The Ruthless Heir

Erica’s [POV]

I’m still lying on the floor in a heap when Judge comes to my room two hours later. When I see him, relief floods over me, bringing tears to my eyes. That is until I notice the expression on his face.

“What the fuck have you done?” he clips out.

I stare up at him in confusion, and his eyes rake over me with contempt that turns to something else when he sees the pile of puke beside me. That same suspicion I noticed before flares again, but I couldn’t explain it even if I wanted to right now. I’m too weak. In too much pain to move. It feels like my head is going to fucking explode.

“Why did you do it?” he demands.

“Why, Erica?”

I shake my head, not understanding. At least not until Miriam appears behind him with two black eyes and a cut adorning her cheek. He turns and gestures her inside, his anger palpable.

“Why did you attack her?”

“I… didn’t,” I heave the words out, but they’re barely audible.

Whatever happened to her is a result of what she did when she left my room. That becomes painfully clear when she smirks behind Judge’s back. Judge isn’t paying attention to her, though. He’s looking at me the same way everyone always does. Like I’m a disappointment. Like all I ever do is ruin everyone’s lives.

“Miriam, you may go rest,” he tells her. “I will handle this.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “I can help you get her to the cellar…”

Panic takes over me, and I try to shake my head, but another streak of pain forces me to stop and cry out. Some of the anger in Judge’s eyes ebbs away as it turns to concern.

“Leave, Miriam.”

She does, reluctantly, and I feel like I can finally breathe again when she’s out of my sight.

Judge kneels beside me, his eyes moving over my face in confusion. “Why do you keep throwing up?”

My only response is to release a quiet sob, which doesn’t help the situation. He’s never going to believe me. Not after Miriam made sure of that. And why should he? That’s the whole reason I’m here, isn’t it? Because I lose control and bad things happen.

“Get up.” He reaches for me and tries to sit me upright but stops abruptly when I cry out in agony.

“What is it?” he demands, his eyes searching mine.

“My head,” I croak.

He frowns. “Miriam said you tried to escape, and you fell in the hall. Did you hit your head?”

“She’s lying,” I rasp, but it doesn’t sound believable, even to myself.

“So you didn’t try to escape?” he challenges.

“I did, but-”

I stop because I know there’s no point. He’s already made up his mind. I can see it in his eyes. The irritation swirling with his desire to punish me.

I don’t have the energy to argue right now. He could drag me to the cellar, and I wouldn’t be able to put up so much as an argument.

“I’m going to sit you up,” he says. “We’ll go slow.”

I give him a tiny nod, and as he promised, he goes very slow, but it doesn’t stop the pain shooting through my skull.

I’m wincing in agony, and Judge doesn’t miss it. Nor does he miss the bruise on the side of my face when he tucks my hair back behind my ear.

“Is this where it hurts?” He presses his fingers against the area gingerly.

“No. The back.”

He keeps my body supported with his hands as he moves around behind me to examine the area, and I hear his sharp inhale when he feels the egg on the back of my head.

“You’re bleeding,” he says gruffly.

“It hurts,” I whisper. “Please”

I don’t even know what I’m asking for. But I need his help, as much as it pains me to admit it.

He moves around me and gathers me up in his arms, his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. “Don’t worry, little monster. I’m going to take care of you.”

After hours of tests and observation at The Society hospital, the verdict is as I suspected. I have a concussion, and they had to give me a few stitches for the gash on the back of my head.

They send us home with instructions to rest and a prescription for the pain. But that isn’t the extent of my injuries, and I know Judge is still thinking about them as he drives me home.

When they asked me to change into a gown, there was no hiding them from him. He saw the bruises on my ribs and knees, and I know he’s questioning why I would do that to myself.

I want to tell him I didn’t, but that fear is still there in the back of my mind. Just like when I tried to tell Santiago that I killed the courtesan in self-defense.

He didn’t believe me, so it’s doubtful Judge will either. He probably thinks I got what I deserve for trying to escape in the first place.

I stare out the window, numb and exhausted. I want to cry, but it hurts too much to do that. I’m just hoping Judge will be merciful and leave me to the comfort of my own room tonight rather than tossing me in the cellar like Miriam mentioned.

The answer to that question comes when we arrive back at the house. He doesn’t take me to the cellar, but he doesn’t take me to my room either. Instead, he takes me to his.

And again, I find myself under his care as he gently sets me into a bathtub and washes my body, cleaning the filth of the day’s events away.

I don’t protest, and the gentle touch of his hands and the warmth of the water lulls me into a state of comfort I can’t deny myself. By the time he carries me to his bed, I can barely keep my eyes open.

When he drapes me over the expensive sheets and covers me with the duvet, I sigh. It smells like him. So does the pillow. And I find that I’m strangely okay with that.

“You’re going to sleep too?” I murmur.

I think I see a hint of a smile on his lips as he shakes his head. “No, Erica. I’m going to watch over you. Get some rest now.”

With a nod, I close my eyes, and everything else fades away.

When the light of morning pours into the room, I realize that Judge let me sleep in. I know because he’s been waking me up when it’s still dark outside.

But today, it’s the warmth of the sunlight on my skin that wakes me, and it feels good. I feel comfortable in Judge’s bed, and I can already tell my head is much better, though it still aches a little and probably will for a while.

As I try to sit up, I notice Judge is in the chair beside the bed, staring at his phone. And he looks pissed.

“Judge?” I force his name from my dry throat.

His eyes snap to mine, relief blotting out any other palpable emotions, but only for a moment.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Better,” I acknowledge, although I’m not sure that’s true. Because right now, the way he’s staring at me makes me feel like I should crawl under the covers and hide.

“Good,” he grunts. “That’s good.”

“Is… everything okay?” I ask reluctantly.

“No.” His eyes flash with irritation he’s struggling to contain. “It’s not okay, Erica. It seems you’ve made yet another mess for me to clean up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This.” He tosses a creased piece of paper from the nightstand onto the bed.

When I unfold it, dread curdles my stomach. It’s a missing person’s report… for me. Complete with a terrible photo, a description of my physical appearance, and a statement that I never showed up for a planned brunch, nor have I been seen or heard from.

“Oh, shit,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” Judge growls. “Oh, shit.”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“It’s not what you-”

“I’ve been going through your phone.” He tosses that onto the bed too, and when I glance at it, I can see he’s been scrolling through my messages with Georgie.

I swallow, and my head spins as fear takes an ugly hold on me. He said he has to clean up the mess I’ve made. Clearly, it was Solana and Georgie who reported me missing.

Nobody within The Society would think twice about it. My two worlds are colliding, and I know this won’t be good. But what I don’t know is what will happen with my friends if Judge manages to track them down. If he hasn’t already.

Oh, God. That’s a horrific thought.

I look up at him, trying to find the words to plead my case, but he doesn’t give me the chance.

“I just have two questions for you, Erica.” He lowers his voice to a deadly calm that terrifies me more than his rage. “Who the fuck is Georgie, and are you fucking pregnant?”