.
my features as he imagined they would one day look. His imagination came close to the truth, right?”
It’s as if my world has flipped its axis and down is up and up is down. “I didn’t know.”
How could I have been so blind?
“Of course not.” She winds her arms around her legs, hugs her knees to her chest. “Who would imagine the daughter of Europe’s most famous painter since Pablo Picasso would make a living by selling her body?”
“Why do you work for The Jewel Box?”
Her eyes darken. “My father died.”
“Rest his soul.” I make the sign of the cross. “A terrible accident. I shall pray for him.”
“Accident?” She pushes herself to standing, her features fierce, shining with hidden fire. “My father drove that same route between Nightgardin and Rosegate at least once a week to deal with patrons. He took expert care of that car. No. That wasn’t a mere accident that claimed his life. The weather was calm. The sun shining. He was murdered. Someone tampered with his brakes!”
My shoulder blades slam together. “You have proof?”
A sob escapes her. “Only the truth in my heart. There is no proof. No motive. Mother died not long after my birth, and all I had after Father was my brother. J-J-J-Jasper.” As the name leaves her tongue, her weeping grows.
“Jasper Vernazza.” I frown. “This name, it’s familiar to me.”
“His fate wasn’t as dramatic as Father’s. He still lives, if you can call being locked in a cage like an animal a life. He was a minor news story this past year until we lost his case and they locked him up. He was an art historian caught stealing a painting from my father’s collection in the Musée des Beaux-Arts. They say he wanted to sell it to a black market dealer in Hong Kong, but my brother reveres museums and Father’s legacy. It doesn’t make sense.” She wipes her eyes. “The portrait he was accused of stealing was another angel, actually. My father painted a whole series of them.”
“And each one is superb. I’ve studied his works.” I’ve seen most of them over the years. They are all of Ruby’s dreamy, heavenly face contrasted with a different hyperrealistic dystopian cityscape.
“My brother was set up, I just don’t know why.” With one shuddering inhalation she composes herself. “Anyway, this is not your concern. I remember your library. Art is not the only thing you study. You are fascinated by tales of pleasure, as well. I swear on my life you know more about the erotic arts than Madam herself.”
I nod. “I seek to understand beauty, for to know beauty is to know the face of God.” Strange. Until this moment I’ve never articulated this idea, either in thoughts or words.
She ducks her chin, a little shy, and stares up between her curtain of golden hair. “And to you, pleasure is beautiful?”
“I believe there is a sacred union of the body and soul when it comes to sex.” I begin to pace, assuming the tone of the professor, not a stretch considering I hold a PhD in Sacred Theology from the University of Edenvale. “Sexuality has the power to be as explosive as dynamite, and when used properly, it can be a tool that moves mountains. And if used improperly, it can grow volatile and wreak untold destruction.”
Her brows knit. “Yet you deny yourself.”
“I have what you could call an arranged marriage,” I say wryly. “My intended bride is to be the church.”
She lets out a frustrated huff, opening the door and disappearing for a moment. There is a rustling from the bathroom, and she emerges clutching a small vial. “I found arnica.” She uncorks the lid and takes a tentative sniff. “It appears to be mixed with lavender oil.”
“A medicinal ointment.” I nod my head. “Useful to treat all manner of aches and pains.”
“Let me do this.” She clutches the bottle, eyes wide. “Heal you.”
I take a step backward and find myself in a corner. “Why do you want to?”
“Because I think you are a good man. And the marks on your back make me want to cry. They also make me angry at God because why would He demand you to punish yourself for feelings that you admit are natural?”
“Sacrifice is holy,” I tell her, repeating the lessons I’ve been taught my whole life.
“If lust is an impulse that must be literally beaten from your flesh, then you are giving God something that is unclean, unholy. Why would He want such an offering?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, impressed at the depth of her impassioned response. “You’d make quite the scholar, Miss Vernazza.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snaps. “Not anymore. Now I am simply Ruby.” She strides forward, pouring ointment into her open palm. “And you are trying to distract me from my task like a naughty patient. Sit.” Her tone brokers no dissent.
I move to a wooden chair and sink to the seat.
“Let’s see how extensive the damage is.” She peruses my back, her long hair tickling my bare skin. Her silence stretches for the length of a minute. “Benedict,” she says, my name a sigh from her lips. “So much pain.” Her fingertips press on my throbbing skin, the welts from the whip. The lavender scent of the ointment floods my senses, but is nothing compared to the intense vibrations sent out across my flesh from her soft, circular massage.
“Let’s see if we can make you feel better,” she whispers in my ear.
Ruby
His skin is like fire under my touch, the raised welts tearing at my heart as my fingers travel over each one.
“Benedict,” I say, but I don’t know what comes next. His name falls so easily from my lips, yet I know the skin I touch blazes not only with the heat of desire but that of intense, overwhelming guilt. It is the skin not just of a man but of royalty; a world in which I do not belong, save for my likeness hanging on his wall.
His head droops.
“Have I hurt you?” I ask, afraid I am doing more harm than good.
He gives his head a soft shake. “The way you say my name,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I meant Your Highness.”
“No,” he assures me. “It is not that.” I listen and continue to massage the salve over his wounds. “The way you say Benedict, it makes me feel...known.”
“Oh,” I say, my hands pausing but never leaving his skin. “I’m not sure what to do with that,” I admit.
“Nothing.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Only God can truly know me,” he says. “That is my chosen path.”
I step around the chair to face him, and he lifts his head.
“Did you really choose that path, Benedict? Or was it chosen for you?”
His green eyes are a storm of emotion, yet his words are the picture of calm.
“How I got here is of no matter,” he says. “This is my path, and I shall not stray.”
I kneel and place my hands on his thighs. He takes a ragged breath, and I expect him to push me away. But he doesn’t. So I decide to push. Not because of what the Madam assigned me to do and not to push Benedict toward failure if, in fact, this is not what he wants. The entire realm envies the royal family, yet I wonder what anyone in a position such as Benedict—or any member of his family for that matter—gets to choose.
“If you had a choice right now,” I ask, “if you could have something you wanted that you thought you didn’t deserve, what would it be?”
He leans against the chair and winces. He is in more pain than he’s letting on.
“Is this more