"How can I believe anything you tell me?" He turns and shakes his head. "How can I believe any of what you're telling me now is even true?"

"Because she told me so herself!" I bellow.

"When you were beating it out of her?"

The silence is deafening as I try to recover from that fatal blow, the reminder I don't need. He doesn't have to tell me what happened. I'll never forget.

"It wasn't like that," I whisper on a shaky breath. "I was fighting for my life. I didn't mean to kill her, but I had no choice. It was either her or me."

Santiago collapses into the chair by the door, and I can see that nothing I've said has managed to soften his anger. It eats at me, and I just wish he'd look at me for one second without complete revulsion. As I consider that it might never happen, a fresh wave of tears washes over me.

"Would you rather it was me? Is that it? Do you wish it were me who was dead on that floor?"

"What I would have rathered was that you never lied to me at all!" he roars. "You betrayed me. You schemed. You nearly fucking killed me. My sister. Do you understand that?"

I suck in a sharp breath and stare at him pleadingly. "I would rather die than hurt you, brother. Please believe that, if nothing else."

His eyes move over me, his grief palpable. He feels as if he's lost me too. But instead of death, it was the darkness that stole me. I'm too far beyond redemption, and he's tired of trying to save me.

I can feel it in my bones. It rattles my teeth, and for a second, the agony makes me wish I were dead. Perhaps that would have been the best outcome for everyone tonight.

If I'd given up the fight and let her win, at least I wouldn't have had to witness this anguish from the one person who's always loved me, even at my worst. I wouldn't have to feel him giving up on me.

"Get in bed and try to get some sleep," he says quietly.

"What's going to happen now?" I argue.

"Now, you are going to get some sleep," he repeats. "And when you wake up, you will start fresh."

Hope breathes anew as I watch his posture relax with a sigh. I can see his resolve, his acceptance that we have no choice but to move forward and put this behind us. For a moment, a calm settles over me.

Nothing is all right, and it won't be for a long time, but Santiago isn't giving up on me. Blood is the unbreakable bond that can't be severed. We've been through too much. We've come too far to abandon each other in a time like this.

That relief wraps me in a warm cocoon, and I don't dare utter another word. Santi is the head of our household, and in our world, that means his word is the law. It doesn't matter that I'm twenty-five years old.

It's his job to look after me, and he takes it very seriously. I haven't been taking it seriously enough. I've already tested him too many times, and I know we're on the tenuous ground at best.

As I climb into bed and quietly secure myself beneath the covers, it's a small way of showing him that I can listen. I can abide by the rules of Society and do what's expected of me. I can prove that I'm worthy again and find a way to move forward, even if I'm broken inside.

When I close my eyes, that moment of warmth expanding in my chest is blotted out by the darkness as the reminder of what I've done haunts me all over again.

I see her face. I feel her blood dripping from my hands as I stumble back with the horrifying realization that I've killed someone. It torments me. It grabs me and doesn't let me go until eventually, by some miracle, exhaustion steals me away.

I wake with a jolt, my breath hissing between my teeth as fragments of the insidious nightmare try to drag me back to the hell that unfolded only hours ago.

Or was it hours? As I bolt upright, fear crawls up my spine, tickling every one of my senses. How long have I been asleep? Was it all a dream? Could that even be possible?

My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I stare at the figures sitting across from each other in the shadows. Dread curdles the blood in my veins.

"Santi?" My voice fractures as I cling to the covers around me. "What's going on?"

He rises from his seat, his back rigid, and I want to believe I'm confused. I'm not awake at all but still trapped in a nightmare somehow.

"You are dangerous," he says softly. "And you have proven that I can't trust you. Not in my home. Not in my life. And now, there is only one solution that can save you."

I'm shaking my head in denial as my eyes move to the other figure. The one sitting like a silent warden as he watches me in the dim light. Instinctively, I know who he is. I've known him for years.

He's Santi's friend, and more importantly, he's tasked with the Rite of my care should anything ever happen to my brother.

Lawson "Judge" Montgomery is an unyielding, razor-sharp beast of a man. He's as cold-hearted as they come, and he lets it be known in the harsh way he delivers his verdicts, both in the courtroom and outside of it.

Nobody dares to question him. Nobody dares to challenge him. Few can even really look him in the eye, and I have to admit, I find myself among that crowd.

He terrifies me in ways I can't admit to myself, but the idea of him stealing me away leaves my heart racing and my head pounding.

"No," I shriek, yanking the covers off me. "You can't send me away. You can't!"

"It's done." Santiago nods to Judge, and I scramble from the bed, trying to force my stiff limbs to cooperate.

Judge steps forward, and for one split second, our eyes lock, and I freeze. I'm too emotional to understand what's happening, but something in his gaze tells me it's going to be okay. He silently implores me to listen and not to make this difficult, and for a moment, I want to believe in that false comfort.

I want to collapse into his arms, if for no other reason than I need someone to comfort me right now. Just for a minute. But I would have to be delusional to believe Judge could ever offer that to me. He didn't come here to soothe me. He came to capture me.

I bolt for Santiago, prepared to beg and plead for my life. I will do anything, say anything... but I don't even make it to him.

Judge intercepts me, snatching me from the side and wrapping a steel arm around my waist, yanking me back against his huge frame.

An agonizing sound heaves from my lungs as I try to fight, but it's useless. Within seconds, he has my arms pinned behind my back and my body snug against his.

I'm too exhausted to challenge him. I've already fought for my life once tonight. Now, all I can do is scream.

"Santi, please don't do this!"

"Go," Judge tells him. "I will handle this."

My brother looks at me one last time, and all I can see is his betrayal.

"You won't do this to me," I whisper. "I know you won't."

"It's already done." He tears his gaze away and doesn't glance back as he walks out the door.

"Shh," Judge murmurs against my ear as I let out one last wail. "That's enough now. Just relax. Don't make this any worse, Erica. I don't want to hurt you."

It isn't his threat that makes my body collapse against him. It's my adrenaline crashing, something else taking over. It's so heavy, I can't move.

I have nothing left to fight for. The one person I thought would always protect me just discarded me like I'm nothing. And surely, there is something more terrifying on the horizon in the clutches of this man, but right now, I can't see anything but the truth in front of me.

My life as I know it is over. 

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."

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?" 

"Blindfold. I don't think you want me to walk you out through the courtyard."

She swallows.

"There's a secret passage, but you need to be blindfolded."

"I want to talk to my brother," she tries, the tone of her voice betraying her anxiety, her understanding of how powerless she is at this moment. But the decision has been made for her. And she will submit.

"In time. Do as I say and turn around. I'll take it off as soon as we're in the car."

Tears slip from her eyes. "Why are you doing this to me? You're supposed to be his friend."

"I am his friend. That's exactly why I'm doing this."

Silence.

More tears.

I watch, transfixed. She is so wounded. And so fucking beautiful. I should have refused this task. The decent side of me knows this. Has known it all along. But the animal inside, it wants.

"Erica," I say. "You're tired. It's been a very long night. Turn around. Let's get this done and get you out of here."

"I want to go home."

"That's not happening. Not now."

"It was a mistake. I—"

"Turn around, Erica. I won't ask again."

She looks up at me, her lower lip trembling, stubborn pride warring against acceptance.

I set my hands on her arms and turn her, and she doesn't resist. It's the weight of the night. Of what she's done. I slide the silk cloth over her eyes. She whimpers as I secure it at the back of her head, then walk around to look at her, my little captive. Her head bowed. Delicate wrists bound by thick rope.

Something shifts inside me at the sight.

Something dark awakening. Wanting.

Fuck.

I swallow it down and lift her in my arms. She yelps and struggles momentarily. I tighten my grip in warning, and she stills, stiffening, pressing against my chest as I move toward the passage that leads to the tunnels beneath.

Santiago chose this room with that purpose in mind, I'm sure. Save his sister from further humiliation. Protect her.

She makes a sound as I carry her down the stone stairs, tucking herself closer to me as her bare toes scrape the rough stone wall. And I know as I take my captive through the tunnels beneath the compound that tonight, the course of both of our lives has shifted. There will be no going back. Not for either of us.

She's quiet on the drive to the house. As promised, I remove the blindfold but leave the rope around her wrists. Not that she's going anywhere, but her lessons begin tonight. And I need to set expectations.

She keeps her gaze out the window as we drive the avenue of ancient, giant oaks toward the estate. She's told me before how beautiful she finds it. Magical was the word she'd once absently used.

From the alley of oaks, the house comes into view, a classic albeit mammoth plantation home that my family built and has owned over centuries. It's mine now. Since the passing of my grandfather, Carlisle Montgomery, half a year ago, I am the sole inheritor.

The mansion is beautiful. Elegant with balconies spanning all three floors supported by grand columns and ornate friezes in the Greek Revival style. The design is simple.

Symmetry is the focus of the exterior, with a sweeping stone staircase leading to the front doors and large, evenly spaced windows with decorative shutters. Lights glow warm from within, hinting at the opulence that awaits.

It's a very different sight from the gothic style of De La Rosa Manor.

Raul, my driver, pulls to a stop. Erica turns to me. She can't hide the anticipation in her eyes. The anxiety of not knowing what comes next.

"Thank you, Raul," I say as I climb out and walk around to open Erica's door. I extend my hand to help her out, but she ignores it to lumber out on her own.

She's off-balance with her wrists bound and stumbles into my chest. I catch her, then right her. Although perhaps I should let her fall. Begin to teach her that she needs this. Needs me.

She tugs free of me, putting space between us. "You don't need to keep me bound," she says, shifting her weight. The stones beneath her feet can't be comfortable. "I'm not going to run. I have nowhere to go."

"Perhaps I just like the look of you tied up."

She opens her mouth, then closes it, uncertain of my meaning.

I clear my throat. I need to be careful with her. Need to remember she's Santiago's little sister.

"Shall I carry you?" I ask.

"I'm perfectly capable of walking."

"Your feet."

"I'm fine."

"Suit yourself."

I gesture for her to go ahead. A shadow moves in the upstairs window. Erica sees it too and pauses. She looks over her shoulder at me. It's late. The staff should be in bed. But there will be one witness to her arrival.

"Go on," I tell her.

She does, her bare feet quiet on the stone stairs. I open the heavy front door to let her enter ahead of me.

Erica hesitates on the threshold. I wonder what she's thinking. What she's expecting.

She takes a deep breath and steps inside, studying the grand foyer as if it's the first time she's seen it. Erica isn't one to be impressed by money. God knows the De La Rosa family has plenty of it.

But she appreciates the white marble floors and walls veined in shades of gray. All three floors are visible from here with a central staircase, also marble, to the second floor and two more modest staircases to the third.

She turns back to me. "My room," she says, her tone haughty. "I'm tired."

I smile. I almost thought to let her sleep tonight and begin tomorrow, considering what she's been through. But no.

"Same room as the last time you were my guest."

"Guest," she snorts. "Do you tie up all your guests?"

"Only those who need tying."

The mask of superiority falters. It's her defense. It's always been her defense.

Without another word she turns to climb the stairs. I keep one hand at her elbow in case she trips but I don't quite touch her. When we get to the second floor, however, movement at the end of the corridor has her stopping.

"What..." she starts, trailing off as Miriam, a housekeeper I inherited from my mother, clears her throat. She waits just outside Erica's bedroom door in her traditional matronly shapeless black dress with its white lace collar.

Miriam has been with my family for about six years. And I'm still not sure I like her. For as efficient as she is, she's neither kind nor warm-hearted which makes her perfect for the task at hand.

Erica looks at me. I know she was hoping her arrival would be more private, but that's not part of the plan.

"You remember Miriam?" I ask.

She nods tightly. Is she remembering how condescending she was toward the woman when she was last here? When I held my tongue considering the circumstances. Her brother on the verge of death.

"She's prepared your room," I tell her.

She forces her mouth into a smile, lifting her chin as she makes her way to her bedroom.

"Miss," Miriam says in greeting, nodding to Erica. "Sir."

I greet her. Erica doesn't. Instead, she enters the room, stopping just inside to take it in.

Just like last time, I chose the most comfortable bedroom for her. Second only to mine. It's spacious and luxurious in shades of dusty rose and creamy white. The room has large windows and French doors that lead onto the balcony with a view of the avenue of oaks she so loves.

She walks to the plush, king-sized bed draped with the finest duvet and more pillows than she'll need. She takes it all in as if for the first time. Then she looks at me, ignoring Miriam even as the woman enters and closes the door behind her.

"I'm tired," Erica says.

"Hold out your wrists. I'll untie them."

She does, and I undo her wrists. She makes a point of rubbing the reddened skin.

"Hungry?" I ask.

She shakes her head. In her eyes, I see the uncertainty she's trying to hide. She's wondering why Miriam is here.

"Just one more thing to do before you sleep," I tell her.

I note how vulnerable she looks again. How small without her high heels, the armor of her designer clothes and made-up face. The signature crimson lipstick.

"What?" she asks coldly.

"Your clothes."

Her eyebrows practically disappear into her hairline. "Pardon?"

"Your clothes, Erica. I think it's best there are no reminders of this night. Tomorrow, like Santiago said, you will start anew."

She glances at the matronly woman standing nearby, the witness to her humiliation, then to me.