The Ruthless Heir

JUDGE’s POV

The door closes, the sound of it a demarcation of time. Forking of the road in all of our lives.

Erica watches the space where her brother stood for a long moment as if waiting for the door to reopen and for him to reappear. Not quite believing what’s happened, she goes limp in my arms, an anguished sound coming from somewhere deep inside her.

I loosen my hold but don’t release her. She looks up at me, her face streaked with tears, the delicate skin around her eyes puffy. A bruise is forming around the gash on her cheek, and damp hair sticks to her forehead.

“Let me go,” she says, her voice like that of a wounded animal.

I release her wrists and take my arm from her middle.

She slips away, putting space between us, and her gaze moves to the exit behind me.

“Don’t,” I tell her.

She’s quiet as she considers her options. A part of me hopes she’ll try to run for it and go after her brother. He won’t save her. What’s done is done.

But I’m not sure she’s finished trying. Erica De La Rosa is a woman used to getting her way.

“What are you going to do?” she asks in a tone she reserves for staff. She wants to wound, but I know her too well. She may not realize that, but it’s true.

And I see this as her attempt to deflect attention from herself. She’s vulnerable. And she doesn’t like being vulnerable.

She folds her arms across her chest. Her gray sweats are a few inches short of her ankles, and her feet are bare. The matching top is too baggy.

Not her usual attire. Not to mention a face free of makeup. She looks younger without it. I wonder if anyone would recognize her if I walked her out of here.

Not that it matters. She won’t be leaving from the front door.

“I think you know,” I say, taking a step toward her. The truth is, I want this. I want it too much. Santiago is my closest friend. The man I trust most in this world. And he trusts me. But would he give me custody of his sister if he knew just how much I wanted it?

I should have refused and told him to find someone else. Someone impartial. A better man may have. But the temptation of having Erica De La Rosa beneath my roof and under my control was too much to resist.

Besides, she was in no state to be refused. Neither of them was. I keep telling myself that.

She takes a step backward as I take another forward. She’s known me all her life, but only ever as her big brother’s confidante and friend.

Apart from the time she stayed in my home while Santiago recovered at the hospital, we haven’t spent much time together, and even then, I made sure to keep our interactions brief. Proper. What does she see when she looks at me now?

Her gaze flits over my shoulder to the door again, but I don’t comment. If she wants to run, I’ll allow it, but she won’t get past me. Maybe she needs to learn that for herself. And the feel of her pressed against me moments ago, her slight weight in my arms? Well, I am a man.

And we’re all beasts, aren’t we? Men and women alike? Animals. For all our refinement, money, and polite conversation, underneath it all, we are all just animals ruled by our baser needs. Our wants and desires.

“Are you going to put me in that cellar?” she spits, lips tight, arms hugging closer as she takes another step away until her back hits the wall. “Huh? String me up as you did her?”

Her. Ivy. She can’t even say her name.

I close the space between us so I’m standing inches from her.

She tilts her head back to look up at me. At five-foot-ten, she’s tall, taller when she’s wearing her usual heels, but I still have about six inches on her. And even though her throat works to swallow and the pulse at her neck thrums in double time, she steels herself, gritting her jaw. Dark eyes like lasers burn into mine.

I raise my hand, and she winces.

I pause, eyebrow rising.

She presses her back to the wall and blinks.

Hair sticks to the gash on her cheek. I brush the strands away, feeling her shudder at my touch. My gaze falls to her lips. Her mouth is open, breathing shallow. And when I inhale, I smell shampoo and beneath it that acrid scent of fear.

She’s afraid.

She’s afraid of me.

It’s how it should be. How it needs to be.

“Are you going to put me in that cellar or not? Answer me!” Lines crease the perfect skin of her forehead in her ill-fated attempt to take control of the situation.

Patience, I tell myself.

“Are you afraid of that?” I ask.

She presses her lips together and exhales through her nose. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Not even me?”

Her eyes search mine, and she shakes her head. The little liar.

“Hm.” I let the moment hang, listening to her short, trembling breaths. “No, Erica. You don’t belong in that cellar.”

She exhales with relief and closes her eyes, pressing the heels of her hands into them.

Did she think I’d string her up like I did Ivy? Although perhaps I should. When Ivy was in my care, it was for this same reason. She was accused of being the woman who poisoned Santiago. An act Erica was at least partially responsible for. An act Erica had set her up to take the fall for.

I remember those days. How Erica asked what I’d do to Ivy. How she wanted to know every detail. Guilt, I realize now. That was guilt. But it was pride that never allowed her to come clean. To save Ivy from a fate she did not deserve.

And Erica will be punished for that.

“But you will go there if you earn it.” She looks up at me again, small fists between us. I grin. “And I have a feeling you will earn it, little monster.”Content © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

That does it. That burns the fire hot in her eyes. Good. Her light should not go out. Ever. And this is the work I’m tasked with. This is why Santiago entrusted his sister to me. Get her under control. Tame her. Teach her to bend but do not break her.

Erica shoves me as hard as she can, and when I give her an inch, she runs for it, lunging for the door.

I catch her easily, an arm around her middle lifting her off her feet. But it’s a mistake because she spins, enraged, and drives her nails into my face, that wounded animal cornered and desperate, fighting for her freedom, her pride, her life.

I throw her onto the bed, then watch her bounce once and turn to scramble across it. Capturing her ankle, I tug her flat on her stomach, then set my knee on her lower back. I pin her down as I take her wrists, clutching them in one of my hands.

“Let me go! This is a mistake. Santi wouldn’t do this to me! He wouldn’t abandon me like this!”

“He didn’t abandon you,” I say, my tone calm. I reach for the black duffel I’d brought with me.

Erica struggles, but she must know it’s pointless. Her strength is no match for mine. She turns her head to watch as I unzip the bag and take out the length of the rope.

I straighten, the scratches on my face stinging. “This is the opposite of him abandoning you,” I tell her as she begins her struggle anew at the sight of the rope.

“What are you doing?” she screams as I flip her onto her back and bind her wrists, then haul her to her feet. “You can’t do this to me!”

I look her over. Her hair is wild, the waistband of the too-big sweats askew from her struggle revealing an expanse of toned olive skin. I bend to take one more thing out of the duffel and hold it up for her to see.

She looks at the strip of black silk.

“Turn around, Erica.”

She shifts her gaze from it to me. “Why?”