Walking through the halls, I notice they are mostly bare. Unlike the Nero family mansion, the Marinis' has little art. It's not cold, but it lacks that kind of ode to high society that my family home always had.
Which is funny since the Marinis came up around the same time as the Neros. It makes me curious about my new family.
Not curious enough to seek anyone out and ask these question, but enough that I examine the three other rooms on my floor—a formal sitting room and a small office—before I scurry back to my space.
I learned exactly zero, but it was nice to escape my self-imposed prison.
The day crawls, and by eleven, Saint returns.
The routine is identical.
He walks in. Already hard. I lie down. He fucks me.
This time, he finishes faster and says nothing.
If he didn’t avoid looking me in the eyes the whole time, I would think he was getting off on this. But I know he’s not. He’s clinical about fucking. I’ve had hotter gynecological exams.
"You should probably elevate your hips or something," he says, not looking at me as he cleans up. "Helps with conception."
I snort and roll my eyes.
He says it like he's giving me advice about dry cleaning.
I don't respond. Just lie there, feeling him leak out of me, hating everything.
This time he leaves and doesn't come back.
I'm awake for hours.
Day four brings the same, except this time I travel to a second floor. No one is in this house, which I find weird because it feels like I’m constantly being watched.
Saint comes. He fucks me. Leaves.
Day five brings the first intrusion into my self-imposed isolation.
A knock at the door, mid-afternoon. Not Lyla's gentle tap. Something more authoritative.
I sit up immediately, straightening my back the way I was taught in cotilion.
"Gemma." Antonio's voice. "May I come in?"
I'm sitting by the window in leggings and an oversized sweater, hair in a messy bun, no makeup. Not fit for company. My mother would roll in her grave if she saw me, and I wince.
"Yes."
Antonio enters, and I'm struck again by how different he is from Saint. Older, obviously, with silver hair and kind eyes. I know he's not Saint's father, but it's hard to see a single drop of resemblance between the two.
Saint is menacing, like a snake waiting to strike. Antonio is like a panther, sleek and timed. He moves with the quiet authority of someone who's been in power for decades. He's got a fatherly presence about him, and as much as I want to hate him for tying me to his psychotic nephew, there's something warm and paternal that draws me to him.
A therapist would have a fucking field day with me, I think.
"I wanted to check on you," he sits on one of the overstuffed armchairs. "Make sure you're settling in."
"I'm fine," I say. "Your staff has been very helpful."
His eyes sweep the room, landing on the untouched lunch tray. "Have they? You haven't left this room in almost a week."
"I leave," I say. "I've seen most of the house."
