NO MERCY, MY DUCHESS

12

Julian returned to Blackmoor Manor, the Prince's veiled warnings and Clara's indignation already fading in his mind. His focus had shifted, coalescing around a singular desire: Livia. He strode directly to his bedchamber, expecting to find her there, a silent acknowledgement of her new place.

But the room was empty. The bed, though unmade, held no trace of her. His jaw tightened. "Where is she?" he demanded, his voice echoing in the sudden silence, not to anyone in particular, but to the empty air.

A maid, fluttering nervously in the corridor, scurried forward. "Your Grace, she is in her chambers."

Julian frowned, a deep line appearing between his brows. He knew "her chambers" meant the guest room next to his. He took a step, heading towards the guest chamber next to his, but the maid's voice, barely a whisper, stopped him.

"Your Grace, she is in the East Wing."

He turned sharply, his eyes narrowing. "Why?" His voice was cold, edged with an immediate possessiveness.

The East Wing was rarely used, reserved for distant relatives or guests requiring extended, quiet stays. It certainly wasn't a place for his Duchess.

"I placed her there," his mother's voice, sharp and laced with disapproval, cut through the air.

She had approached silently, her presence now a formidable barrier. The maid, sensing the brewing storm, scurried away with a relieved sigh.

"Mother!" Julian hissed, his control fraying at the edges. His gaze was a glare that dared her to challenge him.

"She needs rest," his mother stated, her voice firm, unwavering. "The poor girl is hurt." Her eyes, though not mentioning the marks directly, held a knowing condemnation that spoke volumes.

"She can rest in my room," Julian retorted, his voice low and dangerous. The very idea that Livia would be anywhere but by his side, under his direct supervision, was an affront.

His mother looked at him as if he had truly lost his senses. "Have you lost your mind?" she demanded, her voice rising slightly, tinged with a raw exasperation. "Did I not raise you well? You marked her!" Her gaze, though filled with a mother's disappointment, also held a flicker of steel.

Julian's jaw clenched. He let out a low hiss, a sound of frustrated rage, completely ignoring his mother's censure. His focus was solely on Livia, on her renewed defiance in seeking refuge from him.

He wheeled around, his stride long and purposeful, heading directly towards the East Wing.

"She shouldn't have defied me then," he sneered, the words a low, chilling growl thrown over his shoulder, "if she didn't have the strength to match it." The cold promise of his statement hung in the air, leaving his mother standing alone, a testament to the uncompromising will of the Duke of Blackmoor.

Livia, he decided, would quickly learn that there was no corner of his manor, no wing, no room, where she could truly hide from him.

***********

A soft sob escaped Livia's lips, a sound of profound despair, as the door to the East Wing bedchamber opened. Julian stood framed in the doorway, a formidable silhouette against the hall light. His eyes, dark and unyielding, fixed on her.

The maid, who had been diligently applying soothing ointment to Livia's bruised skin, gasped, her eyes wide with fear, and scurried away, leaving Livia utterly exposed and vulnerable.

"You are moving back to my chamber," Julian declared, his voice low and uncompromising. He took a step towards her, his presence filling the room. "Get up."

Livia flinched. Her voice, when it came, was a mere whisper, devoid of the sharp defiance that usually characterized her.

"Your mother said I don't have to," she replied, the words a desperate, feeble attempt to cling to the Duchess's protective shield.

Her usual quick wit, her fiery spirit, seemed to have been extinguished, replaced by a deep-seated exhaustion and fear.

Yet, even this muted resistance infuriated Julian. He didn't like to be defied, or talked back to, least of all by his wife. The mere mention of his mother's intervention, her implied challenge to his authority, stoked the embers of his rage.

"I said," he sneered, his voice laced with menace, each word a chilling command, "you are moving back to my room.

Livia gulped, her throat tight with fear. She didn't dare to speak again. She tried to get up, her muscles screaming in protest, her body still weak and aching. But she was moving too slowly for him.

With an impatient huff, Julian reached for her, gathering her into his arms. He didn't offer comfort; his touch was simply a means to an end. He carried her out of the East Wing, through the silent corridors, to his wing, to his chamber, and to his bed.

That evening, the tension in Blackmoor Manor was almost unbearable. Julian found himself in a heated argument with his mother, the Duchess, regarding Livia.

His mother, her face etched with disapproval, confronted him directly about his brutality, about the marks on Livia's skin, and her obvious distress. She spoke of decorum, of reputation, of the damage he was inflicting not just on Livia, but on the very essence of their family's standing.

Julian, however, met her criticisms with a cold, unyielding resolve, refusing to concede an inch of his authority over his wife. The argument was sharp, his mother's anger clashing with his own unshakeable will, and it irked him deeply.

The intrusion, the challenge to his methods, only intensified his possessive fury.

When he returned to his bedchamber later, the lingering irritation from the argument with his mother had transformed into a dark, simmering rage.

Livia lay in his bed, seemingly asleep, her face pale in the dim light. He stripped down, his movements deliberate, silent. He climbed onto the bed, his weight causing the mattress to dip, and she stirred, a soft whimper escaping her lips as her eyes fluttered open.

He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His gaze, burning with a chilling intensity, spoke volumes. He reached for her, his touch less gentle than the morning, fueled by a renewed need to assert his dominance, to extinguish any lingering spark of defiance.

He took her even more brutally, his actions a direct, merciless punishment for his mother's interference. Each thrust was a statement, a violent reaffirmation of his absolute ownership, a brutal reminder of who held the power.

Livia's gasps of pain were muffled by the heavy pillows, her sobs lost in the suffocating embrace of the expensive sheets. He left no doubt that his will was law, and that any challenge to it, from anyone, would be met with an unforgiving retribution. The night was long, a testament to his unchecked dominance, and to Livia's complete subjugation.