The Ruthless Heir

“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.Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

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.