Their Reign (The Rite Trilogy 3)

7

MERCEDES

"Judge."

I stop in the entryway, peeking up at him from beneath my lashes. I’m half afraid of what I might see in his eyes, but it doesn't matter because he won't look at me. He's staring into the distance, his jaw set, something unreadable in his expression.

He didn't talk to me the entire way home. I know he's thinking about the baby right now... I didn't dare tell him there are two, but I can't stop thinking about his wounds. He took that flesh payment for me. It means something. It means everything. But he's so shut down I can't get through to him.

"Judge, I—"

"Go to your room, Mercedes." His voice is so cold it makes me shiver.

Still, I can't move. I need to fix this somehow. I need to take care of him, and then I need to make him understand.

He turns his back on me, crimson seeping through his shirt as tension bleeds through his every muscle.

"Go to your room," he repeats. "And if you even think about leaving again, you should know there are guards at every door now. One try, and I'll have you strapped to the bed for days. Do not fucking test me."

He heads down the hall, his shoes echoing in the direction of his office, and I stand there, frozen in silence. A part of me thinks I should listen to him because I've never seen Judge like this. But even so, I can't allow him to suffer. So with more determination than I really feel, I go into the kitchen where I know Lois keeps some first-aid supplies. I grab what I need and gather the courage to go after him.

The door to his office is cracked when I pause outside, and I can see him at the window, sipping from a bottle of scotch. It's a haunting sight and, admittedly, a painful one.

I never once expected him to rejoice in what I'd done. To him, I understand this must feel like another betrayal, one of the worst kind. He never wanted this. He never wanted me. Not in a permanent way. It's a rejection I had braced for, but there’s no preparing your heart for something like this.

I push open the door tentatively, and his eyes move to my reflection in the glass. He goes rigid, and I'm glad I can't see the full spectrum of emotions on his face as I approach him from behind.

Quietly, I set the supplies on the windowsill and draw in a weary breath as I position myself behind him. He doesn't speak when I wrap my arms around him and start to undo his buttons, but his body is so stiff, words aren't necessary to convey his disapproval. Yet he doesn't fight me when I peel the shirt back from one shoulder, carefully removing it from the areas of his back it touches. Judge takes another long pull from the bottle, moves it to his other hand, and then discards the shirt entirely.

For a moment, my sharp inhale is the only sound in the room. Hot tears burn my eyes as my trembling hand hovers over his lacerations, some in various stages of healing, but all of them undoubtedly in the process of leaving scars.

My emotions rush to the surface, tightening my throat as I choke them back. I want to tell him he shouldn't have done this for me. I want to scold him, and at the same time, I want to thank him. Because he saved me. And in some ways, I think I know he always will. Except I can't allow him to do that this time. Not when I've put him in this position. I won't force his hand. I won't force anyone to love me. And I will not make him pay for a decision I made on my own.

With those thoughts in mind, I try to focus on the task at hand. I reach for the cloths and antiseptic, and I begin the difficult task of cleaning his opened wounds. Judge doesn't make a sound. He doesn't flinch or betray even a second of pain, though I know from experience how badly this hurts. There is no amount of gentility that can take the edge off this kind of agony. Yet he seems to be comfortable with it, as if he's been courting it his entire life. And I realize, in some ways, he probably has.

He told me himself when he confessed his fears. In his mind, he’s tainted with bad DNA. He thinks nothing can alter that, and the only way to keep others safe is to keep them at a distance. It breaks my heart, but at the same time, I think I can understand it better than anyone. In many ways, he and I are the same. The only difference is Judge has somehow cracked me open. Now, in place of the hard shell that once protected me is something softer. Something more vulnerable.

The only problem is vulnerability can't be one-sided.

"I need you to know I don't want anything from you," I say the words in a carefully neutral tone while I reapply fresh bandages.

His muscles ripple beneath my fingers, but he doesn't respond.

"This was my decision. I didn't involve you, and I'm not asking for anything from you. Nothing."

Silence.

"I will do this on my own, and I'm okay with that. As far as I'm concerned, you can forget this ever happened. I will talk to Santi, get my inheritance, and step back from The Society. You can go on with your life, and nobody will ever know." My voice wavers slightly at the plan I've mentally prepared, but I steel myself as I go on. "I want to do this on my own, so don’t feel guilty for the choice I made. I understand you're angry right now, and I get that. But I just need you to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I want nothing from you. Not a single—"

"Enough." Judge snarls, yanking away from me before I can seal the last bandage.

The ferocity in his tone stuns me into silence, that single word ringing with such finality. But what did I expect? This was always going to be the beginning of the end.

"I'm not going to ask you again, Mercedes. Go to your room."

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