His Rule (The Rite Trilogy 1)

I push the hair from her face. Her forehead is damp. I wonder if that’s from the yoga—her mat is laid out on the floor—or from being sick. My guess is the latter when I see the puffy, pink skin around her eyes.

I’ve never studied her before. Never had the opportunity, really. And I realize there’s something not quite right about doing it while she’s passed out, but I shove those thoughts aside and find myself undressing her with the pretense that she’s too hot under the clothes. But I do want to get a look at her—at those scars—and I doubt she’d allow it if she were awake.

And so, without much more thought, I strip off her sweater and pants, the tank top beneath, and set them at the foot of the bed. When I sit her up to remove her bra, she makes a sound, but her head lolls against my chest. Once the bra is unhooked, I cup the back of her head and lay her down. She quiets as I pull the straps from her arms and set the bra on top of her clothes.

I take in her breasts. Full. Perfectly round. Her large nipples darkening as they pucker. I clear my throat, then look over her chest, her stomach. Nothing here. Just perfect, unblemished skin. The sleeping beast inside stirs. I shift my gaze from her flat stomach to the lace panties just barely covering her. I slip my fingers into the waistband.

What would she think if she woke now? What would I tell her? The truth. Those scars are concerning. Santiago wouldn’t have done that to her, would he? Does he even know about them?

I slide her panties down her long legs and am about to set them aside, but push them into my pocket instead. I stand. Take her in, my gaze again catching on the slit of her sex. She makes a sound, moves, but quiets again. Her legs part just a little. Just enough to give me a glimpse of the open lips of her pussy.

A rumbling inside my chest signals the beast’s interest is piqued. I take a deep breath in, then slowly exhale. Adjust myself.

I tell myself that I am inspecting for scars. That’s all this is.

And I find the first one. Just around the curve of her hip on her pelvic bone. As if the belt —and I know it was a belt—wrapped around and the buckle dug hard into flesh. It was wielded in anger. Uncontrolled. I know this, too. My jaw tightens as I reach down to touch it, scar tissue bumpy beneath my thumb.

The fronts of her legs are mostly unblemished, apart from two smaller marks like that at her hip from where the belt wrapped around when it struck.

Who did this to her?

I run my hand over the smooth skin of her thigh, knee, her shin. I move around the bed and take one foot in my hands, and when I see the underside of it, every muscle in my body tenses. And that rumbling from earlier, it’s different now. Loud and possessive and enraged.

Both feet are heavily scarred. The bottoms whipped ruthlessly.

I hold them both, wanting to warm them. Heal them. They’re small for her height, the nails polished to perfection in her signature red. Flawless on one side. Damaged on the other. Like her.

“What are you doing?” Mercedes asks. I look up to find her staring at me, eyes wide with horror. She comes up onto her elbows. “What the hell are you doing?” she demands, tugging her feet from my grasp.

I allow her to pull away and study her face. Her eyes. There she is, inside them. A broken girl.

“Who did this to you?”

She swallows hard, eyes misting, and sits up. She draws the duvet onto her lap, over her breasts. “Like I said last night, it’s none of your business.”

“Santiago?” I ask, not wanting to. It can’t be, but what if I’m wrong? I’ll kill him. I’ll have to.

“No. God! Santi would never—” Her voice breaks, and it takes her a moment to compose herself and meet my eyes again. And when she does, hers are hard. Layers and layers of impenetrable obsidian. “What the hell do you think you’re doing by stripping me when I’m passed out?”

Inspecting you and checking for scars sounds weak.

I wanted to see your pussy one more time is closer to the truth.

The image of her earlier this morning when I took the crop to her floats back into memory. Her hips trapped by my thighs. Her ass positioned to take my punishment. The reddening marks. Her most secret parts on display for me. For me.

Not. For. You.

“You haven’t eaten anything.”

“Answer my fucking question because I’m damn sure my brother would not have okayed this!”

“Does he know about the scars?” I ask, stopping that line of questioning because, honestly, she’s right.

She falters. Hugs her arms a little closer.

“Does he?”

“No. And you’re not going to tell him.”