Page 106 of Lethal Legacy

Marking every inch of her body as mine.

I trace her scars and find the places that cause her to squeal, and those that bring forth mewling cries of submission. I deny her the ability to see or move and take dark pleasure in exploring every part of her as she writhes on my bed. I take her to the edge then deny her my touch until she’s a moaning, screaming mess. I fuck her with slow, deliberate precision, every thrust exorcising the savage demon that has twisted my mind since our conversation yesterday.

Only when dawn is close do I free her ties. By that time the world between us is a storm, a place in which we are both lost. The wracking intensity of our mutual ending shakes me to the core and leaves me wondering who, exactly, learned a lesson.

As light creeps into the room, I’m standing by the bed, looking down at Lucia. She’s sprawled face down and fast asleep, tangled in the sheets, hair strewn over my pillows.

There’s something deeply satisfying about having her here, in my bed. Where I can see her. Touch her. Inhale her scent.

Watching her sleep and knowing that, so long as I do, she can’t run.

Despite the all-nighter, my body feels oddly exhilarated, as if I’ve inhaled oxygen at a mountaintop. I feel like I could wrestle a lion and win.

I know it’s time to send her back downstairs; the children will be awake soon.

I tell myself I’ll do it after I’ve had a shower.

Then I stand under the water, staring through the glass at her sleeping body until sunlight has chased the night away.

31

LUCIA

“Owww!” Masha glares at me.

“Sorry,” I mutter around the pins in my mouth. “But you have to stay still.”

“You keep pricking me!”

“Well, that’s what you get for being a cactus.” I wink at her, and Masha gives me a gap-toothed grin. “Also,” I add, “I did tell you sewing isnotmy forte.”

“What’s a fortay?” she asks, turning obediently as I pin her costume.

“It’s a strength,” Ofelia supplies from her seat on the sofa. “But you’re wrong, Lucia. The costume looks good.” She gives me the wary smile that still breaks my heart.

Ofelia is opening up, slowly. But she still lives behind a wall, one I’m not sure anyone will ever truly breach. Her eyes never stop watching her siblings, and caution is an ever-present shadow behind her eyes. The real miracle to me is that despite her multiple expulsions, and the harsh discipline I can read between the lines of the outraged comments in her reports, Ofelia’s unconditional devotion to her siblings has never wavered. Every day I know her increases my respect for her. She may be only fifteen, but grief and responsibility have given her a quiet dignity. It infuriates me that a myriad of school teachers and boarding house mistresses have misconstrued Ofelia’s pain for arrogance, her disobedience for attention seeking.

Most of all, it shocks me that after several days I’ve yet to hear any of the children have a conversation with their mother, or any other member of their family. In fact, their phones are remarkably quiet. No texts from friends or hidden phone chats. Roman’s godchildren rely on each other. They are each other’s support network and friendship group. Even at rehearsals, they keep themselves slightly apart from the crowd, instinctively drawing closer to each other.

Tomorrow is the actual procession. Roman has assured the children he will attend.

He hasn’t communicated much to me. Actually, we’ve barely spoken since the earth-shattering night in his penthouse. Not that speaking has been required. I’ve been summoned each night, and sometimes during siesta. Sex has become my every meal.

I’m not complaining. I don’t want to talk any more than Roman does. Our time together is an oasis, a fantasy land where all that matters is my body, his body, the way we fit together. I’ve never known anything remotely like what happens between us when the door to his penthouse closes. In fact, it feels like something in me has been unleashed. I try not to overthink it, just as I try not to think of where this all will end. I’ve just been floating along on a permanent cloud of oxytocin that effectively numbs logical thought. For once in my life, I’ve been more than content to bid logic goodbye.

“So this afternoon is our final rehearsal, right?” I stick the last of the pins into Masha’s costume.

“Yes.” It’s Mickey who answers. He has his head in his laptop, frowning in concentration. “And some of these times are still off.”

I plop on the sofa arm and ruffle his hair. “You’ll have time to test them out this afternoon. If you’re still stuck after that, we’ll ask Roman for help.”

Mickey and Ofelia both snort derisively. “Yeah, right,” he mutters. “As if he’d know one end of a computer from the other.”

I deliberately don’t react. Despite Roman joining us for meals, and a tentative thawing of the vibe between him and the children, I’m increasingly aware of the wariness with which they regard him. It’s expressed in a myriad of ways. One of the most common, particularly from the older two, is in snarky asides like this one. The fact that they say them aloud in my presence, however, I take as an encouraging sign that they actually want to be contradicted. It’s a delicate line, where I need to allow them to express their true feelings while also forging a bridge of understanding. Aware that three sets of eyes are watching me closely for a reaction, I remain beside Mickey on the sofa and tap his shoulder lightly. “Did you know that Hale has an entire software development facility full of computer specialists?”

That gets their attention. Mickey swings around to look at me, frowning. “Hale is mainly a property development company. That software place is just a sideline.”

“Sure.” I reach over and key in a website I found in one of my many online searches about Roman. “But Hale Tech employs a lot of people. I’m pretty sure that if you needed any technical help, Roman would be able to get it for you.”

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