down and looks over at me. The businesslike demeanour has vanished, replaced by something darker, more primal. The predator has finished his administrative duties, and now his attention returns to his prize.
He rises and walks towards me, each step measured.
He doesn’t stop until he is standing behind my chair, and I can feel the heat of him through the silk of the robe.
His hands come to rest on my shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tight muscles at the base of my neck. I can’t suppress a small shiver.
“You are tense, Pup.” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against my ear.
His hands begin to move, kneading the tension away with surprising expertise. It feels too good. My head lolls forward, a soft sigh escaping my lips against my will.
How is he doing this? How is he is disarming me, piece by piece, so fucking easily?
His hands slide down, over the silk, tracing the outline of my body.
He unties the sash, and the robe falls open.
His palms slide inside, onto my bare skin, skimming over my ribs, cupping my breasts.
His thumbs circle my nipples, and they tighten into aching points instantly as a low groan rumbles in his chest.
“Stand up,” he commands, his voice husky.
I obey him, just like always, and the robe pools at my feet. I am naked before him, bathed in the soft glow of the lamps he’s switched on. He looks his fill, his dark eyes burning with a possessive fire that steals my breath.