The Ruthless Heir

I don’t deserve them, truthfully. But they are a part of my life outside The Society that nobody knows about. I spend my free time at aerial yoga and dance classes with my friends, and in those stolen minutes, I am truly free.

Then I leave them, donning my armor and going back to my world, spending time with my Society-approved frenemies.

We eat fifty-dollar salads together and purge outrageous amounts of money trying to one-up each other’s wardrobe, all while pretending we have any actual love and respect for one another.

I doubt very much that Giordana, Dulce, and Vivien will even think twice about my welfare when I don’t show up for tomorrow’s weekly charity luncheon. They will gossip and speculate unkindly about my absence, but they won’t seek me out.

Solana and Georgie, on the other hand, won’t take it lightly when I completely ghost them. And if I’m being honest, I’m worried they will make a big deal about it when they can’t find me. It’s something The Society wouldn’t like, and I have to tread carefully to make sure they are protected, but I’m just not sure how I’m going to do that yet.

What will Judge think if he looks at my phone and sees all their messages? Especially the ones between Georgie and me. We send each other selfies throughout the day and praise each other about how hot and fierce and amazing the other one looks with encouraging messages to slay the day. I jokingly dubbed him as ‘boy-friend’ in my phone, and I could see how that might be misconstrued. Especially taken out of context with the constant notes of affection and declarations of love for each other.

If anyone in The Society were to see those messages, they could easily conclude that I’m dating outside of our circle and, worse, that I’m no longer pure. It has the potential to destroy my reputation and further tarnish my family name. But how can I explain my friendships with Georgie and Solana in a way that any of them could even understand?

The upper echelon doesn’t seek outside friends. We don’t mingle with the world that doesn’t follow our ways. And I’m afraid if Judge sees those messages before I can get my phone back, the results could be disastrous.

I know it’s a fruitless endeavor, but I walk to the door and check to see that it is in fact locked. The balcony too. I’m trapped in here with nowhere to go and nothing but these terrible thoughts rattling around in my brain.

I try to do some yoga to relax, but somewhere between downward dog and child’s pose, another torrent of emotion floods over me. I end up curled up on the floor, rocking myself in an attempt to soothe the ache in my chest. When I close my eyes, I see that woman’s face all over again. And when I open them, I see reminders everywhere.

The lamp shattering as it collides with her skull. The blood slipping down my fingers. I don’t have to be in that room to feel those things. To hear them. They are on an almost constant feedback loop now, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I barely make it to the toilet before I heave and spew the only thing I managed to get down today, which was water. My stomach cramps, and I retch again, but nothing comes up. As it turns out, you can’t vomit up your guilt after all.

I’m clinging to the toilet bowl, clammy and weak, when I feel a presence behind me. I lift my head to find Judge standing there, concern etched into his features. But as his eyes move over me, drifting down to my arm that’s clutching my stomach, I see the question in them. He’s concerned not only that I might be sick, but I’m certain he’s also speculating about the reason.

“I…” My voice dies off as I pull myself up, and the room starts spinning.

“Fuck.”

Judge’s muffled curse is the last thing I hear before I stagger sideways and start to collapse, right into the strength of his arms.

JUDGE’s [POV]Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

She’s not for you.

I lay Erica down on her bed. She’s dressed in yoga pants and a sweater, her hair still loose, her feet still bare.

Not. For. You.

I swallow that fact down and sit on the edge of the bed, scrubbing my face. I wonder what my colleagues and those slated to appear in my courtroom thought of the half-moon-shaped marks on my cheeks from Erica’s fingernails. No one dared ask. They know better.

She hasn’t eaten all day. Miriam briefed me upon my arrival. It’s probably why she passed out. That or the guilt I’m sure she’s been reliving locked in here with nothing to distract her. That’s the point, though. No distractions. The way out is through. Too many people expect shortcuts in life.

But that’s not how things work. Darkness touches all of our lives. The strong ones stand tall and walk willingly into the abyss to face down the shadows. The weak ones distract themselves so as not to have to face it. I won’t let Erica be weak. She’s not that.

“Erica.”

Nothing.

I push the hair from her face. Her forehead is damp. I wonder if that’s from the yoga her mat is laid out on the floor or from being sick. My guess is the latter when I see the puffy, pink skin around her eyes.

I’ve never studied her before. Never had the opportunity, really. And I realize there’s something not quite right about doing it while she’s passed out, but I shove those thoughts aside and find myself undressing her with the pretense that she’s too hot under the clothes. But I do want to get a look at her at those scars and I doubt she’d allow it if she were awake.

And so, without much more thought, I strip off her sweater and pants, the tank top beneath, and set them at the foot of the bed. When I sit her up to remove her bra, she makes a sound, but her head lolls against my chest. Once the bra is unhooked, I cup the back of her head and lay her down. She quiets as I pull the straps from her arms and set the bra on top of her clothes.

I take in her breasts. Full. Perfectly round. Her large nipples darkening as they pucker. I clear my throat, then look over her chest, her stomach. Nothing here. Just perfect, unblemished skin. The sleeping beast inside stirs. I shift my gaze from her flat stomach to the lace panties just barely covering her. I slip my fingers into the waistband.

What would she think if she woke now? What would I tell her? The truth. Those scars are concerning. Santiago wouldn’t have done that to her, would he? Does he even know about them?

I slide her panties down her long legs and am about to set them aside, but push them into my pocket instead. I stand. Take her in, my gaze again catching on the slit of her sex. She makes a sound, moves, but quiets again. Her legs part just a little. Just enough to give me a glimpse of the open lips of her pussy.

A rumbling inside my chest signals the beast’s interest is piqued. I take a deep breath in, then slowly exhale. Adjust myself.

I tell myself that I am inspecting for scars. That’s all this is.

And I find the first one. Just around the curve of her hip on her pelvic bone. As if the belt and I know it was a belt wrapped around and the buckle dug hard into flesh. It was wielded in anger. Uncontrolled. I know this, too. My jaw tightens as I reach down to touch it, scar tissue bumpy beneath my thumb.

The fronts of her legs are mostly unblemished, apart from two smaller marks like that at her hip from where the belt wrapped around when it struck.

Who did this to her?

I run my hand over the smooth skin of her thigh, knee, her shin. I move around the bed and take one foot in my hands, and when I see the underside of it, every muscle in my body tenses. And that rumbling from earlier, it’s different now. Loud and possessive and enraged.

Both feet are heavily scarred. The bottoms whipped ruthlessly.

I hold them both, wanting to warm them. Heal them. They’re small for her height, the nails polished to perfection in her signature red. Flawless on one side. Damaged on the other. Like her.

“What are you doing?” Erica asks. I look up to find her staring at me, eyes wide with horror. She comes up onto her elbows. “What the hell are you doing?” she demands, tugging her feet from my grasp.