CHAPTER 18 #2
Faced with the choice of struggling or cooperating with her own rape so that it would not be as bad as it could be made her feel so guilty, her mind threatened to shear apart. If the destination was inevitable, her only choice was in how horrifying the journey would be.
The night dragged like sandpaper across her skin until she was nearly raw from it.
When Ferron walked into her room, she gave a ragged gasp and nearly burst into tears.
When he saw her, he seemed to almost turn, as if to walk out.
She started to reach a hand forward, then snatched it instantly back, clenching her fingers into a fist. The movement was enough to still him.
His eyes flicked between her and the door as if still debating with himself.
What if he refused and just let Stroud take her?
The room swam. Her hands had already gone numb.
If he left, she would let him. She would go to Central. She would not be so complicit as to ask.
She couldn’t read the expression on his face. It was impassive, as if he wasn’t fully there.
Finally he turned away. Helena didn’t know if she should laugh or cry that this was the line he wouldn’t cross. The sole command he’d refuse. After all, he was known to be the High Reeve now; Morrough couldn’t kill him.
He pulled a small tin case out of his pocket, putting something from it under his tongue.
“Bed,” he finally said without looking at her.
Helena didn’t move.
He turned to face her, his eyes flat.
“Wait—” She held her hands out, as if she could ward him off. “What if you just kill me?” she asked, her voice shaking. “You could now. You said that everyone knows now that you’re the High Reeve. Morrough wouldn’t be able to justify killing you because of me. I’m no one.”
Ferron’s attention sharpened. For a moment, he stood considering it, calculation visible in his eyes.
Her pulse sped up.
“I can do it myself, if you want, so he won’t realise,” she offered. “If you just—give me something. It doesn’t need to be easy, or quick; it could be something small. You can say you left briefly and—”
She knew the instant she misspoke. Ferron’s expression abruptly hardened, his eyes going flat and his gaze sliding through her again.
“Bed,” he said again, this time through clenched teeth.
Her hands fell to her sides. She turned slowly, eerily disconnected from her body as she walked over. She bit down on her inner lip, harder and harder, trying to feel something. Blood gushed across her tongue as she lay down, but her body remained numb.
Ferron approached a few moments later. He’d only removed his coat.
She tensed as soon as he got close, trying not to grind her teeth.
His expression was set like granite; he stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the headboard.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
She forced herself to obey and tried to focus on breathing. Don’t think. She could smell him in the room, the scent of juniper, metal, and the decay of the house.
The mattress dipped to her right. Her breathing stuttered and sped up.
“Don’t—open your eyes.”
She squeezed them tighter. There was a pause as her skirts pushed up towards her hips, underclothes stripped down. Her heart seemed to stop.
She heard Ferron inhale. She could feel his body through the air.
“Breathe,” he said near her left ear.
There was a touch between her legs, something warm and slippery. She flinched away, then realised it was oil.
She drew a rasping breath, squeezing her eyes so tight, they throbbed as his weight pressed against her hips.
She choked back a garbled whimper.
She closed her eyes tighter. Her mind scrabbled, trying to find an escape. In stasis, in the tank, she’d learned to take herself away when her mind teetered on the edge.
That was how she’d survived. She’d learned she could endure.
Now that escape didn’t work.
She was trapped inside her body, as if someone had nailed her consciousness in place with a spike.
This is better than Central, she reminded herself, struggling to keep from hyperventilating, from clawing and screaming and trying to shove him off.
Her chest spasmed. There were tears sliding from the corners of her eyes.
Better than Central.
What if this failed? What if Stroud was right about him, that it wasn’t even possible, but Helena had cooperated anyway? What if it was all for nothing?
She gave a frantic, panicking gasp, unable to keep from recoiling just as he jerked and stilled.
He was gone so suddenly, it was as if he’d evaporated.
Helena opened her eyes and couldn’t see him anywhere. The violent sound of retching emerged from the bathroom.
Eventually she heard the toilet flush and the sound of water running from the tap for several minutes.
She managed to shove her skirts down but couldn’t make herself move beyond that. Her body was numb.
It’s over, she kept telling herself, trying to make herself calm down, but she couldn’t stop trembling. Her nails had carved crescents into her palms.
Ferron emerged from the bathroom, his tense expression faded, as if he couldn’t maintain it. His face was drawn, his eyes stark and reddish.
He looked strangely mortal. She wished he didn’t.
She looked away.
He crossed the room silently, picked up his coat, and left.
Helena sat up slowly, trying not to feel her body.
Going into the bathroom, she turned on the shower’s spray and curled up beneath it without taking her clothes off. When the water ran cold, she still didn’t move.