I bury my face in the pillow as he warms the cream between his palms and then starts to smooth it over the curves of my ass. It feels so intimate. Too intimate to be sharing with Judge. I can’t make sense of him. This man is a Sovereign Son. He’s practically royalty in The Society. He could have any woman he wants, yet he’s never married. At thirty-one, I’m sure countless women have tried and failed to secure him as a husband. But Santiago has mentioned many times that Judge will never marry, and I have to wonder why. Why is it okay for him to refuse the expectations of The Society when I must abide by them? And what possible benefit could he derive by wasting his time on me when a plethora of beautiful women at the Cat House are willing to submit to his every command?

These thoughts occupy my mind while he rubs the cream into my skin, but as hard as I try, I can’t distract myself enough from the feeling of his hands on me. He’s meticulous. Careful. Treating me like I’m delicate when five minutes ago, he was treating me as if I were the bane of his existence. I don’t understand him, and I can’t stop myself from blurting the question that’s been on my mind since last night.

“Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?”

His hand falters for a moment before he resumes his work, taking extra care to massage the sensitive skin I’m sure is red and swollen.

“There has to be something in it for you,” I persist when he doesn’t answer.

“There is,” he says quietly.

Immediately, my thoughts go to the worst-case scenario. I already know from Santiago that if anything were to happen to my brother as head of the household, not only would Judge take over my care, but he would be paid well to do so. I can’t imagine he needs the money, but do rich men ever turn down financial gains? Is that why he agreed to this? It’s the only thing that makes any sense. And suddenly, this whole situation is even more mortifying than I imagined it could be.

“He’s paying you, isn’t he?” I demand. “Santiago is paying you for your trouble. That’s why I’m here.”

Judge doesn’t respond, and I have my answer. I swallow my pride, ready to pull myself up and redraw the battle lines. But then his palm skates up my back, lightly grazing over the scars that have lived there for so many years.

“Who did this to you?” His question catches me off guard, and even more so when I seem to detect an undercurrent of rage in his tone.

“That’s my business,” I reply with less bite than I had hoped.