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“She’s adjusting.”
“Hmm.”
“I have a question,” I start, but something stops me from asking the one I want to ask. No, not something. Someone. Mercedes. Her face when I threatened to tell Santiago. She’s desperate he doesn’t find out.
“Go on,” Santiago says when I pause for too long.
I clear my throat, then pick up the second phone on my desk. “The password to Mercedes’s phone. Do you have it?”
“Yes. I’ll text it to you. You’ll take care of anything between her and this woman?”
“I give you my word. Nothing will get back to The Tribunal that can hurt her.”
“I can do it myself. You don’t need to be involved.”
“I think you have enough on your plate, don’t you?”
“Thank you, Judge. You’re a good friend.”
Am I, though? My phone chimes with a text. It’s the password. “Have a good night, Santiago.”
“Good night.”
Lois knocks on the door and peers inside. “She’s here,” she whispers and slips back out.
I draw in a deep, slow breath. My mother has come to dine with me. I wonder if she’s heard about my guest and wants the latest gossip. Or if she just needs more money. Her allowance never seems to be enough. Although it could also be that she wants to come back to the main house now that grandfather is dead and gone.
Whatever it is, I can hardly stomach the woman who gave birth to me. Who hates me.
But I understand why, don’t I? I know why she took Theron’s side when he did what he did. And she is right about one thing. I chose my side too. Grandfather’s. Knowing what he was capable of. Witnessing his rage. I, too, chose.
His portrait glares down at me.
What a family we are. Perfect on the outside. Vicious on the inside.
8
Mercedes
Warmth moves over me. Something comforting. Something I want more of. Trapped in the clutches of my sleep, I lean into the feeling, soaking it in, wishing for more of it. How long has it been since I've found solace?
I can't remember. But it's here now, and it smells divine. Leather and spice and something so intoxicatingly unique, I can't stop myself from inhaling it. When I do, it gives me an instant rush, and I imagine this is what addiction must feel like. I've only taken one hit, but I want more. So much more.
A soft moan escapes my parted lips as the warmth spreads over my jaw and down my neck. Within the confines of my dream, it's safe to have these feelings. Nobody will ever know, and in the morning, I can pretend they never happened.
Only, after my visceral sound of appreciation, the warmth seems to freeze in place. Suddenly, it feels more tangible, and I find myself questioning my reality. I know I'm asleep, but I must be half-awake too. Is it a lucid dream? Or am I losing my mind?
The answer comes in the next breath when the familiarity of a rough voice invades my senses.
"Come on, little monster. It's time to wake up."
Horror washes over me as I come to my senses and realize I wasn't dreaming at all. The warmth I felt was Judge's hand gliding over my face. That hand was what I leaned into. That touch was what I moaned for.
Oh, dear God… I moaned for him.
A blast of heat floods my cheeks, and I'm grateful when he pulls away, but I also feel the loss immensely. Now he can surely see my face, see the embarrassment on the surface of my skin. It's too awful to consider.
In vain, I try to hold my breath. I try to sink back into stillness. Maybe if I can convince him I'm asleep, we can both forget this terrible event ever happened.
