The Ruthless Heir

ERICA’s [POV]

Once I was left alone with my thoughts and nothing else, of course, I tried and failed to release myself from the restraints he’d placed on me. The locks weren’t overly large, but they were strong. I attempted to break them off by force, which was stupid in retrospect because it left me with little to show for it other than a bruise on my neck. When that didn’t work, I considered trying to cut through the leather collar but noted with frustration that Judge had taken care to remove any sharp instruments from my immediate surroundings and locked the closet before he left.

I tested the limits of my chain to see how far I could go, which, in the end, wasn’t that far. It allowed me enough length to reach both ends of the stables but no farther. I was well and truly trapped, and given that I’d already wasted a considerable amount of time trying to find a way out, I had no choice but to accept my fate. It was either clean up horse shit or have my ass thrown in the cellar with no creature comforts at all.

It was a painful task dragging myself back into the stalls. The smell of urine was overwhelming, and it burned my nostrils as I worked. But worse was the fact that I had zero protection on my body. The straw chafed against my skin as I stepped over it, and replacing it with fresh bedding was no easy feat. My entire body was scratched and raw. On top of that, I had stepped in a pile of manure when I wasn’t paying attention, and I had slipped and fallen into the soiled bedding. So I was quite certain I smelled and looked disgusting.

It was truly awful, and I was feeling sorry for myself until I remembered why I was here in the first place. That woman I had killed. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, this was probably the best alternative I could have hoped for. If I didn’t have the protection of The Society behind me, and my brother’s swift cleaning of that mess before anyone could find out, I could easily be sitting in The Tribunal’s prison for the rest of my life.

There are moments when I still wonder if it’s what I deserve. Those thoughts war with my justifications. The reminder that she tried to kill my brother. I want to believe she got what she deserved because it makes me feel better about what I’ve done, but it doesn’t bring me any peace. Nothing brings me peace.

I’m exhausted and emotional by the time Judge finally returns. And worse yet, I’m not finished. I’m in the last stall, sniffling quietly when I hear the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves over the floor. I don’t turn to look. Like a well-trained circus animal, I shovel faster, dreading that he might follow through on his word to toss me in the cellar.

I hear the stall doors closing as he puts the horses away, and my heartbeat quickens when the sound of his boots approaches me from behind. He doesn’t say a word as I race to finish, but I can feel his eyes boring into my back. The undeniable evidence of my scars is on display in the light of morning.

“That’s good enough for today,” he clips the words out with a finality that makes me question if he will still punish me. I don’t want to believe it, but I can’t stop thinking about the possibility.

I turn toward him slowly, my head almost too heavy to lift. At the moment, it’s painfully obvious that I don’t have an ounce of pride left. As his eyes rake over me, I’m certain I’ll see some satisfaction as he realizes that, but instead, there’s a mounting concern when he notices the rashes and scrapes all over my body.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were allergic?” He frowns.

I glance down at the red welts on my body, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m not. My skin is sensitive, and I had no protection from the straw.”

“Come.” He joins me in the stall and grabs me by the arm, but this time, his touch is gentle.

I follow him into the center of the stables, where he unchains me from the large metal arm holding me hostage. After that, he carefully removes my collar and tosses it into the corner, along with the locks. For a second, I consider the possibility of running now, but realistically, I know he’d catch me before I even made it twenty feet. I’m too exhausted. My muscles are aching, and my head is throbbing. And all I want to do is fall into bed and cry.

Judge retrieves the sheet he hung on a hook outside the stables and wraps me up again before scooping me up over his shoulder once more.

“I can walk,” I groan.

He doesn’t answer, and I don’t fight.

We make it to the safety of my room, and I’m hopeful that he’ll just leave me to wallow in my misery, but of course, that doesn’t happen. Instead, he leads me into the bathroom and turns on the shower, testing the temperature of the water before he gestures for me.

“Get in.”NôvelDrama.Org holds text © rights.

It’s one order I can’t protest because I’m filthy, and I think it’s very likely I’ll probably need three showers before the day is through so I can feel like I washed it away. I step into the stone shower and under the spray, blinking through the steam as I wait for Judge to leave. Only, he doesn’t.

Instead, he tugs off his shirt and kicks off his boots. When he reaches for the zipper on his riding breeches, I swallow so loudly, I’m convinced he heard it. But he doesn’t seem to notice or care. And then before my eyes, he yanks off his breeches, leaving him standing there in nothing but a pair of black briefs.

I swallow again when he approaches, shaking my head infinitesimally. “I don’t need any help.”

He sighs. “For once in your life, just do as you’re told, will you?”

He doesn’t allow me to decide for myself, but rather he turns me in his arms and reaches for the soap. I’m frozen, my nerves unsettling me as I anticipate his touch. I don’t know what it will be like. Nobody has washed me in a very long time. The last time was when Antonia tended to my wounds in those weeks following the beating that left me with my scars. But Judge isn’t Antonia, and I feel the presence of his fingers on my skin in a way I’m certain I’ll never feel anything else.

They are rough and large but gentle at the same time. Like everything else he does, he washes me with a thoroughness that ensures he doesn’t leave a single spot of skin untouched. I’m almost grateful that he started at my back so he can’t see the expression on my face. But I’m certain he can still feel the soft shudder of my skin as his hands glide over it. My ass is still sore as hell, undoubtedly marked with his handprints, which he lingers to examine for a few moments before cleaning them tenderly.

I close my eyes and try to take myself to another place, but my mind drags me back to the present. To the hands touching my body. To the strange feelings stirring in my belly when he pulls me against the hard plane of his body and his fingertips edge around my ribs. I suck in a sharp breath when he washes my belly and then stops breathing entirely when his hands glide over my breasts, pausing there for a moment longer than what I’m sure is necessary. If I didn’t know any better, I would think I heard him biting back the sound of a groan, but I can’t see his face. I can, however, feel his cock against me, even through the material of his briefs. It’s warm and… huge.

For a second, I find myself wondering what it looks like. What it would feel like in my palm. Or more importantly, buried deep inside me. Would it hurt? Of course, it probably would. But it would also feel good, I think. A good hurt.