Deprivation (The Brethren Lords #4)

Chapter 1 Grace

Four years. That’s how long I’ve been waiting. How long I’ve been kept, sequestered, neatly packaged up like a little treat for them all.

You’d think it would be enough to reconcile me to all this, to help me make peace with my fate. But as I’m literally carted out before all these hundreds of baying men, I know an entire lifetime could never prepare me for what tonight’s horror will be, and what tomorrow’s torture will become.

I’m dressed in a sheer shift. It’s silvery white, the fabric so fine it feels like it’s kissing me. I know it’ll be the only tenderness I feel, the only tenderness I get. Underneath, there is nothing. I’m as naked as the day I was born and every single one of these arseholes can see it.

I grit my teeth, tightening my grip on this ridiculous thing I’m being transported in, and I can see my knuckles are going white.

I told myself I’d be brave. I told myself that I’d be courageous, that they wouldn’t see me crumble, that I would face my fate the way my father did. Only now I’m here, now I’m literally looking these bastards in the eyes, all that bravado is rapidly crumbling to dust.

“Make way,” Someone yells as the cart comes to a stop.

Who’s stupid idea was this? To haul me out, to bring me from the back of the crowd? I narrow my eyes and I see exactly who, standing on the big stage, watching me.

Magnus Blake. Our new Chapter Lord. Not so new now though. He’s had a few years to settle in, to make his mark. To cull half my family too, to butcher and murder and kill my friends, my acquaintances, anyone who dared support my father in his attempt to beat him.

I let out a huff as our eyes meet.

They say he’s the devil. They say he’s as ruthless as they come. That he always wins, always gets whatever he wants. I guess it must be true, considering I’m the one in chains and he’s the victor.

Hands suddenly grab at me as someone tries to pull me over, and I scream out before one of the two guards beside me physically beats the person back.

The cart jerks once more and we continue on, continuing through like a little victory procession. I feel like Zenobia. I feel like a barbarian queen, caught, captured, being dragged through the streets of Rome and about to be devoured by the lions while everyone enjoys the good sport.

As we reach the stage it is his brother, Conrad, who takes my arm, who pulls me out in a manner that tells me he expects me to fight.

He’s twice my size, at least twice my strength. I know I shouldn’t do it, but the moment presents itself too perfectly to resist and I curl my fist, landing a good punch to his smug fucking face.

He groans, stumbling slightly, and the crowd jeers louder.

“Fucking bitch.” He says, wrenching me by my hair.

I kick out, I buck my body as I’m manhandled onto a giant metal wheel. My arms and legs are stretched wide. I’m now spreadeagle, and the dress I have on is riding dangerously high.

I gulp back, fighting down the tears. I knew this place was an abomination, but nothing could ever prepare me for this level of barbarity.

“Take it off. Take it off. Take it off.” The crowd chant, louder and louder.

My eyes snap to my right, to the man responsible for all of this.

Magnus prowls towards me, his eyes fixed on my face like he wants to savour every moment of my torment.

In his hand he has a tiny golden blade, and as he moves close enough that I can feel his breath on my skin, I can’t help but whimper.

I know it’s no good begging. I know it’s no good wasting my breath but he pauses, as if he thinks I’m stupid enough to do it anyway. Well, fuck you, Magnus Blake. I won’t give you that.

He grabs my dress by the collar, pulling it far enough from my skin that he can slice it open without carving me up.

Freezing cold air rushes to meet me. I shut my eyes as my body is exposed, and those awful cheers reach a fever pitch.

“May I present to you all, Grace Ratcliffe.” He says so silkily, so damn smugly as he spreads his hands wide like a showman.

I shudder, trying to pull myself free but the rope is far too strong for that, and all I do is make myself look like a desperate, weak little fool.

Stupidly I glance down and I can see myself laid out, looking like Christ himself, ready to be sacrificed.

Only, he got the promise of an after-life.

He got to die knowing he would be reborn in a few days.

I have no such mercies. I know I’m damned, condemned, will spend the afterlife in the very pits of hell.

“She’s pierced.” Someone shouts, pointing at my breasts that are heaving because I can’t get my ragged breathing under control.

I grit my teeth, shooting a look of pure venom at my captors.

Magnus smiles wider. Conrad actually laughs as he steps forward. “We thought we’d add a little extra sparkle to our prize.” He says, before leaning right over, pulling my labia back, showing them all the other horrific things they did to me.

“Fuck me.” Someone close to me groans, like he’s never seen anything as good in his life.

“Piercings take a while to heal.” Conrad says almost bored. “We decided to be efficient, and use the years we had waiting for her to come of age to our advantage.”

“Bastards,” I hiss under my breath.

“What’s that?” Conrad says, grabbing my face, forcing me to face him.

I shut my eyes, shuddering as that awful memory hits me; that flashback of him and Magnus holding me down as they shoved those needles into me, as they mutilated me and turned me into a glittering whore-in-waiting.

He flicks the diamond encrusted bar that goes through my right nipple, then flicks the left straight after. There’re tiny little bells attached, and they ring out far too merrily.

“Be grateful, Grace.” He murmurs. “We didn’t have to auction you at all. Magnus and I could have simply kept you here, kept you locked away in Oblivion and used you as our own personal slave.”

I know he’s trying to scare me, trying to intimidate me, but it won’t work. They’ve already done their worst in killing my father, in killing my aunts and uncles, and my baby cousin too.

Selling my virginity, selling me is just the last insult in a list of so many.

I throw my head back, spitting right into his face, and it lands on his cheek as a white foamy mess.

He wipes it clean with the cuff of his shirt, laughing.

“Let the bidding begin,” He says, turning his back on me. “We’ll start at fifty million…”

I shouldn’t look. I shouldn’t watch this and yet as one man after another shouts out a number, it feels like I can’t stop. My eyes twist from one awful face to the next. As I reach the eighty million mark the majority die off, and I don’t know whether to be grateful for that fact or not.

“Eighty five.” Someone yells from the back.

“Eighty seven.” A man barely a metre from me hollers, and I realise I know him.

His name is Jones, he used to come round our house, used to spend hours holed up with my father in the good old days.

He used to ruffle my hair as I sat by the fire, playing with my dolls.

As our eyes meet, I swear he grins wider and then he drops his eyes, making a point of staring not at my face but between my legs, where I’m entirely exposed.

I shut my eyes, wishing I could shut all of this out.

The bidding war continues. The man at the back is clearly invested enough to not back down and when the price tips a hundred even Magnus looks surprised, like he thought I’d be a cheap little ornament to sell off and be done with.

The man up front starts to waiver as the man at the back shouts out a new price. Before Jones can react, Conrad claps his hands. “Sold.” He says loudly. “Sold for a pretty penny indeed.”

Hands grasp me, someone cuts me down and I collapse from both the shame and exhaustion at being held like that. But I know this here, is just the beginning.

Conrad wraps a cloak around my body, and my hands clutch at the fabric tightly now that I’m covered. My face heats with more shame and I can’t look at them, at any of them.

“Let’s go.” He mutters into my ear, forcing me to move, only it feels like my entire body locks up. Like fear overwhelms me.

I can’t take another step, I can’t even utter a word. My legs shake so violently that I think I’m going to collapse and just as I blink back the tears, I see his face coming towards me.

Only, that’s ridiculous. That’s absurd. It can’t be him. It can’t be.

I have to be imagining it, to be hallucinating. Is my mind playing tricks, trying to soothe the trauma now by making me believe I might just be saved after all?

The man who looks so much like Antonio struts onto the stage, pushes my temporary keeper aside and he scoops me up, tosses me over his shoulder and turns back around.

I realise with horror that this is who I belong to now.

This man here is my so-called owner.

I want to lash out, I want to fight, to slam my fists into his back and demand that he put me down. But the fabric I’m wrapped up in prevents that. We slip into the quiet corridor, he carries me on, and I know where he’s taking me, what is coming next.

He’s bought his prize. I’m certain that now, he’ll want to claim it.