Page 43 of Depravity

She’s sitting there like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but all three of us know what a little bitch she was to start with. The brand on her chest is clear for us to see, it practically glows withthe way Magnus had gold tattooed into the scarred flesh once it’d healed.

My lips curl at the notion of doing that to Brynn, of marking her permanently. Maybe that should be a tradition. Something every Blake wife must endure from now on.

I clasp my hands together, contemplating whether the pain would be worth it. But to look at her, to know that every man thereafter would see who she belonged to…

“Conrad?”

I blink, coming out of my thoughts and realise my brother is staring at me intently.

“I’m just coming up with ideas.” I murmur.

“I see, and these include torturing your bride?” Magnus replies.

I shrug. Like he didn’t enjoy torturing Liliana. Like he didn’t enjoy breaking her down, dehumanising her, turning her into little more than an object for him and his mates to enjoy.

Oh, I know she’d die for him now. Magnus even tested that out. But my wife, my wife would probably be the one pulling the trigger if the roles were reversed. I scowl, feeling more fury at the fact that he has her; that he made her so perfect, and my little doll is still anything but.

Liliana lets out a pained sigh, like she knows where my head is. I look up and meet that piercing gaze of hers. Not so long ago we both had her hauled over the dining table, fucking her like the whore that she is.

My eyes drop to her nipples, to where they’re peaked from the cool air of the room.

And just like with every other woman, I’m not tempted by her now. Not interested. Brynn has ruined everyone else for me.

“If you do too much, you know her father will make a fuss.” Magnus states.

Like that’s true. Considering how Quinn treats his own wife, I doubt he’ll have much to say on the matter. Only, I can’t be bothered to have that debate right now. “He can say what he likes,” I say, “I can do as I wish with my own wife.”

It’s the one good thing about the Brethren, they don’t care what happens behind closed doors. A wife is a man’s property; he can treat her how he likes. He can beat her, starve her, rape her, and there would be no repercussions.

But if she were to cheat, if she were to disobey him? Well now, that’s an entirely different thing. Maybe that should have been my move. I should have married Giselle and then accused her of adultery, and ditched her in Oblivion.

I guess it’s too late now.

I get up to leave, feeling thoroughly unsatisfied.

“Conrad.”

God, I hate that tone. I hate the way my brother still thinks he can parent me. I’m thirty fucking eight years of age. I don’t need his advice, or his help, or his damned meddling.

“What?” I reply through gritted teeth.

“This wedding. This marriage. This union with the Monclere’s. Itwillgo ahead as planned. We need them on side.Ineed them on side.”

I give a curt nod. If only he knew we’re already joined with them now, and soon enough we’ll have an heir that is both Monclere and Blake. When that happens, Quinn Monclere won’t dare to dispute my marriage. He’ll be too keen to avoid a scandal.

I walk out of the room, heading up through to the north wing of the house. It’s all but derelict now, unused. Although the place is pristine, no one comes here. The ghost of our mother still haunts this space.

I cut through the glass atrium and past the intricate chinoiserie murals.

When I get to her suite I pause, wondering if my life, if my brother’s life, if Devin’s life would be better or worse if we didn’t have the mother we did. If we didn’t have her tainted blood. Magnus and I keep most of our urges controlled, measured. But Devin; Devin got the brunt of her poison, of her malign.

My mind flickers to the girl, Paitlyn. She’s locked away in a secure psychiatric unit under a fake name. I don’t like the fact that I’m keeping her from him, I don’t like the fact that I have any connection to her at all. But it is what it is. Once Devin has dealt with the final few items on his to-do list, I can hand her over and I know by the time the sun sets, he’ll have eliminated her from our list of troubles.

When I get to my mother’s bedroom, I glance about, noting that these rooms haven’t changed a bit. They’re cleaned every day, so there’s not even the lingering hint of dust on any of the surfaces. A great canopy bed takes up one half of the space. It’s got crimson red brocade hanging in big dramatic folds. Behind the head is our family’s crest, made of plaster, and covered with gold leaf.

Standing here, it’s easy to remember, it’s easy to see it. Us. Devin as a baby, neatly swaddled up. Me sprawled out on the Persian rug, playing with a toy train, and my mother standing by the window, staring out but seeing nothing. Beside her, Magnus was there like her shadow, like her guard. As if he understood even as a teenager that she was fucked in the head, and beyond saving.

And then our father would walk in.

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