Page 53 of Cruel Heir

You were never going to have a choice.The words beat in my head like heavy wings, battering me with a truth I don’t want to face. That it wouldn’t have mattered if I wanted Mattias, Fazio, or any of the other men I danced with on that fateful night of my debut. That it wouldn’t have mattered who was respectful, or kind, or gentle, or any of the things I might have wanted.

That my father would have taken my wishes into consideration only if they had aligned with his own. That if the man whose alliance had benefited him best had been cruel, or ugly, or treated me like a possession, that wouldn’t have mattered in the face of increased power or wealth. I was, and always have been, a bargaining chip.

He would have taken my choices away. And he took Andre’s away, too.

I close my eyes, pressing the heels of my hands hard against them until I see bright spots flashing in the darkness behind my closed lids. I don’t want to think of my father like this. I don’t want to imagine that he cared so little for my happiness.

If you believe one thing, believe this.

I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know what to do. And now Andre has taken away my only means of preventing the one thing I could keep from him. He might have walked away today, but he won’t do so forever. I know it will only be a matter of time before he comes back to my bed.

I close my eyes, fresh tears seeping out from beneath my lids. I don’t know what to think or feel any longer.

If things were different, if Andre was the man my father had chosen for me, we might have been happy.

It’s not the first time I’ve thought of it. And now, I don’t know what to make of it.

I could still choose. If Andre would change his mind—

I bite my lip, considering it. The possibility of a future whereAndre walks away from his vengeance. Where he choosesmeinstead of violence and destruction. My pulse quickens at the thought, at the idea that there might be another way out of this.

It feels unsteady, like a rocky path beneath my feet. I don’t even know that the feelings that I think I’ve seen in Andre are real, and not just my imagination. I’m thinking of attempting something that could blow up dramatically in my face.

But I have totry. If I don’t try anything at all, then everything is lost.

I tell myself to wait and see what he does next. To see how he reacts when we’ve both cooled off. I’ll make a decision then.

I wish, more than anything, that Celeste was here for me to talk to. My chest aches at the thought of not seeing her again. I don’t believe that Andre won’t send her away—I barely believe that he won’t hurt her. The thought of it is almost too painful to bear.

If something happens to her, then it’s my fault. I tell myself that whatever happens next, I won’t involve anyone else. The risk will be entirely mine, going forward.

I can’t let anyone else get hurt because of what Andre has done—or what I might do.

—

It’s late in the evening when I hear the lock turning.

I shouldn’t still be awake, but I can’t sleep. I’ve barely touched the meals that were brought up to me. True to his word, Andre had a maid come up to escort me to the bathroom, to watch me while I ate, and then take the silverware away. I suppose I could try to make a noose out of the sheets, but that feels a little bit dramatic for the situation as it is right now.

I want to say I was being dramatic earlier, when I threatened to throw myself off of the balcony. But the glaring hopelessness that I feel every time I think of the situation as it stands tells me that I wasn’t. It feels as if, at some point, that might be my only way out. Especially if my father never comes for me.

Andre steps into my room. He’s wearing soft-looking black joggers and a heathered grey t-shirt, the most casual I’ve ever seen him. His eyes look shadowed, tired, and his face has that same heaviness when he looks at me. As if he hasn’t slept, even though it’s been only the better part of the day since we last talked. It’s as if our last conversation has weighed on him that heavily.

“The staff told me that you’ve barely eaten.” He looks at me disapprovingly. “You need to eat, Lucia.”

“I don’t want to hear it again.” I turn away from him, wrapping my arms around myself, my voice cold and flat. “I don’t want to hear you tell me how I’m supposed to eat so I can be healthy enough to get pregnant.”

“For fuck’s sake, Lucia, it’s—” He breaks off, looking at me from across the room, and I dare a glance at him. His jaw is hard and tense, every muscle in his body wound tight, and for once I can’t tell if he’s angry with me or himself.

He walks towards me with a quick, purposeful stride, and I flinch back. His gaze sweeps over me, and I can see the desire in it.Here it is,I think, as he walks to the edge of the bed, moving onto it as he looks down at me with that heated glint in his eyes.Here is the moment where he forces me to do what he wants again, and forces me to want it, too.

Andre nudges my legs apart, kneeling between them. For once, I don’t fight. I lie there, looking up at him, as expressionless as I could possibly manage to be. I make sure my face is cold, my eyes telling him what I can’t manage to say—do whatever you want. It’s clear I can’t stop you.

His hands grab my wrists, pinning them to my sides. His hips grind down against mine, his body stretched out over me—and I feel my eyes widen ever so briefly when I don’t feel that thick hardness against me that I’m accustomed to.

Andre looks down at me, the muscles in his jaw clenched. He rocks against me, letting out a sharp breath, but there’s no arousal there. I realize, dimly, that hecan’t.

For whatever reason, he can’t get hard.

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