Reparation of Sin: A Sovereign Sons Novel by Zavarelli, A. (a book to read .txt) 📕

barely audible as if they weren’t meant to be spoken at all as he brings his lips to the top of my head.

I draw back, and he cups my face, his hands on either side, thumbs wiping away old or new tears. I can’t tell anymore. The look in his eyes, though, is pure torture.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I am exactly the monster you prayed I wouldn’t be the night of the wedding.”

I shake my head, touch his cheek, and lean up to kiss his mouth. It’s a chaste kiss, salty with tears. He doesn’t kiss me back, but he lets me kiss him.

“No. You’re not a monster. Not even close.”

He draws in a deep breath close to my head as if he’ll draw my scent into his lungs, inside himself.

“The foundation of my own home is cracked,” he says, and I try to understand what he’s thinking. The dress and the sandals, Mercedes was supposed to bring them to my room? She never did. I didn’t realize he’d somehow gotten hold of them after my days in that cellar. But that alone has led to this? It seems a bit far.

“No, Santiago. It’s not right. I know it. She—”

“Enemies inside my own home. Inside my own heart.”

“Mercedes wouldn’t…” He starts to pull away, but I grab his face with both hands, getting up on my knees so we’re at eye level. “She loves you fiercely.”

“She sent you knowingly to The Tribunal. She would have you bear the consequences. She would see you executed—” His voice cracks on that last word. “And you would defend her?”

I swallow hard.

He stands and turns away, running one hand through his hair while the other rests on his waist.

“I don’t know your sister at all, apart from the fact she’s a bitch. But I know one thing. She would kill for you, Santiago.”

He turns to me, face hard, that mask firmly in place. “Then where the fuck is she?”

I just watch him, see the threads he’s tying in his head, putting things together, putting things in place. Maybe in the wrong places.

“There’s an explanation. I’m sure. You can’t think based on just the clothes missing that she’s somehow responsible.”

“I have cause,” he says vaguely.

Just then, I hear the clicking of heels in the hallway. Santiago hears it too and turns to the door where Mercedes, her face red, steps inside.

“What the hell did you do to my room?”

I hurry out of the bed, ignoring my aching head when Santiago moves toward her, and Mercedes, seeing his face, jumps back.

“Stop, Santiago! Think!” I yell.

He pauses, drawing in a deep breath. “Ivy. I don’t want to hurt you again. Get away from me.”

“No. I won’t.”

Mercedes looks from me to Santiago. I realize her makeup is faded, eyeliner smeared. She looks like she’s had a very long night. “What’s going on?” she asks.

“Where are the clothes I asked you to put in Ivy’s room? The clothes from the night of the gala.”

There’s a shift in her stance. It’s a tiny change, a stiffening, and I wonder if Santiago catches it.

“I threw them away,” she says.

Santiago’s eyebrows rise high on his forehead. “You threw them away? When I told you to put them in Ivy’s room?”

“I didn’t want a reminder of that night. Is that what this is about? Is that why you tore apart my bedroom? What the fuck, Santi?”

I don’t know if it’s the nickname that has him softening or the fact that what she’s saying makes sense.

“You almost died,” she says, her voice passionate as tears spring to her eyes. “Can you blame me for wanting to erase that night?”

Santiago turns away, wraps his hand around the back of his neck, takes two steps, and then faces her again.

“Get cleaned up. I want you in my office in twenty minutes,” he tells her, then walks out.

“What about my room?” she calls after him.

“We have about two dozen others. Pick one.” He doesn’t bother to turn around, and I wonder what is going on in his head. What I don’t know. Because there’s something.

Mercedes turns to give me a nasty look. I want to tell her I just defended her, but I keep my mouth shut.

“Don’t look so smug,” she tells me.

She doesn’t even give me time for a comeback before she spins on her heel and disappears in the direction of her bedroom.

22 Santiago

"Santi?" Mercedes lingers in the doorway, watching me carefully with her hands clasped together in front of her.

She is the picture of contrition, confirmation enough that she was involved in this somehow. The problem is, I'm not certain I want to know the extent.

"Come sit down," I tell her.

She enters the office on wooden legs, forcing herself into the chair opposite my desk. Although she has done as I instructed and cleaned herself up, there is still something chaotic about her appearance. Her normally polished, smooth black hair is wild, falling around her face almost as a shield when she dips her head. The shadows beneath her eyes are evidence she did not sleep much last night either, and I can only speculate on the reasons.

"I'm offering you one chance." My sharp tone slices through the heavy silence between us. "To clear your conscience and come clean. It will be the only chance you have, Mercedes. If you don’t take this opportunity now, I will never forgive you for whatever it is you’ve done."

She peers up at me, eyes glassy, her lip trembling as she tries to hold it together. "Don't freeze me out, Santi. I can't bear it. Please."

"Tell me." I glower. "Tell me what your involvement in this scheme is. The poison. The lipstick. Why did you do it?"

Horror washes over her features as she shakes her head fiercely. "I didn't poison you, brother. I would never do that!"

When I don't respond, she flings herself forward, reaching for my palms flattened against the desk. She grabs them desperately, clinging to me as the tears she's been trying to