Page 2 of Fractured Loyalties

Two

ROMAN

Ivy seems so fucking innocent.

I run my tongue along my lower lip, tasting the remnants of the pre-dinner wine.

I’d like to be tasting her.

Pushing the thought away for now, I lean back against my chair and watch as my father and stepmother exchange a look across the dining room table. They have their own language—one that I couldn't care less about trying to understand.

Truthfully… The two of them are insufferable.

“Where is she?” My father’s voice suddenly becomes louder, making Edward jump, where he’s standing in the corner. My father glares at Irena, and she reacts in the way she does best, unmoving.

Luckily, whatever it is doesn’t escalate, as a set of footsteps arrives to fill the unsettled silence in the room. Edward clears his throat, and before I even lay eyes on Ivy, I already know it’s bad.

And when I do look at her? I realize it’s really bad.

She’s dressed like a homeless vagabond in faded jeans and her dead dad’s hoodie. Her hair is pulled back in a lazy ponytail. Though, there’s something almost admirable about her refusal to perform. Or maybe it’s just ignorance.

Either way, she’s royally fucked.

She looks everywhere but at my eyes as Edward directs her into a seat opposite me. As she sits, her gaze stays pointed at her clasped hands in her lap, and my father clears his throat, looking at her with his dark, beady eyes.

“Glad you could join us,” Robert says carefully. “I trust Irena explained the expectations here. Though obviously not very well.”

“She did,” Ivy says, her voice a whisper. “Nothing in the closet fit.”

“I see.” He shoots one of those weird looks at Irena, and she gives a ghost of a shrug.

I roll my eyes and open my mouth to say something, but my stepmother is one step ahead of me.

“Ivy, you’ll be starting at Woods Private tomorrow. I believe the uniform in your closet will be sufficient for the week. Though I do suggest you try it on before bed.”

Ivy nods. Her eyes are enormous and glassy, and I wonder how close she is to crying, again.

There’s something sick in me that wants to find out.

At that moment, the first course arrives.

It’s something French and pointless. Ivy stares at it, then at her spoon, and then at the rest of us.

I watch her try to mimic the way Irena moves, the careful geometry of cutlery, but she’s two steps behind.

I let the moment linger for a little longer, and then I dive in.

“What? Don’t they teach you basic etiquette where you’re from?” I say it flatly, no humor intended. I want to see her squirm underneath that hellaciously unflattering Dodgers hoodie.

Her face flushes, and she glances down at the sports logo, as if it’ll give her some sort of superpower. “We usually ate in front of the TV.”

I snort. “How fucking charming. Living the TV dinner dream.”

My father glares at me. “Show some civility at the table, Roman.”

I smile, slow and razor-edged. “I’m just getting to know our new addition. I’m trying to be civil.”

He continues to shoot daggers at me with a pair of eyes we don’t share. “ Try harder .”

The waitstaff slides in with the next course. I catch Ivy watching his hands, the way he manages not to spill a drop of wine as he pours for Robert, then Irena, then me. When he reaches her, she flinches, as if she’s afraid he’ll splash her with Merlot just to see her panic.

Damn, there’s nothing more absorbing than the ways people fail to belong.

“So, Ivy,” Irena says, her voice dripping with manufactured interest, “what do you think of the house so far?”

“It’s… impressive,” Ivy answers, her voice mousy. “I’ve never seen a place like it.”

“There aren’t many left,” Robert cuts in. “Most people don’t know how to handle real estate with history. This is one of the oldest buildings in the state. It’s rumored that it belonged to a lord from overseas, and he still haunts the hallways. It’s all a myth, of course.”

Ivy nods, and I can see her brain scrambling. “My old house had black mold in the basement.”

I let out a bark of a laugh. “We have that here, too. It’s just better dressed, isn’t it, Irena?”

My stepmother looks like she could put a knife through my chest, but Ivy’s lips twitch upward. It makes it completely worth it.

The main course arrives then, though I note that Ivy has barely eaten at all.

I suppose that’s understandable, given her grief.

The lamb that Edward sets in front of her is so rare it might bleat if you stuck a fork in it.

Ivy holds her knife like a pen, then tries to carve a sliver.

Her hands tremble so badly she drops the piece onto the plate, spattering sauce on her sleeve.

She freezes, horror-struck.

I lean across the table. “You’re supposed to eat it, not paint with it.”

“Sorry,” is all she manages to say. She then sets her jaw and tries again. I watch the effort it takes for her to keep it together. There’s something almost erotic about her humiliation—something that makes my blood thrum in my groin.

I watch her with pure allure.

Irena breaks the tension, coughing. “Roman, have you completed your grad school applications?”

“Finished last week,” I say, not taking my eyes off Ivy. “Early admissions. Dad wanted options.”

Robert nods, satisfied. “I’ll have the firm review your essays before submission.”

I ignore him and continue to watch Ivy, as if she’s a little lamb I’d love to slaughter. “How about you, Ivy? Any plans for the future, or just going to let Irena foot the bill forever?”

She blinks, startled. “I was going to go to State College. Before… everything .”

I grin. “We don’t do state schools here.”

Robert jumps in. “Roman, enough .”

The silence after is thick and ugly, but I drink it in. The only sound is the tick of the antique clock, its hands inching forward as if under protest.

Ivy’s water glass is nearly empty, so she reaches for the pitcher at the center of the table. Her fingers fumble on the cut glass handle, and for a second, it looks as if she’s going to drop it.

I can’t look away from her hand on the pitcher.

My eyes trace the veins, the tightness in her knuckles, and the almost imperceptible tremor of muscle and shame.

She pours, overshooting the rim of her glass by a few drops, and hastily sets the pitcher down.

Her hand leaves a wet print on the tablecloth, and her eyes dart around, knowing she’s being judged.

I lean back, just watching. I’ve broken a few women, that’s for sure. They were mostly socialites, debutantes, and even a Harvard grad who thought she was more intelligent than me… but none of them ever looked so exquisitely out of their element as Ivy does.

My father stands as soon as he’s finished, signaling the end of the meal. “Roman, ensure Ivy gets to her room. Irena, I’ll need you in the study.”

“I know where?—”

“He’ll keep you from getting lost,” Irena cuts Ivy off, before downing the rest of her wine. “ Clearly, you need some direction.” She rises in a single, smooth motion and lets out a pained sigh as she passes by Ivy’s chair.

I chuckle as my parents leave the room, and then I turn to Ivy. The candlelight flickers across her face, exaggerating every slight unevenness in her complexion. She looks tired… and sad.

So goddamned sad.

I stand, slowly, stretching the moment, and offer her my arm. “Ready to return to your cage?”

Her lips curl in something that looks like disgust, their plumpness on full display, and she glares at my arm. She shakes her head and pushes back from the table, uninterested in my gesture. “I know how to get back to my room,” she levels at me. “I don’t need you to show me.”

“Hmm,” I rake my eyes over her in an obvious manner. “Well, given your dinner attire, I’d say that there are a lot of things you need to be shown. You’re lucky your dad’s six feet under and?—”

“Actually, he’s on the shelf in my room,” she cuts me off. “And I’m certain he’ll fucking haunt you, if you don’t leave me alone.”

I raise my brows. I can’t tell if she’s joking or aiming to jab at me. Either way… I like the fire enough to let her have her little win. “Come on.”

She mutters something under her breath that I miss, but still falls in step behind me.

I lead the way through the labyrinth of halls, making sure to take the longest possible route.

She stays silent, and I don’t bother to fill the void.

I can feel her eyes on my back the entire time, and it’s enough to know I’ve got her attention.

And trust me, I know I’ll keep it.

When we arrive at her door, I swing it open for her. The room is one of the most basic in the house with cream walls, a beige carpet, and a bed so large it looks almost unreal. Ivy steps inside and doesn’t look back.

Now that is an insult.

I grab for her wrist, startling her, and her body spins back to face me.

“Listen,” I say, leaning in and holding her gaze from about six inches away. “Don’t leave your room after midnight. Keep the door locked. If you need anything, don’t ask the staff. They’ll report straight to Irena. For towels and sheets, that’s fine, but if you need something real, come to me.”

Her pretty hazel eyes flicker with fear and then narrow. “And why would I ever trust anything you say?”

I shrug, releasing her quickly, so she stumbles backward. “Oh, Ivy …You’ll see.”

Before she can say anything else, I close the door on her and head to my own sanctuary in this fucking house of horrors.

By mutual understanding, my wing is off-limits.

My father loves to claim it’s so I can focus on my education , but it’s really because he doesn’t want to see what kind of son he’s raised.

The hallway lights are on a timer, dimming at nine, to a level that’s just enough to see by.

It smells like old books, and cold air seeps through the stone walls.

The only sound is my shoes echoing on the floors as I pass my siblings’ rooms…

See, Ivy. I understand loss, too.

All of the rooms are empty. All of the rooms are locked. And we don’t speak about any of them. Nor the flashing cameras in the corner.

Someone is always watching.

I reach my own door, punch in the code, and step into solitude.

Inside, it’s my world. Walnut desk, sleek Scandinavian leather, and blackout curtains over windows that look onto the graveled east drive. I keep the temperature low here. It always seems more straightforward to think when my blood is just above freezing.

The room is immaculate, except for the desk, which is organized chaos. There are textbooks, two laptops, and well… my latest project.

I take a seat at the desk and stare at the unlabeled manila folder. It doesn’t appear to be much, but it’s thick and full.

Just like Ivy’s lips .

I flip it open, and the world contracts to a five-by-seven-inch radius.

It started as just a background check. A bored act of seemingly due diligence when my father first got serious about Irena, and I was old enough to understand.

A private investigator gave me everything on Ivy.

I have school records, old photos, and a Facebook cache before she locked it down.

At first, I was looking for something I could use against her, but then…

Then I just looked.

I arrange the photos in neat order across the desktop.

Ivy Christianson, at eight, stood in front of a cheap theme park, one sock pulled down around her ankle.

Ivy at twelve, braces and a chipped tooth, clinging to her father’s arm like it’s a life preserver.

Seventeen, standing at the threshold of some sorry-ass coffee shop, her face narrowed in suspicion at whoever snapped the shot.

And then the latest, Ivy, a few months ago, standing on the beach in a black bikini. Her eyes are shining, her hands resting on her small waist. It was her eighteenth birthday, and she had no idea the grief that was coming for her.

I lift the last photo. She looks back at me from the glossy paper, a bright smile on her face. I trace my thumb over the curvature of her lips and then slide it to her perky little tits. She’s all unrefined, her blonde hair a mess over her shoulders, and her nail polish chipped.

“You don’t belong here,” I say, barely above a whisper.

I close my eyes, still gripping the photo.

My mind runs to her in her new room, sliding into the new sheets.

Maybe the room is too cold, which is why she’s shivering.

I could go there now, silent as sin. I could watch her sleep and see if her face softens.

I could sit at her bedside, leaning close enough to feel her breath and close enough to slip a hand under the sheets.

My pulse pounds at the thought, and my cock stretches hard against the denim of my jeans. Fuck. I reach for the button, setting my shaft free. I swipe the precum with the thumb of my free hand, and then begin to stroke, staring at her in that little black bikini.

In the darkness, I start to see her everywhere, and my vision blurs.

I see her at the table tonight, lamb juice staining her sleeve, her eyes darting between escape routes.

I see her hands, so thin they look breakable, trembling as she pours herself water.

I see her mouth, and I groan, shuddering at the thought of it wrapping around my cock.

“You’re going to beg me, Little Lamb,” I grunt, stroking harder and faster, picturing Ivy’s eyes watering, tears pouring down her face as I slide down her throat.

The only thing she’ll be grieving when I’m done with her is her goddamn innocence.

That sends me right over the edge. I come, pulsing into my hand and onto the glossy surface of her photo. The moment is sharp and high, but then gone. I want more than this.

No, I need more than this.

I need to fucking ruin her.