Chapter 6 The Unholy Water
THE UNHOLY WATER
EMERY
He’s a distraction. That’s all this is. A soothing, almost ethereal distraction. His voice. His touch. His commands. They fucking numb me. I’ve never experienced this type of peaceful hell before.
And it is hell. I deserve this. I deserve to burn in the hottest of deserts.
I should stop. I should keep my distance.
I should heed Sophie’s warning. Her foreshadowing.
I should draw a line. But goddamn it, the line is too tempting.
It calls to me. I want to toe it. I want to walk it.
I want to run across it so many times that it disappears.
I’m a bad person.
Good people don’t play these filthy little games.
But being bad feels so fucking good. Why must it feel so good?
Quinton’s eyes glow like indestructible sapphires, precious gems that I can’t escape. His gaze is locked on me, tethered to my every movement, my every breath.
The water ripples as I drag my hand between my parted thighs, and it’s as if I’m drowning in a pool of decadent sin, unholy water that condemns my actions, my thoughts, my inability to resist.
“Good girl,” Quinton rasps, dragging a thumb across his bottom lip. “Nice and slow, darling.” He tilts his head, gaze commanding yet so fucking tender. “I want you to feel it all.”
He swallows, a tiny growl reverberating in his chest as my eyelids flutter shut and my clit pulses beneath my fingertips. I hear him shift positions, a light gust of air flowing against the side of my face, and then his voice is louder, his lips feathering against my ear as he sits behind me.
I gasp as he captures my nipples between his taunting fingers.
“Play, little darling.” Pain shoots through my breasts as he squeezes tighter, his voice deeper as he commands, “I said play.”
Like a willing soldier, I obey his orders, my knees parting, resting on the white, cold curves of the tub as I flick and rub and torment myself.
“Just like that, darling,” Quinton rasps, edging me on. “A little harder now.”
I moan as he twists on my nipples, the pleasurable pain damn near euphoric.
“I said harder, darling.”
I quicken my speed, tiny tidal waves bashing against the tub as I do as I’m told, as my core clenches, as I listen intently to his guidance, to his cult-like preaching.
“Yes, keep going, darling. Keep fucking going.”
My stomach clenches, pussy vibrating at his dirty words of encouragement.
“Good girl, little Emery. Keep going. Keep fucking yourself. Yes, just like that. Just like that.” His voice dips into a carnivorous growl. “Come for me, little Emery. Fucking come.”
And just like that, my entire body convulses like he’s performed a goddamn exorcism on my possessed and evil body. My legs quiver, knees shaking, the voltage reaching my toes as wanton moans slip past my lips.
Holy hell. Oh, my God.
I feel his lips press against my damp forehead, my energy levels depleted, my eyes unable to open.
“Don’t stay in here too long,” he whispers. “You’ll prune.”
I force my eyes to open, and with a puzzled frown, I glance up at him. “Are you leaving?” He smiles down at me, his hard cock bulging out of his pants. I reach over to offer him some relief, but he moves away. “What are—”
“This wasn’t about me, darling,” he says, tilting his head as his gaze skims my naked, spent body. He sucks in a sharp, stabilizing breath. “Sleep soundly tonight, Emery. We’ve got a big couple of days ahead.”
I frown. “Days?”
A cunning smirk lights up his face. “Goodnight, darling.” He turns around to exit the en suite but stops before the door. He cranes his neck over his shoulder, eyes darkening as he adds, “Don’t touch yourself while I’m gone.”
I swallow and brazenly ask, “Or else what?”
He chuckles under his breath. “I’m not Cavanaugh, darling.
I won’t punish you like that.” I narrow my eyes at him, slightly put off by the mention of Damon’s name.
How does he know? “But I have other ways to make you suffer.” My brow perks up, and he lets out a laugh.
“I like that about you, little Emery.” His voice fades as he exits the en suite. “You’re just so damn curious.”
When the door shuts, I stare up at the coffered ceiling. I stay in the tub for what feels like hours. Thinking. Attempting to decipher what he meant. All I know is that he’s right. I am curious. So fucking intrigued.
The evening breeze blows through Sophie’s room as she tilts my head up, sweeping another layer of soft nude glitter across my eyelids.
Music, chatter, and the occasional laugh sounds from downstairs and dread washes over me.
As soon as she’s done with my makeup, we’ll have to join them.
My social battery is already half drained.
“Hold still, Emery,” Sophie says. “You’re very twitchy tonight. I’m almost done.”
“Where’s Quinton?” I ask, inwardly wincing. I haven’t had a chance to see him for more than a couple of minutes all day. Several guests arrived early, and like a good host, he had to entertain the donors.
“Probably with Will and Charles,” Ella pipes up, the stench of her cigarette making me reminisce.
“It’s best we take our time. The real party doesn’t start until the business is handled.
” She releases a heavy sigh. “Although, I cannot fathom how watching a three-hour long play counts as a party. Sounds dreadful to me, really.”
“There!” Sophie exclaims, taking a step back as I open my eyes.
“Perfect.” I glance into the mirror and blink.
I look like a disco ball. “Stunning, aren’t you?
” I offer her a grateful smile. “Well, shall we go then? Lots of hands to shake. Daddy hopes we surpass last year’s donations by five million. ”
Ella scoffs. "Hopes? You know we will. Charles is like a shark when it comes to these things." She stands up, butting her cigarette out in the ashtray. “Let’s get this over with.” She opens her clutch and removes a tiny vile with white powder inside of it. She sprinkles a little on the outside of her thumb and snorts. When she catches my stunned gaze, she rolls her eyes. “Judge me all you want, Emery, but the children don’t arrive until the morning, and I intend to capitalize on their absence.”
“I’m not—”
“Enough,” Sophie interjects. “Let’s go.”
As Sophie and Ella lead the way downstairs, I take a moment to remind myself that I am capable of navigating small talk. Granted, small talk for this particular social circle refers to luxurious trips and absurd stock market gains. I’ll just smile a lot; that tends to keep the peace.
The grand ballroom comes into view, and a flurry of anxiety grips my chest. It’s all so…
extravagant. Crystal chandeliers. Roses.
Champagne. Diamonds on every neck. I draw in a steadying breath, the melodic notes of a live orchestra floating through the villa.
There are hordes of guests, all dressed like kings and queens.
As soon as we hit the bottom of the stairs, Sophie loops her arm through Ella’s and says, “Enjoy yourself, Emery. Have fun, okay?”
And I’m alone, with dozens of eyes glued to my every move. My knees lock, and I seriously contemplate running back upstairs and crawling into bed. But then I catch a glimpse of Quinton in the crowd.
I let out a strained breath, relaxing as I take in his magnetic presence. Quin stands tall and poised, his dirty blonde hair perfectly styled, his tuxedo tailored to his every contour. The dim lighting casts shadows that highlight his strong jawline and bright blue eyes.
God, he’s handsome.
My gaze shifts to the stunning older woman by Quinton’s side, and my jaw slightly clenches.
Her long, shimmering gown hugs her curves in all the right places, her blonde hair tousled and perfectly messy.
Her fingers graze his arm as she leans in to speak to him, her laughter like nails on a fucking chalkboard.
As if sensing my glare, Quinton whips his head toward me, his amused gaze locking onto mine with a combative look. The woman snakes her arm around his as they approach me, like a pair of sly little panthers. My spine straightens out, and I’m hyperaware that my fingers are tingling.
"Emery," he says, his voice a deep, velvety rumble that irritates the shit out of me. "You look absolutely beautiful." He nods to the blonde on his arm. “I’d like you to meet Vivienne Delareux. She’s an old family friend. Vivienne, this is Emery Jones. My guest this Christmas.”
“Old family friend?” Vivienne’s thick French accent catches me off guard. She gives Quinton’s shoulder a flirty smack. “There is nothing old about me, Quinton. How very rude.” She shoots me a sultry smirk. “Do you think I look old, ma chérie?”
“Not at all, Vivienne.” I muster a polite smile, extending my hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you."
Vivienne hums under her breath as she gives me a weak handshake. "She’s a little timid, this one." She looks me up and down, her gaze assessing, and I resist the urge to throw her an uppercut. "But I can see the appeal."
Quinton chuckles softly, his eyes lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary. "Don’t let her fool you, Vivienne. Emery is hardly timid."
I clear my throat, my discomfort growing more palpable with each passing second. I’m not sure what to say. Or how to react. Quinton's fingers graze my lower back, a subtle touch that confuses me further.
"Shall we find something to drink?" he asks.
Vivienne nods. "I could use a glass of champagne."
As Quinton leads the way to the bar, Vivienne's fingers trail along his arm in a way that's meant to be playful but feels far too intimate for my liking. The surge of jealousy I'd felt earlier intensifies, but I quickly suppress it, reminding myself that Quinton doesn’t owe me anything. Nor do I want it. I don’t.
Quinton orders two champagnes and one sparkling cider. Before we can toast, Charles’s voice booms through the speakers and all heads turn to the front of the room.
“Welcome my friends,” he begins. “I am so very pleased to see all your wonderful and generous faces tonight.” He pauses, tone solemn.
“It’s been five years since my dear Rose left this earth, and I miss her terribly every single day.
She was a woman of grace, elegance, and boundless compassion.
Her spirit lives on in the Rose Foundation which works tirelessly to support those who are fighting the same battle she fought.
Together, we can make a difference in the lives of those affected by cancer. ”
Quinton's hand finds my waist, and he holds it, almost as if he’s afraid he’ll crumble. He must miss his mother.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Quin,” I whisper to him.
His grip around me tightens, his focus locked on his father. But I see it. The way his eyes gloss over.
“Thank you, darling.”
I turn my attention back to Charles as he urges the guests to open their wallets and donate to the Rose Foundation. A small applause ripples through the crowd, and Charles smiles, gratitude etched across his aging features. And then his expression shifts, becoming more animated, more joyful.
Quin relaxes. I feel it.
“Now, my friends,” Charles continues with a smile, “as many of you know, my Rose's name was no coincidence.
Her father was a fervent admirer of Shakespeare, and he named her after The Rose playhouse.
It seems only fitting that we honor Rose's love for the arts tonight.” He gestures outside toward the entrance of the amphitheater.
“In collaboration with the London Playhouse, we have a special treat for you: Shakespeare's timeless play—Antony and Cleopatra.
We've arranged for heaters and blankets, but it might be a tad chilly out there, so feel free to bring your jackets with you. "
The crowd claps, and I exchange a glance with Quinton. He gives me a playful, almost instigating smirk, and I wonder how many times a day he changes his mask.
“I adore Shakespeare,” Vivienne whispers, and I stifle an eye roll. “How lovely.”
Charles finishes his speech, and the crowd begins to disperse. Quinton motions toward the amphitheater, Vivienne lingering beside us.
“Shall we?” he asks.
I nod, following Quinton through the double French doors.
A wall of icy wind whips past us as we step outside and Vivienne shivers, holding her petite figure.
“Thank goodness there are heaters. It is like Father Frost has joined us tonight.” The three of us take our seats with Quinton in the middle.
Vivienne passes us a blanket each. “Here.” She gives me a smug smile.
“If we get too cold, perhaps we can layer them and use our body heat to stay warm.” She glances at Quinton. “Mmm?”
Quinton chuckles. “Always a survivalist, aren’t you, Vivienne?”
I force my expression to remain neutral, despite the fact that I want to slap the smile off her pretty little face.
As the stage lights flicker, indicating that act one is about to begin, I slide my right hand under the blanket. Quinton’s blanket. Don’t worry, Viv. He won’t get cold. If anything, he’ll be hot. Too hot. Almost sweating.
When my fingers find Quin’s zipper, his eyes widen, and he gives me a subtle glance and opens his mouth.
“Shh,” I hush him, focusing intently on the stage as I unzip his pants, pleasantly surprised there’s nothing but flesh underneath. “No talking. It’s about to begin.”
A ghost of a smirk clips Quinton’s face as he leans back into his seat. “God, I love the theater.”
I release a clipped laugh, my grip around his cock tightening to a violent degree.
“You shouldn’t,” I whisper. “This is a tragedy, Quinton.” My antagonistic gaze meets his. “There isn’t a happy ending. Just a slow,” I roll his dick between my palm in a slow, calculated rhythm, “demise.”