I gasp, struggling to get free, but Mateo holds me in place with an iron grip as he exits the room, bringing me to the elevator.
After the doors close, he sets me down, and even stops me from falling.
“What…what was that?” I rush out in a tone mixed with confusion and fury. “My mother?—”
“Tell me,wife, whose idea was it to put you on Wife For Hire?”
My cheeks flush.
“She did. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“She just wanted to ensure?—”
“That she was kept well.”
He’s right. One of my mother’s greatest fears is to be relegated to servant status, which she is dangerously close to. It was her mentorship to me which kept her from that role.
“Ivy, I want to make this clear. I was very careful when I drew up our contract. I knew what the parameters were for keeping your mother in our residence, and you’ll be happy to know I have the perfect place for her.”
Something about his choice of words has me on edge, but it would do me little good to challenge him now. If he wants power, I’ll give it to him, because power isn’t something I need.
He presses the STOP button and the elevator halts.
“Now, Ivy,” he says, taking a step toward me, pushing me into the corner of the elevator. “I want to make this perfectly clear before we continue our farce of a marriage.” His breath on my neck sends my pulse racing at the prospect of what that sinful mouth will do to me. “You belong to me now. I own you. You are my wife—and your existence is at my pleasure.”
I feel a sudden, unfamiliar rush through my body that all but brings me to my knees. As an unblooded Sister, I’ve been taught precious little of sex, because when our first mark takes us, it must be genuine and innocent. We are denied any form of sexual gratification, and our inexperience endears us to our ill-fated husbands.
After a widow kills her first mark, they have what’s called their Carnal Education. Teachings every black widow must go through once they are blooded.
“Tell me, Ivy,” Mateo says, his head bent so that his lips gently graze my ear. “What makes you wet?”
My jaw drops because a first husband is never supposed to say such things to his innocent wife. They’re supposed to be protective of their wife’s virtue while reserving their more primal urges for the whores in their lives.
He places two fingers under my chin and brings my gaze to his. “Tell me.”
I shudder at his words. At how my legs are now clenched, my knees pressed together. At how I feel so much, everywhere.
“Ivy!” he snarls.
“Nothing,” I tell him.
He chuckles. “I don’t like it when you lie to me, Ivy.”
“I’m not lying. It’s just…” How do I put into words that just a week ago, I felt dead between my thighs? Not that I was defective. The Web is thorough, and they know how volatile wanton lust can be. So it’s medicated out of the unblooded.
“Was it your mother who kept you innocent?” Mateo demands.
I nod, unable to think up a lie.
“Her influence stops now.”
I look away, but his fingers under my chin pull my gaze back to his. “Say it.”
“Understood.”
“Good girl.” He brushes stray strands of hair away from my face and brings his mouth an inch from mine. “Now tell me what makes you wet.”
“You,” I say without thinking, and truthfully, he’s the only person who has.
