Page 49 of Sin of Love
He laughs. “Come here, doll. Let me kiss your wrist and make it better.”
I scoot across the seat and dutifully offer my wrist. The touch of his lips sends the usual flutter of revulsion through me, followed always by a displaced longing for something that doesn’t exist. The old attachment to a man who wasn’t real, for reasons that weren’t sane.
“Margaret continues to be useful in her role,” he says at length. “Yes, I could still sell her—she’s barely twenty-five—but there are plenty of younger girls for that. Besides, I’d miss my pet.”
“She’s in love with you, you know,” I say, watching his face closely.
Dark eyes land on mine. “Yes, I do know. Just like I know what you’re really asking me—why couldn’t I leave you alone, let you live your life, and be content with dutiful Margaret. Right?”
I shrug, unblinking, afraid to breathe. In the nearly three months I’ve been under his thumb, whenever conversation veers toward this topic, it never ends well for me.
Julep smiles slightly. “You still haven’t figured it out, have you?”
I frown. “What?”
“Margaret loves Marco, not me. Not the real me.”
What he says makes sense, of course. I haven’t forgotten the look on her face when she caught Julep raping me. The fear and horror, like she’d never seen that side of him.
How could she have never seen that side of him?
My right eyelid twitches. I press a finger to it, mystified by the incessant flutter, like a tiny bird trying to tear through the delicate skin.
“Poor Deirdre,” he croons. “You know, I never questioned why you went into publicity. Margaret was surprised, but it made perfect sense to me. Why wouldn’t you choose a career where you could wear a mask? Especially the mask you’ve always wanted, of intelligence, independence, and control?”
I shake my head, aching for clarity in my poppy-soaked brain. “What are you talking about?”
Julep continues like I didn’t speak, “You learned to perform at a young age, didn’t you? You had to pretend to be good and God-fearing so your mother wouldn’t beat you. You had to be quiet and feminine so your daddy would bring home food for you to eat and protect you from the bad men.”
“Your father’s men.”
“Mmm, yes.” He smiles broadly. “I’ve never told you this, but I went with them one time, to that dump you lived in. I was coming of age, and papá wanted me to see how that side of the business worked.”
“You were… in my house?” I can barely get the words out.
“Oh, yes. Saw your bedroom. Disgusting, really. I felt bad for you.”
His eyes veer to my face, caressing my features with a marriage of malice and need. My face is the only place he’s never marked; the smooth skin taunts him, and in his mind, likely also redeems him.
“I saw the false floorboards,” he whispers, a thumb lifting to my cheek. “I imagined you under there, shaking and scared, but so brave. I knew then I wanted you for myself.”
The butterfly flutter spreads to my temples. Cold sweat beads on my forehead.
“What?” I gasp.
“You used to think it was your father who led me to you, but you did. That tiny bedroom, the scent of cheap shampoo, the frightened beat of your heart. And the school photo Ernie kept in his wallet of his niece, that he was all too happy to give me when I put a knife to his neck.”
I gasp for air, my lungs high and tight. “You—you…”
“Yes, Deirdre. From the very beginning, you were mine. You haunted me for months after I returned home. I had to have you. Everything was set up—your father was being put away for life, your mother was offered a hefty paycheck to abandon you… But alas, my timing was off. When I went back, you’d run. Sold your virginity to a balding trucker and fled. God, Deirdre, when you confessed all you went through during your year on the streets, I nearly cried. Your innocence should have been mine.”
My heart dives.
Stops.
Kicks in defiance.
“No.” My teeth chatter so hard I bite my tongue; my mouth fills with copper. “No, no… I never told you that. I never told you.”
