Page 6 of Fractured Loyalties

Six

ROMAN

Sleep is not fucking possible. Not with Ivy in this house.

I pace the length of my room, my ribs raw and my mind gnawing on itself. The walls in here are twelve-inch stone, soundproofed like a prison, but it doesn’t block the ghosts that crawl up from the woodwork after midnight.

The place is full of fucking secrets. Many of which I don’t even know for sure.

I fight the urge to punch the wall until my knuckles splinter, but it would only rattle the bruises from tonight. My phone glows in the darkness. I have two missed calls from a number I don’t recognize, five more from my father, and none from anyone that might mean a goddamn thing.

I ignore them and toss the phone onto the bed before dragging my fingers through my hair. I raise the hem of my shirt to inspect my ribs. The bruising is already blooming across my skin. It’s going to look even uglier tomorrow.

Fuck you, Robert. He knew what he was sending me into. And if he thought he was proving some kind of point, I didn’t get it.

I let my shirt fall back down, and let my mind wander back to my meeting with innocent little Ivy in the sitting room. I shut my eyes and replay the look on Ivy’s face when she saw me—her mouth opening and her eyes round with fear and some other emotion I can’t name.

She offered to help me. Why? What’s her angle?

I pace the perimeter of my room again. I can’t focus for shit, not while my chest is caving in and my mind is replaying the exact angle of Ivy’s thighs under that oversized nightshirt. Her skin, even in the shittiest light, looked soft and edible.

Fuck, I can picture her on my bed, my hands wrapped around her throat, and the slow bloom of panic turning to something else in her eyes. I flex my sore hands and feel my dick hardening under my pants. I can’t stand it. I need to see if she’s still awake.

The clock on the wall blinks, 3:09 AM. I open my door slowly and step out into the hall. There’s no movement in the house as I make my way to the main corridor.

By now, my father is probably sedated on Ambien with one of his whores, and my stepmother passed out in a chemical coma of another prescription. The servants won’t get up until six sharp, so I have a few hours before the first security check.

I’m coming for you, Ivy.

My shadow crawls ahead of me, stretching across the walnut panels like a warning. The air in the hall smells like polish and old air, thick with the memory of money and blood.

I stop by the library and listen for the breathing of ghosts. There is nothing but the faint hum of the HVAC and some distant clicks from the ancient pipes or ghosts.

Good.

I stalk on down the hallway, past the locked rooms and their slumbering secrets. The only sound is my own pulse, a drumbeat in my ears. When I reach Ivy’s door, I stop.

Her room is directly across from the north garden, a symmetric relic from the original blueprints. My father wanted her to be far from the family wing, but close enough to keep tabs on her.

I rest my hand on the door, my palm sweaty.

I could walk away. I should walk away.

But… I just want to see if she’s sleeping. I want to see if her mouth hangs open when she dreams, whether she sleeps in a ball or star-fished out. I want to see if her thighs look as soft as I remember, or if my brain is just fucking with me.

I twist the knob. It turns easily. She didn’t bother to lock it.

She didn’t listen to me.

I push the door open and step inside, letting the light from the hall bleed across the floor. Her room has a distinct smell that sets it apart from the rest of the house and is unique to her. It’s probably cheap perfume or detergent from her things from home, but it’s intoxicating, nonetheless.

I let the door swing shut behind me and stand perfectly still, letting my eyes rake over her body.

She’s sprawled on the bed as if someone threw her there, dead to the world.

Her hair is a halo against the pillow, tangled and bright.

Her face is softer, and her lips are parted just enough to see the hint of her pretty white teeth.

Her nightshirt, a plain black T, has ridden up on her hip, exposing a bare, pale thigh.

Goddamn, she’s even better than I imagined.

I imagine she probably cried herself to sleep. For some reason, that thought makes my cock throb. Her chest rises and falls, seemingly in slow motion, bringing her peace in a hell she doesn’t even understand.

Slowly, I cross to the bed, moving carefully. Every muscle in my back feels tight. I sit on the edge, just barely, and the mattress gives a fraction of an inch beneath my weight.

She doesn’t stir.

I watch her for a long time, memorizing her geometry. The slight bump in her nose, the way her fingers curl as if she’s holding something invisible, and the way her white thong is just barely exposed on the curve of her hip.

Honestly, I could sit here for hours, just drinking her in. But I want more than that.

I want to know how she feels . I want to see if she’s as soft as she looks, if she smells like that cheap perfume, or if it’s just her skin.

I let my hand hover over her, lingering in the charged air above her waist. My fingers uncurl. I hesitate, my body humming with anticipation. I touch her through the nightshirt first, just a gentle graze along the curve of her upper hip.

She shifts slightly, and I pull my hand away, my pulse thundering as I brace for her to wake up.

But she doesn’t.

I wait another thirty seconds, counting out the beats in my head. Her breathing steadies, and a light sigh slips from between her lips.

You’re so fucking pretty, my little lamb.

I start to lose my sense of control, and I touch her again, this time slower, running my palm up the outer ridge of her thigh. The skin is velvety and chilled from the open window. I press down, feeling the outline of her femur and then the warm give of muscle and fat.

She makes a sound, a half-sigh, a half-wordless complaint. Her knees draw together. I hold my breath and watch her face. Her eyes stay shut. I’m not sure if she’s dreaming or stirring, but I don’t take my hand away this time.

Instead, I slide my fingers higher, over the crest of her hip to her waist, staying over the nightshirt. She’s tiny, the bones so close to the surface I could snap them with one hand.

This only arouses me further.

I flatten my palm on her stomach and feel it quiver under me. She’s alive with heat there, radiating up into my hand. I move up, tracing the seam of her ribs through the thin shirt. My fingertips find her left nipple. It stiffens against my touch, and I graze it again, just to see.

She sucks in a sharp breath. Her arm jerks above her head, but again, her eyes remain closed.

I circle her nipple with my thumb, pinching gently. I can feel my own heart beating in my cock. I want to put my mouth on her, to bruise her so she remembers me when she wakes up.

But not tonight.

I continue exploring, kneading her breast through the fabric, and rolling the tip between my fingers.

A whimper escapes her lips. She shifts her hips and presses her thighs together.

The muscles in her stomach tense and then relax.

I slide my hand down, over her stomach again, down to the hem of her shirt.

I could stop. I could leave right now, and she’d never know.

But that’s not how this works. Once I get started, I don’t fucking stop.

I slip my fingers under the hem of the shirt and touch more of her bare skin.

It’s so fucking warm. I trace around her navel, and then dip lower, until my hand rests on the waistband of her underwear.

They’re white, which only makes her seem all the more innocent.

All the more satisfying to fucking violate.

I push lower, feeling the soft swell of her pussy. The fabric is damp, but it’s too cold to be sweaty. It’s from her.

What are you dreaming about, Little Lamb? Is it me?

I press my thumb against her clit, hard enough to feel it throb. She gasps and clamps her thighs around my hand. But, still, she doesn’t wake up.

And she doesn’t move away.

I keep it up, circling slowly, methodically, feeling her underwear soak even more. She starts to moan, softly, almost too quiet to hear. Her hips move on their own, grinding against my hand. I want to tell her how good she is, and how bad I want to ruin her…

But I keep my mouth shut.

Carefully, I slide two fingers under the elastic, sliding them up the seam of her pussy before dipping them inside.

Oh fuck, she’s soaked.

Her breathing ramps up, her chest heaving, and her face contorting with sleepy pleasure. She fists the comforter with one hand, her knuckles whitening. I pump my fingers against her, slow and patient, learning her rhythm. She arches her back, her lips parted in a silent plea.

The room is still, moonlight slashing across her face.

I want to see her break. No, I need to see her break.

I press harder, working her clit, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger. She lets out a muffled moan, and her head rolls from side to side. Her legs are tense, and I know she’s close.

I keep going, relentless, until she snaps. Her entire body trembles, and then I finally get it. She moans in a ragged, helpless sound, her pussy drenching my hand, her underwear.

There it is.

She collapses back into the bed, her body going limp with sleep again.

I sit there for a while, hand still buried between her thighs, savoring the smell of her pussy. Finally, I pull out my hand and draw my fingers to my mouth. They’re slick with Ivy’s arousal, and I pop them in, sucking the sweet fucking taste of her cunt.

My cock is so fucking hard. The ache for her climbs up my spine and radiates through my bruised ribs, making my vision pulse black at the edges. I can barely breathe. I’ve never been this close to someone, not even when I’m fucking them.

I press my clean palm to the bulge in my pants, squeezing hard. I want to drag her awake and make her watch what she does to me, but that would ruin everything. So, I unzip, carefully, and free my dick.

The head is already wet and shiny with precum.

I drop my hand from my mouth to my shaft, working it slowly at first, using the slick from her as lube.

I pump my fist in time with her breathing, in time with the memory of her moans; the feel of her hot cunt spasming under my hand.

I squeeze harder, twisting at the top. It’s pathetic how quickly it goes. How fucking desperate I am for her.

I angle my body over hers, close enough to smell the sweat on her collarbone. Her head is tilted back, exposing the line of her throat. I think about leaving a bruise there, a necklace of fingerprints, but I settle for the invisible kind.

I jerk myself off with no rhythm, just the raw need to finish, to claim her in some way that will outlast the dream.

I’m going to come all over you, Little Lamb.

I picture her waking up in the morning, sticky, confused, and wondering what happened. I picture her piecing it together, realizing it was me, that I was there, and that I touched her and left my mark.

Biting back a groan, I come hard, the first spurt hitting her nightshirt just below the ribs. It soaks in, and a dark stain spreads over the black cotton. The rest leaks out in slow pulses, dribbling onto her hip, her thigh, and the twisted comforter. The smell of it mixes with hers.

I fucking love it.

I stare at my masterpiece, already knowing I won’t be cleaning her up. I want her to find me all over her in the morning, and wonder what the fuck happened.

You’re mine, Ivy. All fucking mine.

She shifts in her sleep, sighs, and pulls her knees up to her chest. The mess on her shirt is already drying, crusting into the fibers.

Her hand slides down, and her fingers graze the spot where my come is soaking into the fabric.

She frowns, mumbling something into the pillow, and then rolls onto her side, clutching the stained shirt to her belly.

I watch her for a few beats longer, but then I catch sight of the clock in the corner. It’s nearly 4 a.m. That means the house staff will be waking up soon enough.

I tuck myself away and wipe my hand on my pants. I slip out of the room, shutting the door in complete silence.

Till next time, Little Lamb.