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. 

"Is this some sort of joke? Because it's not funny."

"No. No joke. Your clothes."

"My brother would not allow this!"

"Your brother initiated the Rite. You're mine. I will decide what is best for you. You will simply obey."

She snorts.

"Do you need help?"

"I want to talk to him. Get him on the phone. Now!"

She takes a step toward the door. I grab her arm before she can take another. She tries to shrug me off, but I turn her to face me fully and shift my hands to her shoulders. Her hands close over my forearms, and she stares up at me. Her long black hair hangs loosely around her face and over her shoulders, revealing a softness I've only ever caught glimpses of. She hides well.

"Why are you here, Erica?"

Her jaw clenches. She knows exactly why she's here. What she's done. Her eyes dart over my shoulder, tears on the verge of falling, but she refuses to allow that. Instead, she narrows her gaze, glaring up at me. That softness from moments ago is gone.

"Why are you here?" I repeat.

After a long moment of weighted silence, she finally breaks the lock of our eyes and lowers her gaze. A fat tear drops onto the back of my hand. I watch it, and for a moment, I forget myself. Forget the point of this. The reason for it.

For a moment, I want to pull her to me and tell her it will be all right.

But Miriam clears her throat and catapults me back into the why of this.

"Answer me," I say and pause.

Erica turns her angry eyes to mine. "Fuck. You."

My hands flex, fingers tightening on her arms. This woman will test me. I take a deep breath in and smile. Because this is exactly why she's here.

"You'll remain in this room until you can answer that question. Now," I start, releasing her and stepping away. "Do you need Miriam to help you undress?"

"No," she spits and clumsily tugs at the sweatshirt, getting it tangled in her hair as she pulls it off and throws it at me. It hits my chest, then drops to the floor.

I don't take my eyes from hers as she continues with the pants, bouncing on one foot, daggers cutting me through as she holds my gaze and strips them off balls them up, and throws the ill-fitting pants at me too.

"Satisfied?" she asks, straightening to stand at her full height. Not covering herself.

Unable to stop my gaze from sweeping over her, I swallow, taking in all that skin, the scraps of lace barely covering full breasts, the slit of her sex. I push my hands into my pockets, clenching them into fists, nails digging into my palms. My jaw tightens as I remind myself who she is. Remind me that this little monster needs me to remain in control. To not be undone by the sight of her nearly naked.

I drag my gaze slowly back up to hers and see that her hands, too, are clenched and her cheeks flushed with color.

"Continue," I say, my voice thick.

Her mouth opens, her short breaths audible as she gazes from me to Miriam and back. "I think it's enough. I think my brother"

"Miriam," I say, neither moving nor taking my eyes from Erica.

Miriam moves into action, striding toward Erica in three quick steps. Erica gasps, clearly not expecting this, and when the older woman raises her arms to strip the rest of her clothes, Erica grips her wrists hard. She's stronger than I realized. But Miriam is as strong and as determined. It's why I chose her.

"Don't you fucking dare touch me! Get the hell away from me!"

There's a brief struggle. Erica shoves Miriam and runs, but Miriam is quick to steady herself and move toward her target.

Erica glances frantically around, her hand closing over the base of a heavy lamp. She falters then. I wonder if she's remembering the event that led her here, that has her in this predicament. The murder of the courtesan. The very violent scene she left behind.

She squeezes her eyes shut, and I put a hand up to halt Miriam as I watch her, the already puffy skin around her eyes growing wet. She's been crying. Hell. She looks like she's been crying forever.

With a violent shake of her head, she opens her eyes, glaring at me. "Call her off!"

"Continue, and I will," I tell her calmly, hardening myself against the wounded creature that calls to the protector inside me.

"I hate you," she says, a shudder in her voice as she releases the lamp and reaches behind her to unhook her bra and strip it off. She drops it to the floor, then pushes her panties down, kicking both away. "I fucking hate you."

She bares pretty, full breasts, nipples tight and her sexy shaved to reveal the pretty slit. The latter makes me stop. Has any other man seen her like this? There was Jackson Van der Smit. Did he?

I shake my head to stop myself. I don't know why I'm going down that road. She would have followed the rules. Breaking them would shame her brother and incur his wrath. Besides, that's not why she's here. But her nakedness, strikes me. She's certainly not the first woman I've seen. Far from it. But here I am, unable to drag my gaze away.

"Sir?" Miriam interrupts.

"Get out," I tell her.

Self-control. Discipline. Two traits I've worked hard to perfect in myself. I draw a deep breath in. Exhale. Getting hard at the mere sight of her is anything but controlled. She'll be stripped bare more often than she'll like, and I can't get a fucking hard-on like some teenage boy every time I see her.

"Yes, sir." Miriam leaves. I wait until I hear the door close.

I've taken women into my home before and disciplined them. Something I've done quietly for certain members of The Society. Not a single one of them has affected me like Erica De La Rosa. And I haven't even started with her.

"Get into bed," I snap, needing her to cover herself. I walk to the adjoining bathroom, taking a moment there. Gripping the edge of the counter, I push a hand through my hair. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Rummaging through the cabinet beneath the sink, I find the first-aid kit. When I return, I find her sitting in the middle of the large bed, clutching the thick duvet to herself. Again, I think about how small she looks. How different to the girl I've watched grow into a woman. A formidable woman at that. Now, at this moment, she is something else entirely.

And the animal inside me stirs.

I clear my throat, and she looks up, although she doesn't quite meet my gaze. Her face is unreadable. She's good at that. Always has been. Probably had to be. I know a little of her upbringing. Although surely, her father would not have been as physical with her as he was with his sons.

I cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed.

She tugs the blankets closer, inching farther from me.

"Look at me."

Her jaw clenches.

I close my fingers over her chin and make her look. Her eyes are narrowed to slits when they meet mine. She won't be easy to bend. But I don't want her to be. I tilt her face up and brush the hair from her cheek. The gash is already closed up, the blood is dried, and a bruise is taking shape. I'm surprised this is all she walked away with considering. Erica De La Rosa murdered a woman. She should have to stand before The Tribunal to answer for it. Any other member of The Society would. But Santiago will take care of that. And I will help him protect her.

I have a feeling, though, that her guilt and the thought of losing her brother's love are more punishment than anything The Tribunal could dish out.

I clean the dried blood off her cheek and smear antibiotic ointment onto the cut, careful to be gentle. I feel her eyes on my face, and I take my time doing it. Once I'm finished, I set the ointment aside and pour a glass of water out of the crystal pitcher on the nightstand. I take the pill Miriam left on the small dish and hold both out to Erica.

She looks at the pill.

"To help you get a good night's rest."

"I'm fine," she says, turning her head away.

"It will help, Erica."

She looks again at the pill in my palm. She wants it. She wants the oblivion it will bring. And this once, I'll allow it. She reaches a tentative hand to pluck the pill from me and places it on her tongue, then takes the glass, sipping from it before handing it back.