His Rule (The Rite Trilogy 1)

I try to find ways to pass the time. Things to occupy my mind. I shower and brush my hair and my teeth, trying to avoid the mirror as much as possible. I feel naked without the armor of my makeup, and I don’t like it.

When I venture into my closet, sure enough, my clothes are there as Judge stated. Santiago had them sent over without delay, erasing all evidence of me from the manor. I swallow the painful lump that reality leaves me with and thumb through the racks of designer dresses I usually wear. But what's the point? I’m not going anywhere. There are no pretenses to keep. He’s stripped me down and left me bare in more ways than one.

I grab a pair of yoga pants, a strappy tank top, and a cashmere sweater, opting for comfort over fashion. My room is cool enough that I can take solace in the soft fabric against my skin, at least for now.

Amongst all my other belongings, I find my purse. I rifle through it, half hopeful, but my phone is absent, and all that's left are the usual essentials I carry. A compact mirror, gum, lip conditioner, and my EpiPen.

I officially have no communication with the outside world unless I can somehow manage to get to a phone. But even if I could, I don't know what good it would do. Who even memorizes the numbers in their contacts anymore?

Solana and Georgie are sure to be blowing up my phone. I missed our customary Sunday brunch with them yesterday and didn't even have a chance to text them or explain. They’ve known something has been off with me lately, but I couldn't tell them the truth. They don’t live in the same world I do, and there’s no way they could ever understand the reality of The Society. All the rules, the expectations for my life. Poison and treachery are only things they hear about on TV. If they had any inclination of what my life was really like, they'd probably try to steal me away to a tropical island.

I miss them, and right now, I wish I could tell them everything. I wish I could hear Solana humming a happy little tune in her cozy apartment while she pours us mimosas and feeds us pastries. Georgie would hug me and tell me it's all going to be okay even though it isn't because Georgie never lets me believe anything else. He'd ask me who he needs to murder and then tell me how amazing I look.

I don't deserve them, truthfully. But they are a part of my life outside The Society that nobody knows about. I spend my free time at aerial yoga and dance classes with my friends, and in those stolen minutes, I am truly free. Then I leave them, donning my armor and going back to my world, spending time with my Society-approved frenemies. We eat fifty-dollar salads together and purge outrageous amounts of money trying to one-up each other's wardrobe, all while pretending we have any actual love and respect for one another.

I doubt very much that Giordana, Dulce, and Vivien will even think twice about my welfare when I don't show up for tomorrow's weekly charity luncheon. They will gossip and speculate unkindly about my absence, but they won't seek me out.

Solana and Georgie, on the other hand, won't take it lightly when I completely ghost them. And if I'm being honest, I'm worried they will make a big deal about it when they can't find me. It's something The Society wouldn't like, and I have to tread carefully to make sure they are protected, but I'm just not sure how I'm going to do that yet.

What will Judge think if he looks at my phone and sees all their messages? Especially the ones between Georgie and me. We send each other selfies throughout the day and praise each other about how hot and fierce and amazing the other one looks with encouraging messages to slay the day. I jokingly dubbed him as 'boy-friend' in my phone, and I could see how that might be misconstrued. Especially taken out of context with the constant notes of affection and declarations of love for each other.

If anyone in The Society were to see those messages, they could easily conclude that I'm dating outside of our circle and, worse, that I'm no longer pure. It has the potential to destroy my reputation and further tarnish my family name. But how can I explain my friendships with Georgie and Solana in a way that any of them could even understand?

The upper echelon doesn't seek outside friends. We don't mingle with the world that doesn't follow our ways. And I'm afraid if Judge sees those messages before I can get my phone back, the results could be disastrous.

I know it's a fruitless endeavor, but I walk to the door and check to see that it is in fact locked. The balcony too. I'm trapped in here with nowhere to go and nothing but these terrible thoughts rattling around in my brain.

I try to do some yoga to relax, but somewhere between downward dog and child's pose, another torrent of emotion floods over me. I end up curled up on the floor, rocking myself in an attempt to soothe the ache in my chest. When I close my eyes, I see that woman’s face all over again. And when I open them, I see reminders everywhere.

The lamp shattering as it collides with her skull. The blood slipping down my fingers. I don't have to be in that room to feel those things. To hear them. They are on an almost constant feedback loop now, and I feel like I'm going to throw up.

I barely make it to the toilet before I heave and spew the only thing I managed to get down today, which was water. My stomach cramps, and I retch again, but nothing comes up. As it turns out, you can’t vomit up your guilt after all.

I'm clinging to the toilet bowl, clammy and weak, when I feel a presence behind me. I lift my head to find Judge standing there, concern etched into his features. But as his eyes move over me, drifting down to my arm that's clutching my stomach, I see the question in them. He's concerned not only that I might be sick, but I'm certain he's also speculating about the reason.

"I..." My voice dies off as I pull myself up, and the room starts spinning.

"Fuck."

Judge's muffled curse is the last thing I hear before I stagger sideways and start to collapse, right into the strength of his arms.

6

Judge

She’s not for you.

I lay Mercedes down on her bed. She’s dressed in yoga pants and a sweater, her hair still loose, her feet still bare.

Not. For. You.

I swallow that fact down and sit on the edge of the bed, scrubbing my face. I wonder what my colleagues and those slated to appear in my courtroom thought of the half-moon-shaped marks on my cheeks from Mercedes’s fingernails. No one dared ask. They know better.

She hasn’t eaten all day. Miriam briefed me upon my arrival. It’s probably why she passed out. That or the guilt I’m sure she’s been reliving locked in here with nothing to distract her. That’s the point, though. No distractions. The way out is through. Too many people expect shortcuts in life. But that’s not how things work. Darkness touches all of our lives. The strong ones stand tall and walk willingly into the abyss to face down the shadows. The weak ones distract themselves so as not to have to face it. I won’t let Mercedes be weak. She’s not that.

“Mercedes.”

Nothing.