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It’s a long, relatively narrow kitchen, and I walk the length of it, taking in the single dish in the sink and the teacup still on the counter with its tea bag in it. It’s cold to the touch, but the teabag is still damp, so it’s probably from earlier tonight.
An old wooden table with seating for six is set in the middle of the room, making it seem even narrower. It’s wiped clean. It looks like it’s been used for years. I walk through to the formal dining room, take in the antiques, the lace curtains, and although it’s messier than I like, I see money here. High-end, well-made furniture, beautiful things in a style fitting to the house and to New Orleans.
On the table by the front door, I see the hat and sunglasses from the photos Ezra showed me. I take careful steps up the staircase to minimize the creaking of the wood as I climb. The bedroom doors stand open. I look inside each one, finding most of the beds stripped of bedding. Which makes sense if Madame Dubois lives in her French Quarter apartment. Quietly, I open a closed door and find it’s a bathroom. Like those in the kitchen, the fixtures are high-quality but older, the tiles original, the large claw-footed tub elegant and beautiful. A toothbrush and toothpaste sit on the edge of the single pedestal sink, and the sink is wet from recent use. The towel is askew, and a bath towel is drying on a rack. I pick up the damp bar of soap and see the imprint of the apothecary on it. I recognize it from the items Solana gifted me and remember the elixir she’d given me for my mood.
When I bring the soap to my nose, I smell Mercedes. I take a moment to inhale deeply. I can just picture her relaxing in the deep tub and possibly drinking a glass of wine, all while I turn New Orleans upside down to find her.
The lashes I took burn as if fresh. They’re healing well, but my movements are slower, and if I stretch too far, I reopen some of the lacerations. I consider what I did. How I stood in her place to save her from having to submit to such a cruel punishment. And I think about her running away, sneaking into the back of Paolo’s truck because that’s the only way she’d have gotten out. All while I was in that dungeon-like space.
When I imagine her soaking in the tub, relaxing, my hands clench into fists.
I force a deep breath in. I know she ran because she was scared of what The Tribunal would do. What her punishment would be. She may not know the intricacies of the laws, but she does know their ways. I just have to remember that, I tell myself as I walk out of the bathroom and go to the last door at the end of the hall, which is closed. I just have to remember she didn’t know what the Vicarius clause was. She has no idea what I endured, or she’d never have run. She’d have been there when I got home. She’d have been waiting for me in my bed.
But all those words go out the window when I open the door and see her in the little bit of light that comes in from the streetlamp through the lace curtains. All those generous thoughts dissipate as I take in her peaceful, sleeping form, long, damp hair fanned out over the pillow, her arm on top of the floral print blanket drawn over her. Her back is to me, and I step closer to the bed to listen to her quiet, soft breathing.
She’s sleeping deeply. Soundly. When I haven’t slept for days. She’s well-rested and freshly bathed, while I have endured cold showers so as not to feel the burn of the lashes that line my back. That will leave scars to last my lifetime.
I close the door and settle into the wingback chair to watch her sleep her last peaceful sleep.
5
Judge
It’s the middle of the morning when Mercedes finally stirs. I haven’t closed my eyes for more than a few minutes.
She rolls onto her back, arching, stretching, feline-like, her arms over her head with a soft, luxurious moan. The birds chirping outside can be heard through the window, which is open a crack. She yawns, covering her mouth, blinking her eyes open momentarily before rolling back onto her side with a sigh.
For a moment, I think she’s going to go back to sleep. I wouldn’t be surprised. The thought irritates me. But then she bolts upright, sucking in a panicked breath, her eyes huge as they center on me. She clutches the blanket to her chest, and I smile.
“Morning, princess.”
The words are barely out of my mouth before she bolts, throwing the blanket off and scrambling toward the closed bedroom door so fast she’s a blur, all dark hair and flowing white cotton gown. She gets to it. Her hand closes over the doorknob. But before she can open it, I strap an arm under her breasts and lift her, tossing her back onto the bed.
“I don’t think so, Mercedes.”
“Judge, I—”
She takes one look at me as I eat the space between us and lets out a yelp, flipping onto hands and knees to scurry across the bed.
I grab an ankle, tug her back and drape myself over her.
“You what?” I say, fisting her hair and turning her head enough so I’m sure she can see me. “Tell me, Mercedes. You what?”
“I… How…”
I raise an eyebrow. “How did I find you? The better question is how did you think I wouldn’t?” I get off her, keeping her pinned with a hand at her back and tugging the nightgown up to her waist. I smack her ass, and she yelps. “That’s just the start, little monster.” Smack. Smack. Smack. I tug her panties down and do it again, three more on the other cheek.
“Let me go!” She kicks her legs, twists and turns as I slide her onto my lap and let loose on her ass, spanking hard enough to leave big red handprints. “It hurts! Stop!”
“What the fuck were you thinking?” I ask over the blows.
“Stop! Judge!”
She’s half on her side, trying to escape me while she pulls at the nightgown to cover herself.
“When did you get so fucking modest?” I ask as I rip the fabric away and trap her legs between mine to spank her again, concentrating on her thighs.
“Please! You don’t understand!”
