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I don’t knock but push it open to find her lying on the bed on her stomach, naked. I know her arms are bound because she can’t be comfortable having them over her head like that.
She doesn’t stir, and I assume she’s sleeping. Her hair is wild, covering her arms and most of her back, but when I step nearer, I see the marks on her ass and I fist my hands.
I go to her, study each of the nine lines of the cane. Nine strokes. Nine fucking strokes.
I didn’t order this. Not like this.
But I knew Lucinda would show no mercy, didn’t I? Her hatred of the Willow Girls surpasses all of ours. I know why, at least in part. I stood witness to it all when the last one was here.
Still, this?
I don’t excuse it. Lucinda will need to be dealt with.
I sit on the edge of the bed. Helena stirs as I reach over to unbind her. She lets out a groan and draws her arms down, turns onto her side, and flinches. She lies back on her stomach.
She pushes the hair from her face. It’s puffy from crying, and when I meet her dark gaze, what I see inside makes my jaw tighten, makes my hands fist again.
“You’re my only ally in this house?” she asks, wiping her face, forcing herself to roll onto her side, biting down on the pain. “Then what will I do when my enemies strike?”
I get up, go into the bathroom. I run cold water and drench a towel in it, then return to the bedroom.
“Turn on your stomach.”
“Why? For more? Or so you can gawk?”
“This will cool it.”
She snorts.
“Turn on your stomach, Helena.”
“What, not Willow Girl? Not sweetheart?”
I meet her eyes, realize I hadn’t called her either. “I didn’t order this.”
“No? That’s not what your mother said.”
“I didn’t order the caning. Not like this.”
“Not like this?” she asks. She turns her face away, like she’s embarrassed.
I see the skin of her forehead crease as she wipes the back of her hand across her face. She turns on her stomach, and I lay the cool towel over the red-striped flesh of her bottom.
“Like what, then? What did you order, exactly?”
“One stroke. Two at most. Not nine.”
“One stroke. Two at most. So casual about beating a woman.”
I feel my lips tighten into a line, but she’s right, isn’t she? This, nine strokes, what would I call it?
I see the tray of food from earlier and go to it, pour a glass of water, and carry it back to the bed.
“Here.”
She looks at it, then at me, and pushes herself up to take the cup. She won’t let me help her to drink it. She takes a sip then hands it back.
“Are you hungry?”
“I just want to be alone.” She lays her head down, closes her eyes.
“Helena—”
“Just leave me alone!” she snaps, lifting her head, glaring at me. “Can’t you give me that? One night. One night after this. Please.” Her voice breaks, and I see her face crumple before she turns it away from me. I swallow over the lump in my throat when I listen to her quietly sob.
I stand.
“I’ll have some food sent up. Something for the pain too.”
She doesn’t reply, and I guess I’m not sure what she’d say.
I leave her alone, as she requested, and make sure someone takes dinner up to her before finding my family gathered at the table outside, my stepmother sitting in my chair at the head of the table.
When I get there, she’s grinning, casually sipping champagne. Ethan too. Gregory is unreadable, as usual.
“Lucinda.”
They all turn to me, and whatever she sees on my face wipes that smile right off hers. She gets up, takes her chair at the foot of the table.
“Son,” she says once she’s seated, knowing how I hate her calling me her son because I am not. “Pour me more champagne.” She holds out her glass.
I go to the table, take the bottle, and pour. “What are you celebrating?”
“Our new Willow Girl.” She raises her glass and drinks a long swallow.
I grip her by the throat, and Ethan is on his feet an instant later when she spills her refilled glass of champagne onto his lap the moment I take hold of her.
Because seeing Helena like that, well, I know what Lucinda is capable of. What she can do with that cane. I grew up on the receiving end of it and have the scars to prove it.
“If you ever touch her like that again, I will kill you, do you understand me?” I squeeze her tiny, scrawny neck, and she’s gripping my forearm, trying to drag me off.
“Am. I. Clear?” I ask once more, loosening my hold enough so she can choke out an answer.
“Yes!”
“Good.” I release her, and she stumbles backward.
