Chapter 46
Issac is waiting at the top of the steps, a silhouette against the vast double doors.
His posture is ramrod straight, but I can see the tension in the set of his jaw even from here.
Clara stands just behind his shoulder, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
Seeing them both here, waiting like sentinels confirms the brief, cryptic message I received just over an hour ago: ”Incident in the doghouse. Anya is deceased.”
I don’t hurry. Power is in the measured step, the unflappable calm. Besides, I know what happened, seeing as I ordered it. Each click of my oxfords on the stone is a deliberate beat of control. I reach them, and the night air is cold with unsaid things.
“Master,” Issac says, his voice low. He doesn’t offer more. He knows I don’t require it yet.
I give a single, curt nod, my eyes moving from his grim face to Clara’s. Her gaze is downcast, a rare show of what? Guilt? Fear? It’s irrelevant. “Show me,” I command, the two words cutting through the humid air.
They turn in unison and lead me through the cavernous entrance hall.
Our footsteps echo on the polished basalt floor.
Instead of turning towards the living quarters or my study, they guide me down a narrower corridor, one that leads to the east wing, a part of the house I use for storage.
The air grows cooler. We stop before a heavy oak door.
Issac opens it.
The room is a small, windowless antechamber, sparsely furnished with a single chair. But the focus of the room is the long, metal table in the centre. And on the table, a shape covered by a stark white sheet.
I walk forward, my movements slow, deliberate. I can feel Clara and Issac holding their breath behind me. I stop at the table’s edge. With a hand that does not tremble, I reach out and pull back the sheet from the face.
Anya.
Her features are pale, waxy in the harsh overhead light.
The vibrant, defiant woman I tamed is gone.
In her place is a doll made of cold wax.
There’s a bruise darkening her temple, a small cut on her lip.
Clearly the girls weren’t brutal enough, because she doesn’t seem to have suffered as much for her disobedience as I would have liked.
I let the sheet fall back into place, the white fabric settling over her still face, erasing her once more.
“Where is Grace?” My voice is flat, betraying nothing of the rapid calculations firing in my brain.
“The basement holding cell, Master,” Clara says quietly. “She was hysterical. We had to sedate her initially to treat her injuries, but she’s been awake and screaming for hours.”
“We’ll put her in the blue guest suite. The one with the ocean view.” I say, turning away from the table.
Issac’s eyebrows lift a fraction of a millimetre. The blue suite is for honoured guests, all soft linens and panoramic views of the Pacific. It is not for pets, but he knows better than to question. “Yes, Master.”
“I’ll see her now,” I say, and lead the way back out, leaving Anya in her cold, silent room.
The basement is a different kind of cold. It’s the chill of concrete and purpose. The air smells of damp earth and antiseptic. The single bulb in the corridor flickers as we approach the reinforced door. Issac unlocks it, the bolt sliding back with a heavy, metallic clunk.
The scene inside is precisely what I expected, yet still a potent image.
Grace is curled in a corner of the small cell on a thin, stained mattress.
Her clothes are torn. Her face is a mosaic of bruises, one eye swollen shut, her lip split and crusted with blood.
She’s shivering, but not from the cold. It’s the tremoring of an animal pushed past the point of exhaustion and terror.
When the door opens she flinches, pressing herself harder against the wall and a low, strange sounding whimper escapes her throat. Clearly her vocal chords are more fucked than ever.
She looks broken, but not yet shattered. There’s still a flicker of defiant consciousness in her one good eye - that flicker is what I need to extinguish.
“Get her up,” I command, my voice echoing in the small space.
Two attendants I hadn’t noticed step forward. Grace screams as they touch her, a raw, ragged sound that scrapes against the concrete walls. It’s the sound of a soul being flayed. They half-carry, half-drag her out of the cell and up the stairs. She struggles weakly, her cries dissolving into sobs.
I follow, a dispassionate observer. We move through the bright, sterile halls of the main house in a bizarre procession.
The contrast is jarring. From a dungeon to a palace in thirty seconds.
I watch Grace’s eye, the one that can see, as she’s taken into the blue suite.
She seems confused by the soft lighting, the elegant furniture, the vast window showing nothing but the black expanse of the ocean and a sliver of moon on the water.
They lay her on the bed and I tell them to get out while she immediately curls into a foetal position; her body wracked with sobs that become more and more frantic.
“Pup,” I say, my voice cutting through her pitiful sounds. It’s not a shout. It’s calm, authoritative. She freezes for a second, her one good eye locking onto mine. The hatred there is a pure, hot flame. “Calm down.”
It’s not a request; it’s a command. A test.
She doesn’t obey. The scream that tears from her throat is primal; a sound of pure, unadulterated agony.
I shake my head slightly, holding my hand out for the prepared sedative.
“You need rest. A deep, dreamless sleep.” I state, approaching the bed with the syringe as Grace’s hysteria peaks. She thrashes, screaming Anya’s name along with a litany of curses and pleas directed at me, at the walls, at God himself.
Her arms flail, they lash out as I pin her down and jab the needle into her neck, and then the fight leaves her body almost instantly. The tension melts away, replaced by a leaden heaviness. Her eye closes. Within seconds, her breathing evens out into the deep, slow rhythm of drugged sleep.
Silence descends, broken only by the distant roar of the ocean and Grace’s soft, sedated breaths.
I lay her limbs out carefully. I hike the dress she’s wearing right up, and I take stock of the physical injuries covering her body.
Most of them will heal without leaving any trace, so that is something.
I ease her legs apart, staring at where she’s been brutalised the most. I can see the cuts, I can see the damage.
Whatever they fucked her with has certainly left its mark.
She’s lucky it didn’t rip out the piercing.
I give it a little flick for old times sake then cover her back up, pulling a blanket over her body to ensure she doesn’t catch a chill on top of everything else.
The question is, will this moment be enough, will Anya’s death be enough? Or do I have to kill more people to make this bitch finally break for me?