Page 27 of Reign of the Queen
Is it how smart and conniving she is? Maybe? She’s managed to head us off at every pass, unexpectedly. Perhaps it’s her overall defiance and refusal to bow to my whim and power. Yup, hard as a rock, that aspect of her is sexy as fuck. I want to break her and watch her shatter underneath me, pinned to my bed by my hands around her throat, and then I want to put her back together, piece by jagged piece.
I pull into the circular driveway, mindful of not getting the Range too close to the ostentatious medieval stone fountain with the Saint-Lambert crest visible in the middle of it. Eight generations of Saint-Lamberts later, that ugly fountain is still standing much like our miserable, toxic family.
Pulling the Range to a stop and getting out, I hesitate for only a moment. The desire to get back in and flee is so strong that I have to physically force myself to put one foot in front of the other toward the large wooden front door.
The “Saint-Lambert Mansion” is a monstrosity that, back in the day, was a glorified castle with even a tower and ramparts, surrounded by a deeply wooded area on three sides. My ancestors came to America from France as nobility, hence the title of “Baron,” with money and power that helped fund and found the Village of Casbury. We have been ruling here unchecked ever since as glorified kings.Well, I guess until now. I shake my head.
Not bothering to wait any longer, knowing the consequences will only grow as his temper escalates, I open the front door and walk through into the main foyer of the house with its high polished marble floors and gleaming crystal chandeliers. The grand staircase juts out right into the middle of the space made of polished concrete, wood, and steel, branching off into two different house wings. I hate this place with a passion. There isn’t a day I don’t wish that it burns to the ground, preferably with my father still inside of it.
Before I take further steps into the space, I hear items loudly being hurled against walls, the sound of glass shattering, and soft muffled crying coming from the upstairs area. No household staff are visible, probably hiding and praying that the Baron won’t call upon them to serve. The master of this house is the devil incarnate after all.
Climbing the stairs two at a time, I rush into the mansion’s east wing. Here the breakage is louder, as is the sobbing. I sprint down the hallway to the main suite, knowing and dreading that’s where all the noise is coming from. As I open the door, all I can see is furniture upended. A sofa on its side, a chair with legs embedded into the wall plaster, side tables now missing legs, and glass is broken everywhere. A young blonde woman is tied to a round wood table, naked and sobbing.
My father, the picture of wealth in a charcoal Brioni suit, is pacing back and forth, a tumbler of alcohol, no doubt his favorite scotch in one of his hands, the other holding a broken piece of mirror. As he walks by the visibly frightened young woman, he lets the edge of the broken mirror shard run along her exposed skin, leaving a thin trail of blood behind in its wake. Based on the many blood trails she’s sporting, he’s already made various passes.
“Dad.” I clear my throat, straightening my spine and walking deeper into the room. It would be a colossal mistake to show any concern for the woman or cowardice to my father, as experience has unfortunately taught me. That’s what he wants. He wants to prove that I am “broken, defective or unworthy” of the Saint-Lambert name.
“Ah, here he is, the weak piece of shit spawn that sullies my great name.” He stops and stares at me while pressing the broken shard of the mirror into the young woman’s hip. She lets out a whimpered cry, her gaze meets mine and then turns to where my father is hurting her. He downs the last remnant of the liquor and throws the cup at the nearest wall, shattering it and causing shards of crystal to land on the body of the confined woman.
His face is blotchy with rage and alcohol consumption. Angry dark blue eyes with dilated pupils and dark blond hair with a few streaks of gray disorderly from him running his large hands through it meet met gaze. I wonder if all he’s had is just alcohol at this point. His six-foot-two broad and solid frame is rigid and coiled to attack like the viper he is. He is the image of me with twenty-plus years of hate and privilege unchecked. I hate that when I look in the mirror, I see his features staring back at me.
I just stand there, no response necessary or wanted, still as the statues that line every overbearing hallway in this mansion. I don’t look away from the shard of mirror even though the acid in my stomach and mouth is threatening to spew out of my body. I school my face to show no emotions and project a calmness I don’t feel.
The Baron enjoys inflicting pain, and if I show the slightest softness, he will hurt her even more as a way to teach me a lesson. A lesson I have unfortunately had to learn the hard way at the expense of many young women and the skin on my own back over the years. Rebelling is futile with the Baron.
“Do not disrespect me by calling me dad; you have not earned the right with your blatant impotence, Theodore.” He turns toward the woman. “Open your legs wider, you cunt,” he orders the young woman, and she trembles but opens her naked legs farther apart to expose her bare pussy to both of us. He moves the mirror shard along her hip, trailing down to her pelvic bone.
I watch as he takes the mirror shard and runs it carefully and subtly through her bare slit, shallow, blood-filled cuts appearing from the motion. Her breathing picks up, and her chest moves quickly and raggedly like she can’t get enough air. She isn’t gagged; after all, he loves to hear the noises they make, especially the screams. I never take my eyes off the shard traveling across her skin, creating rivulets of blood in its wake.
“What happened with the Stratford girl?” He puts the shard down on her midriff and uses his fingers to smear the blood all over her cunt painting it macabre red. He then pierces her pussy with his middle finger, second knuckle deep. She lets out a sharp grunt of pain instantly. He continues to push in and out of her with rough movements, causing more of the cuts to run with blood.
“I underestimated my opponent.” I watch as he moves his middle finger inside her, joined by two more thick fingers, all smeared with her blood. I notice the swelling of welts all over her body like a belt or a cord has been used to beat her. Her nose on one side is bleeding, and purple bruising is already blooming all over her. She writhes underneath his hands with pleasure and pain; again, my stomach threatens to upend its contents.
“Yes, you would say that, wouldn’t you? We may call that an understatement, from all accounts, and there have been many in the last couple of hours brought to my esteemed attention.” He rips his fingers suddenly from inside her pussy and, without warning, pushes two fingers into the puckered hole of her ass, still smeared in blood and her vaginal fluids. “You, the heir to Saint-Lambert, were bested by a girl from the disgusting north, a worthless pussy, a vessel of holes to be used by men.” He takes three fingers of his other hand and pushes them back violently into the woman’s pussy, so that both holes are now roughly occupied by his bloodied fingers.
The woman lets out a strangled cry of pain and then a moan of pleasure and spreads her legs even wider to accommodate the intrusion of her body. Tears are running down the side of her face, and the mirror shard is still sitting on her lower stomach, slowly shifting with her movements. She doesn’t dare beg or plead, having been conditioned to his way of taking pleasure. After all, most of them come willingly to him, bought, and paid for to be abused, pleasured, and used as he sees fit. They consent to these horrible ministrations; he ensures it with NDA’s and contracts for services rendered.
He looks away from her body and straight at me. The look of crazed rage on his face. “You will not go near that Stratford whore again and lose. You will not cede ground to her, for you come from a lengthy line of kings of Casbury. You will dominate her and bring her to heed without causing further damage to our great name and to any of your friend’s wealth and families, do you hear me, Theodore? You are MY FUCKING HEIR!” he shouts.
He removes his fingers from inside of her all at once and walks toward me. Grabbing my face tightly with his blood and fluid-soaked fingers, he smears it all over my face, then wraps his hands around my throat and tightens. “If you fail me again boy, I will disown you and lock you in the tower like the pitiful animal you are for all my associates to enjoy like I am enjoying this whore here. Do you understand me, Theodore?”
His hands tighten around my throat, and my airway constricts, spots appearing before my vision. I don’t fight back, knowing it will worsen my situation. I stand as still as I can so that I will either pass out or he will remove his hands from around my neck.
I know too well what the other option feels like, being at the mercy of his “associates;” many of whom are my fellow kings’ and teammates’ fathers. They are captains of industry, and influential players like congressmen and governors of various states. Their sadistic pursuits and sexual deviances have played out across my skin for years without mercy.
I feel him loosen the hold on my throat slightly just as I am about to lose consciousness. “You and your worthless, weak mother are my only failures. I will not have my legacy tarnished by either. I will make you strong, or I will end you!” He pushes me as hard as he can into the wall. I bounce off it and down to my knees, hearing a large crack in the plaster wall.
“Show me you can be worthy of the Saint-Lambert name and be a king of Casbury. Prove to me how you dominate lesser beings.” He points to the young woman on the table.
I drag myself up, despite the dark spots in my vision, and glance at the young woman, who is staring at me wide-eyed with tears slowly making their way down the side of her delicate, bruised face.
Unfortunately, I know what he is demanding, and I also know I can’t refuse, even though I desperately want to. Clenching my fists tightly, I promise myself that one day I will dominatehim, kill him, and then leave him on display as a lesson to his worthless “associates.”
Approaching her, I stare into her terrified eyes; my broad back turned to my father, blocking his sight of her face. I move toward her, and she lets out a shallow whimper and a choked cry. I mouth the words, “I’m sorry” and “Do you consent?” She shifts her eyes from me back to my father behind me, probably trying to decide who will hurt her the worst right now. She gives me a slight nod and then closes her eyes, her breath releasing in a shaky sob.
I run the flat palm of my large hand along her body, starting from her collarbone to her hip bone. Picking up the shard of mirror, I trail it along her waist, then travel the distance over her thighs and down to her calves, trying to leave the shallowest markings as possible but still drawing superficial blood. She lets out ragged breaths with every pass of the broken mirror shard. When I am sure I won’t be called out for not blooding her enough, I drop the fragment on the table and let my fingers run through the blood, marring her skin, making a mess of her and coating my fingers red.
I am not like my father; the sight of blood doesn’t turn me on, but the thought of control does, and here right now, I have control over her and her body. As I watch my hand move along her skin, riddled with cuts, swelling welts, bruises, and blood, I picture the unblemished skin and body of a different blonde, one that defies me at every turn and makes my anger and lust rise to the surface. One who takes my need for control and power and throws it back at me at every turn, haunting my thoughts relentlessly. I’ve had glimpses of the creamy perfection of Mia’s skin over the last couple of weeks, untarnished from pain, and dreamt of all the ways I could mark it.
