Chapter 142: Chapter One Hundred-Forty-Two: The Vulture’s Rage

//CLARA//

I lost count of how many times he took me. The fire died. The room grew cold, and I was too far gone to feel anything but him.

His mouth found my breast, his teeth closing around my nipple hard enough to make me cry out against his shoulder, the sound muffled by his flesh. His hips were pistoning against mine with force that would leave bruises I would treasure in the morning.

"Your cunt is so fucking tight," he growled against my breast, the words filthy and reverent. "Did you touch yourself like this, thinking of me, wishing I was inside you—"

"Yes—"

The admission came on a gasp. He rewarded me with harder thrusts, his hand finding my hip and lifting me, changing the angle until he was hitting that spot with every stroke, until I was sobbing against his neck, my nails scoring his back.

He followed me into the abyss a second later. He buried his face in my hair, his heart echoing the beat against my own.

The storm outside had picked up, the wind howling against the nailed-shut windows, but inside, the silence was finally peaceful.

Casimir shifted, pulling the heavy fur blanket over us both. He reached up and smoothed my damp hair away from my forehead.

"I have to leave in an hour," he murmured, the reality of the night beginning to seep back in.

"I know," I said, curling into his side, my head resting on his shoulder.

He kissed my temple, his arm tightening around me. "Sleep for a while, little bird. I’ll watch the door."

"You’re supposed to be climbing down a wall, not watching a door."

"The snow is thick," he said, a hint of that wicked smirk returning. "And I suspect the universe owes us a bit of luck."

I drifted off then, cocooned in his warmth.

The warmth of Casimir’s body still lingered on my skin, his scent clinging to the sheets, to my hair, to every place he had touched. My limbs were still heavy with satisfaction, as I watched the snow fall harder against the window.

Then, the lock clicked.

I was halfway through a novel I hadn’t been reading, my eyes moving across the page while my mind wandered somewhere else. The sound didn’t register at first. Not fully.

The door wasn’t supposed to open until nightfall. The silent servant only came when the sun was low, and even then, they moved with the speed of someone afraid of catching a curse.

This was different.

The lock clicked again and I was on my feet before the door swung open.

Aunt Cornelia stood in the threshold.

Behind her, the shadows of the hallway coalesced into a figure that made my stomach do a slow, nauseating roll.

Bartholomew.

He filled the doorway behind her, his shoulders blocking the light, his shadow stretching across the floor toward me like something reaching to strangle.

I had seen him angry before. Petulant. Spoiled. But this was different. This was a man unhinged by humiliation, his cheeks flushed with a feverish rage, his eyes fixed on me with a concentration that made my stomach drop.

I stepped back instinctively, but the room suddenly felt more cramped. My slippers silent on the rug, until the small of my back hit the cold stone of the fireplace mantel.

"Good to see you again, Eleanor."

"Mr. Vanderbilt," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.

I tilted my chin up, a part of me wanting to tell him exactly where he could shove his wounded ego.

"I’d ask how you are, but you look like you haven’t been sleeping well."

His jaw tightened so hard I heard the bone pop. He stepped into the room, and the air seemed to vanish with him. Aunt Cornelia remained by the door, her hands folded over her waist, watching us with the cold curiosity.

"You think this is a joke?" The rage in his voice was unmistakable. "Do you know what that felt like, Eleanor? Standing at that altar in front of everyone? The silence breaking into whispers? The pity?"

"Actually, I thought I could manage the exit without ever having to see your face again."

My heart hammering against the gold ring beneath my chemise.

"But apparently, the Vanderbilts don’t understand the concept of I’m just not that into you."

"I was a laughingstock!" He bellowed, taking another step forward, his shadow swallowing the light from the window.

"My father had to leave the city to avoid the stench of the humiliation you left behind. While you... you were off playing some ridiculous game, dragging the name of your house through the mud without a second thought for honor."

"Honor? There wasn’t an ounce of honor in that contract, Bartholomew."

I let out a sharp laugh, his name tasted like copper on my tongue.

"You didn’t want a wife. You wanted a trophy. You wanted a pretty, porcelain ornament you could polish and put on a shelf to prove you could tame a girl. Don’t talk to me about honor. You don’t possess the vocabulary for it, and you certainly don’t have the soul."

He was close now. Close enough that I could smell the stale brandy on his breath and the cloying scent of expensive pomade.

"I offered you everything!" he spat, the words spraying like venom. "I reached down and picked up that shredded dignity of yours. The scraps that Spanish Prince left behind when he decided playing at war was more interesting than playing with you."

"Is that so? Have you had your head checked lately, Bartholomew? Because I can’t find a single part of me that’s thankful. I hated you then, and I despise you now."

I looked past him to Aunt Cornelia. "Are you enjoying the show, Auntie?"

The old woman didn’t blink. "You are a stain on this house, Eleanor. Bartholomew is simply here to ensure the cleaning is thorough."

I looked back at him, my eyes narrowing.

"You’re pathetic. You aren’t here because you’re angry or humiliated. You’re here because you can’t stand that something you thought was yours had slipped between your grasp. I will never be yours Mr. Vanderbilt."

That was the breaking point.

In a blur of motion, Bartholomew crossed the remaining distance. His hand shot out, his fingers like iron talons as they clamped around my jaw. He shoved me backward, the back of my head hitting the wall with a sickening thud that sent white sparks dancing across my vision.

"You don’t get to talk to me that way," he hissed, his face inches from mine. "Not anymore. My patience for you had long faded, Eleanor."

I clawed at his wrist, my nails digging into his skin, but he didn’t flinch. He pinned me there, his weight crushing the breath from my lungs. I looked at Aunt Cornelia, her expression remained indifferent. If anything, her lips curled into the faint, ghostly trace of a smile. She was enjoying this.

"Let... go," I managed to wheeze.

"Not until you understand exactly what your life is going to be," Bartholomew whispered.

I felt the sting of tears in my eyes—not from fear, but from the sheer, blinding fury of being handled like an object. I took a sharp breath, and before he could say another word, I gathered every ounce of spite I had left and spat directly into his face.

It caught him right across the bridge of his nose.

He recoiled, his grip loosening in pure, shocked disgust. I didn’t waste the second. I brought my knee up with everything I had, aiming straight for his groin.

He let out a strangled wheeze, doubling over as he stumbled back.

"You bitch!" he roared in pain and rage.

I tried to bolt for the door, but he was faster than a man in pain should be.

He lunged, his hand catching the fabric of my dress and hauling me back. I spun around, raising my arms to defend myself, but the back of his hand caught me across the cheek with a force that felt like a falling brick.

The world tilted. I hit the floor hard, the impact jarring my teeth.

My cheek was suddenly on fire, a throbbing, white-hot pain that radiated through my jaw. I tried to push myself up, but my arms felt like lead, and the room was spinning in slow, nauseating circles.

Bartholomew was on me in an instant. He knelt beside me, grabbing my jaw again, his thumb bruising the skin as he forced me to look at him.

"You should never have come back, Eleanor," he whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying, quiet violence. "I swear to God, I will make you mine. Not necessarily a wife, but a whore. I will make your life a living hell."

He leaned closer. I tried to crawl away, my palms slipping on the polished wood, but he held me in place, his grip like a vice.

"I will spare no one who stands in my way." His voice dropped into a whisper meant only for my ears. "Not even your dear Uncle Casimir can build a wall high enough to keep me out. I’ll walk over his dead body to get to you if I have to."