Chapter 48 #2
“You think this makes you something?” she spits, her voice cracking. “You think he’ll love you? You’re a fat, useless whore. He’s just using you. When he’s done, he’ll throw you in a cage like the rest of us. You’re nothing. NOTHING!”
Her words are meant to wound, but they bounce off the numb shell I’ve become.
Besides, she’s right. I am nothing, but she is about to be less than nothing.
I bend to pick the knife back up but as my fingers close around the hilt, slick with Julie’s blood, Antonio makes a sound, stopping me.
“Wait.”
He walks over to a shadowed corner of the cellar and picks up an object, bringing it into the torchlight. It’s the broken candlestick, the one Felice used to rape me with. It’s still stained with my blood.
He holds it out to me. “Use this.”
The symbolism is not lost on me, or on Felice. Her bravado finally breaks. She sees her own weapon, the instrument of her triumph, being offered as her death sentence.
“No,” she whimpers. “Please, Master, I was good. I was so good…”
I take the candlestick from him. It feels cold and heavy, a totem of all the pain and humiliation she inflicted on me these last few weeks. The memory of the searing pain, the darkness swallowing me, the feeling of utter helplessness, it all rushes back.
The numbness inside me shatters, and it is replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated rage.
It’s her or me.
It has always been her or me.
A sound rips from my throat, something between a sob and a snarl. I am no longer Grace, I am an animal, cornered and fighting for its life as I launch myself at her.
Felice screams and raises her arms to defend herself. I don’t aim for her arms. I am a whirlwind of claws and cold metal as I beat her with the heavy base of the candlestick, and scratch at her face. She fights back, her nails raking down my arms, her teeth sinking into my shoulder.
The pain is sharp and clean, feeding my frenzy, and it feels so fucking good.
We are two bitches in a pit, and only one will walk out.
She tried to kill me. She would do it again in a heartbeat.
She manages to shove me off, and I stagger back. She lunges for the knife on the floor, but I’m faster. As her fingers close around the hilt, I bring the broken, jagged end of the candlestick down with all my strength.
It doesn’t hit her arm. It finds the soft, vulnerable hollow of her throat.
There is a horrific, grating sound as the fractured wood tears through flesh and gristle.
Felice’s eyes bulge. Her mouth opens, but instead of a scream, a torrent of blood bubbles out.
She makes a choking, gurgling sound, her hands flying to her neck, trying to stem the impossible flow.
She stares at me, a look of profound, stupid surprise on her face.
I don’t pull it out. I shove it deeper, twisting it, using all my weight until the wood is buried deep and she is pinned like a butterfly. I wonder if she can taste it, can taste me still lingering there on the surface?
Her body convulses once, twice, then slumps. Her eyes glaze over, fixed on nothing.
Silence.
The only sound is my own ragged, torn breathing as blood drips from my hair, my chin, my hands.
I step back, my legs threatening to give way. The rage evaporates as quickly as it came, leaving behind a vast, terrifying emptiness. God, what have I done? What have I become after less than a day of being the Devil’s?
Antonio approaches me. He doesn’t look at the carnage. he looks only at me. He reaches out and cups my cheek, his thumb wiping away a streak of blood. His touch is almost reverent.
“Good,” he says again, his voice low and intimate.
He takes my hand and leads me out and I am a ghost, following mutely.
I don’t look back. I don’t want to see what I’ve done now. The door clangs shut behind us, sealing the horror within.
We climb the stairs. The cold air of the hallway feels like a blessing and a curse, washing over my blood-soaked skin. The world seems distant, muted.
As we approach his chambers, a figure emerges from a shadowy alcove. Mateus. His eyes, so like Antonio’s yet so different, sweep over me. He must take in my nakedness, the blood coating me from head to toe, the vacant look in my eyes but his face is unreadable, a mask of cold observation.
There is no shock, no pity, no judgment.
There is nothing. He simply watches as his brother leads his new, blood-drenched pet back to her kennel. He doesn’t say a word.
Antonio pulls me into his bathroom. It’s opulent with a deep, sunken tub. He turns on the taps, and steaming hot water begins to pour forth. He leads me to the tub and helps me step in as the water instantly clouds pink with blood.
He doesn’t speak. He picks up a soft sponge and a cake of expensive-smelling soap as he kneels beside the tub and begins to wash me.
His movements are meticulous, gentle even.
He washes the blood from my arms, my face, my neck.
He cleans under my fingernails, he washes my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp, rinsing away the gore.
He is cleansing me of my sin, anointing me in his own twisted baptism.
I sit in the water, passive. Letting him tend to me, feeling the warmth of the water, the gentleness of his touch, but I cannot feel it on me. It’s happening to the shell. The inside of me is frozen solid, locked in that cellar, watching myself become a monster.
He washes every inch of me, until the water runs clear and my skin is scrubbed raw and pink. He lifts me out, wraps me in a large, fluffy towel, and dries me with the same careful attention.
He lays me on the bed and I lie perfectly still, staring at the ornate, dark wood of the canopy above me. My body feels like it belongs to someone else now, a hollowed-out vessel, recently occupied. The phantom sensation of his hands, his mouth, his possession lingers on my flesh like a stain.
I did it, I pretended. I arched my back and made the sounds he wanted to hear, I let my eyes go soft and adoring.
I submitted, and it worked. But my god, what a price – I don’t know if it’s worth it. No, it is worth it. It has to be worth it. I have to ensure that however this ends, it is worth the cost of my soul.
I feel the bed dip as he lies down beside me, on his back. He doesn’t pull me to him, he doesn’t offer comfort or apology. He simply exists next to me.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy with unspoken words and conflicting emotions. My body aches in the most delicious, terrible ways. The soreness in my knees from hours of kneeling is now a dull background throb to the much more immediate, much more profound ache between my legs.
I can feel the heat radiating from his body beside mine. I want to curl into it, I want to scratch his eyes out.
“Look at me.”
His voice is quiet, stripped of the earlier fury and degradation, but no less commanding. It’s the voice he uses for business. The voice of undeniable authority.
I don’t want to obey. My defiance is a limp, pathetic thing now, but I cling to it. I keep my eyes closed, my face turned away.
I hear him shift. His fingers, strong and warm, grasp my chin, forcing my head to turn toward him. I have no choice but to open my eyes.
He’s propped on an elbow, looking down at me. He’s still wearing his shirt that he fucked me in, and then demanded two executions. His expression is unreadable. The fire is banked, the ice has melted. There is only a deep, unsettling intensity.
“You will not speak to me like that again, ever.” He says, his tone flat, factual. “You do not get to call me by my name. I am ‘Master’ to you. You will not grumble, you will not forget your place. Do you understand?”
The words are a command, but there’s a question in his eyes. A challenge. He’s waiting for my rebellion. He’s almost willing it.
The fight rises in me again, a feeble spark. “Or what?” I whisper. “You’ll fuck me into submission again?”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“That is not a punishment, Dumpling. That is a reward. For both of us. Your punishment was the guard at the door, your punishment was the cold fear in your gut. You will not like the next punishment. It will not involve my cock, but it will give you an inkling of what your mother is experiencing every day in Oblivion. Do you understand?”
The threat is more effective than any physical act could ever be. My defiance crumples. I see the truth in his eyes. He means it.
I give a tiny, jerky nod, my lower lip trembling. “I understand.”
He searches my face for a long moment, his thumb stroking my jawline. He seems satisfied with what he finds. The tension leaves his shoulders.
“Good,” he says, and the single word is a benediction and a life sentence.
He lies back down and, this time, he pulls me to him. He manhandles me without ceremony, turning me so my back is to his chest, folding his body around mine. One heavy arm drapes over my waist, his hand splaying possessively across my stomach as his legs curl behind mine, caging me in.
I am surrounded by him. His heat, his scent, his power. It should feel like a prison. It feels like a fortress.
We lie in silence again. My mind is a whirlwind of shame, anger, and a deep, unsettling craving for the very thing I profess to despise. The diamonds in my nipples press against the skin of his arm with every breath I take and I can feel the steady, solid thump of his heart against my back.
“The diamonds were not simply a trick I played on you.” His voice rumbles against me, low and quiet in the dark.
I freeze, listening, hardly daring to breathe.
He turns me enough that I am forced to look at him and I can make out he’s holding that necklace, toying with it.
“They highlight my ownership over every bit of your flesh,” he continues. “They’re a reminder that I have and will control every bit of your life. Your past, your present and your future. Remember it.”
I gulp as he takes my hand, as he makes me hold that tiny vial.
“Do you know what this is?” He asks.
I shake my head. Is it some relic? Some holy thing?
“This is your ruin.” He states. “Your virgin blood and my come. I took it and turned it into a memorial for us both.”
A memorial? That bastard locked up my blood in that thing he hangs around his neck? Words fail me. Everything fails me. I just lie there, dumbfounded, wondering if I’ve made the worst mistake of my life.