The Ruthless Heir

“No more fighting.” His voice betrays a hint of softness I don’t think I’ve ever heard from him before. “Not right now.”

“I can do it myself,” I croak.

“But you won’t,” he answers. “It’s my job to take care of you.”

I bury my face in the pillow as he warms the cream between his palms and then starts to smooth it over the curves of my ass. It feels so intimate. Too intimate to be sharing with Judge. I can’t make sense of him. This man is a Sovereign Son.

He’s practically royalty in The Society. He could have any woman he wants, yet he’s never married. At thirty-one, I’m sure countless women have tried and failed to secure him as a husband. But Santiago has mentioned many times that Judge will never marry, and I have to wonder why.

Why is it okay for him to refuse the expectations of The Society when I must abide by them? And what possible benefit could he derive by wasting his time on me when a plethora of beautiful women at the Cat House are willing to submit to his every command?

These thoughts occupy my mind while he rubs the cream into my skin, but as hard as I try, I can’t distract myself enough from the feeling of his hands on me. He’s meticulous. Careful.

Treating me like I’m delicate when five minutes ago, he was treating me as if I were the bane of his existence. I don’t understand him, and I can’t stop myself from blurting the question that’s been on my mind since last night.

“Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?”

His hand falters for a moment before he resumes his work, taking extra care to massage the sensitive skin I’m sure is red and swollen.

“There has to be something in it for you,” I persist when he doesn’t answer.

“There is,” he says quietly.

Immediately, my thoughts go to the worst-case scenario. I already know from Santiago that if anything were to happen to my brother as head of the household, not only would Judge take over my care, but he would be paid well to do so. I can’t imagine he needs the money, but do rich men ever turn down financial gains? Is that why he agreed to this? It’s the only thing that makes any sense. And suddenly, this whole situation is even more mortifying than I imagined it could be.

“He’s paying you, isn’t he?” I demand. “Santiago is paying you for your trouble. That’s why I’m here.”

Judge doesn’t respond, and I have my answer. I swallow my pride, ready to pull myself up and redraw the battle lines. But then his palm skates up my back, lightly grazing over the scars that have lived there for so many years.

“Who did this to you?” His question catches me off guard, and even more so when I seem to detect an undercurrent of rage in his tone.

“That’s my business,” I reply with less bite than I had hoped.

“Your business is my business.” He resumes his stroking, massaging the skin of my back until his fingers skate over the curve of my hip and then around the globe of my butt down to the back of my thighs, where a few more scars reside.

I don’t know how, but at some point, his endeavors to salve my inflamed skin turned into something else. Something more exploratory. Something darker and… more dangerous.

When his thumb glides perilously close to my inner thigh, I draw in a sharp breath as a cascade of goose bumps breaks out all over my body, and my stomach clenches in anticipation.

I know he can’t. He won’t. I’m off-limits. That’s no-man’s-land until I’m married. It’s the rule for Society women, especially women in the upper echelon.

No man has ever dared touch me there before, and I can’t imagine Judge testing the limits with Santiago’s wrath. If he ruins me, no man would ever marry me, and he would have to face the consequences that surely aren’t worth the trouble. It would be reckless and stupid, but a part of me also wonders if he wants to.

That same deranged part of me is considering what it would feel like. Would he be rough, or would he be gentle as he is now? What would it feel like to have his hands all over my body? His mouth on my mouth. His cock deep inside me.

I shake away those horrifying thoughts, ashamed for even considering them.

“That’s good enough,” I choke out. “If I need more, I’ll apply it later.”Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

My words seem to bring him back to his senses too, and he drags his hand away, leaving me cold in the wake of the loss.

“You have an hour to rest,” he says quietly. “Then I want you to shower. Your clothes are in the closet. Dress as you’d like, but you aren’t to leave this room.”

“My clothes are here?” I glance at the closet, wondering when they got delivered. It must have been while I was sleeping.

He nods, moving to the door, and I call after him. “What about my phone?”

“No phone,” he replies, his face devoid of any emotion. “And no makeup.”

“I need my phone, Judge. You can’t just-”

“You’ll get it back when you tell me why you’re here. For now, you can use this time to think about that.” He reaches for the handle and pauses after he opens it. “The rules are very simple, Erica. Good behavior earns you privileges. Bad behavior earns you consequences.”

Judge leaves the room, and emptiness engulfs me. It’s a brittle feeling. I thought there would be some relief in his absence, but now I’m alone with my thoughts. Alone with the memories of last night and the knowledge that I deserve whatever punishment Judge can dole out. It still won’t be enough.

I can’t bring myself to eat so much as a bite of the breakfast Miriam delivered. I’m sure that will probably result in further consequences later, but right now, I can’t find it in me to care. She comes again at noon with lunch, noting with raised eyebrows that I don’t eat that either.

I try to find ways to pass the time. Things to occupy my mind. I shower and brush my hair and my teeth, trying to avoid the mirror as much as possible. I feel naked without the armor of my makeup, and I don’t like it.

When I venture into my closet, sure enough, my clothes are there as Judge stated. Santiago had them sent over without delay, erasing all evidence of me from the manor.

I swallow the painful lump that reality leaves me with and thumb through the racks of designer dresses I usually wear. But what’s the point? I’m not going anywhere. There are no pretenses to keep. He’s stripped me down and left me bare in more ways than one.

I grab a pair of yoga pants, a strappy tank top, and a cashmere sweater, opting for comfort over fashion. My room is cool enough that I can take solace in the soft fabric against my skin, at least for now.

Amongst all my other belongings, I find my purse. I rifle through it, half hopeful, but my phone is absent, and all that’s left are the usual essentials I carry. A compact mirror, gum, lip conditioner, and my EpiPen.

I officially have no communication with the outside world unless I can somehow manage to get to a phone. But even if I could, I don’t know what good it would do. Who even memorizes the numbers in their contacts anymore?

Solana and Georgie are sure to be blowing up my phone. I missed our customary Sunday brunch with them yesterday and didn’t even have a chance to text them or explain. They’ve known something has been off with me lately, but I couldn’t tell them the truth.

They don’t live in the same world I do, and there’s no way they could ever understand the reality of The Society. All the rules, the expectations for my life. Poison and treachery are only things they hear about on TV. If they had any inclination of what my life was really like, they’d probably try to steal me away to a tropical island.

I miss them, and right now, I wish I could tell them everything. I wish I could hear Solana humming a happy little tune in her cozy apartment while she pours us mimosas and feeds us pastries.

Georgie would hug me and tell me it’s all going to be okay even though it isn’t because Georgie never lets me believe anything else. He’d ask me who he needs to murder and then tell me how amazing I look.