Chapter 3
The Prey
I have no idea why I’m having a staring contest with the cold omelet sitting in front of me. I should pick up my cutlery and start eating, but every time I’m about to do it, my stomach churns. I don’t want food, especially not when I haven’t cooked it.
Too many times, I’ve awoken in places I didn’t pass out, and when that happens, it’s usually either pain or my husband fucking me that jolts me awake. So yeah, I guess I’ve become wary of what the servers bring me. Not that it matters. If Michael wants to drug me, he’ll find a way. Yet, I can’t bring myself to eat a single bite.
As I listlessly scrape my fork against the plate, the sound echoing and hollow in the room, I mentally tell myself to stab the lump of eggs, but my hand keeps circling it instead. I’m here but not present, my mind shrouded by the heavy fog of a life half-lived.
The sharp click of dress shoes on tile yanks me back to reality. He’s here.
Michael sweeps into the room, a storm brewing in his every step. His suit is crisp, each line a calculated choice to project his dominance. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t greet me. Instead, he sits across from me, the distance between us far greater than the expanse of the tabletop. His eyes a re locked on his phone, and for a fleeting second, I’m grateful to the device for capturing his attention.
“Ruby,” he says without looking up, and even his voice feels like a slap—sharp, demanding, inescapable. “You’re starting at Holloway University in two days—”
My hand freezes mid-air, the fork trembling slightly. This news comes from nowhere, an avalanche with no escape. “W-what?” He looks up from his phone, displeased at my interruption, making him scowl. I quickly fake a cough. “Sorry. I meant to ask what you want me to do there,” I quickly amend.
“Criminology.” He says the word like it’s an explanation, which it most definitely isn’t. “You’ve been a waste of space for too long. I’m tired of looking at you moping around without being useful for more than just your cunt. And even that’s not that good anymore.” Disdain drips from every syllable, and I flinch, as though the words are physical blows.
I sit frozen, a statue in my own kitchen, the words echoing like a sinister chant. University. Criminology. Each syllable is a hammer strike to the delicate glass of my composure. I don’t understand—can’t understand—the sudden shift in Michael’s demands.
A gnawing dread fills my chest, spreading like spilled ink over parchment, darkening the already shadowed corners of my mind.
The prospect of university life, mingling with bright-eyed students brimming with dreams and ambitions, terrifies me. They’ve lived lives unscarred by hands like Michael’s, minds unshackled by the cruelty of being sold like a piece of meat.
Not to mention that my education ended with a high school diploma that feels like a relic from another lifetime, not a stepping stone to academia.
“Why criminology?” My voice barely rises above a whisper, but it’s a risk, even that soft entreaty. “I don’t know anything about it.” I want to mention that I’ll look out of place. A twenty-eight-year-old in a sea of younger and brighter faces.
Michael is back to looking at his phone, scrolling through information more important than the woman sitting before him. He doe sn’t need to look at me to wield power; his indifference cuts deeper than any stare. It’s not because I want his attention, far from it. But when I can see his eyes, I know his mood, and I’ve gotten good at recognizing his tells. So without his gaze, there’s no way to prepare myself.
“Because I decided it,” he replies without missing a beat, as if discussing the weather rather than commandeering my life.
I nod, a puppet jerking on a string. My heart races, pounding against my ribcage with the ferocity of a caged bird seeking freedom. The thought of stepping outside the walls of our pristine prison, into a world I no longer feel equipped to navigate, fills me with a paralyzing blend of fear and an unexpected spark of curiosity.
“You don’t need to know anything, Ruby. Just show up. Maybe you’ll learn something useful for once.” Michael’s voice slices through the quiet morning like a knife, his sneer as clear in his tone as it would be on his face. “It’s not like crime is new to you. Show me you actually have a brain and know how to use it.”
He’s right, I grew up around crime. But what I saw and heard isn’t the stuff I imagine will be taught at the prestigious university. Seeing my dad strap women down, and bleed them dry before fucking their corpse is probably not on the list of discussions. I don’t think drug trades will make said list either.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat an uncomfortable knot. I want to argue, to scream that I am more than this life I’ve been boxed into. Acting out won’t help, though. That’s a lesson I’ve had to learn multiple times.
“Of course, Michael.” Averting my gaze, I brush some imaginary lint from my shoulder. I try hard to swallow the question building in my throat, but it slips out. “Are you sure it’s a good idea? I mean… I don’t know—”
The force of his fist meeting the table sends a shiver down my spine, rendering me speechless. Dishes rattle, mimicking the tremor in my bones. I jump, despite myself, the sudden movement a crack in my practiced composure.
“Enough!” he roars. The muscles in his jaw clench and unclench—a warning sign I’ve learned to heed. He sets down his phone, making it clear that his attention is now fully on me. “You ask too many questions. It’s unbecoming and so fucking tedious.”
His impatience simmers beneath the surface, a predator ready to pounce. My heart hammers against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape. But I am carved from ice, frozen in place by fear.
“Sorry,” I whisper, my voice barely there. “I just want to be prepared.”
“Prepared?” His laughter is a harsh bark that bounces off the walls, mocking me. “Ruby, your only task is to do as you’re told. You’ve been nothing but dead weight for years, so you should be grateful I’m giving you any purpose at all.”
His words are a branding iron, searing into my flesh. I fight back tears, pressing my lips together until they blanch. I must not let him see. He thrives on my pain, feeds on it like the monster he hides behind tailored suits and sharp cologne.
He scrutinizes me, eyes cold and calculating. “Ruby,” Michael’s voice slices through the silence, now strangely calm, “you’re too stupid to even understand why you should be grateful.” His words fall like hammer blows, but there’s a cold precision to them now, as if he’s carefully choosing each one to inflict maximum damage without raising his voice again.
“Thank you,” I manage to say, each word tasting of ash and defeat. “I’ll make you proud.”
“See that you do. Oh, and one last thing.” He gives me a cold, deadly smile. “Remember to thank Professor Grant for letting your useless ass into his classroom.”
Surely he doesn’t mean what I think he does. “How do you want me to thank him?” I ask, my voice trembling.
He shrugs casually. “Whatever it takes. Offer him your ass, your cunt, or your mouth. I don’t really give a shit. Just make sure it’s worth his time to teach you.”
As he exits the kitchen, his departure is as sharp and deliberate as everything else about him. The space he leaves behind feels warmer, as if his very presence had been the only thing chilling the air. Without him around, even breathing becomes easier. At least until his parting words regist er. I’m to whore myself out in exchange for an education I don’t want and didn’t ask for.
It’s at times like these that I regret not taking my oldest brother, Nick, up on his offer to free me from my marriage. Although I declined at the time, I know it is still an option. All I would have to do is call him, and he’d take care of it.
With an audible sigh, I get up and clear the table. I like keeping busy, it’s a way to keep my thoughts focused. And right now, I need that. Otherwise, I might give in, call Nick and beg him to get me out of the marriage to Michael.
My pride won’t let me, though. I’m not a damn damsel in distress. I might be a victim, cast in the role by having a vagina instead of a dick. But that’s only part of it.
The other reason is that my mom died while giving birth to me, and that’s something my dad never let me forget. Every year on my birthday, I’m reminded, like I’m to blame for the violent birth, like I wouldn’t give anything to not only be raised by my dad and nannies.
Thinking of my dad sours my mood, making me want to go to his final resting place just so I can spit on it. If only Jack was around instead of recovering in the hospital, he’d totally come with me and cheer me on.
As soon as the kitchen is spotless, I stride into my walk-in wardrobe, looking around for something—anything—I can wear at Holloway. Christ, most of my wardrobe is designer dresses that don’t really scream academia. But since Michael refuses to let me wear jeans or anything like that, I’m limited in my options.
While I go through my clothes, my mind circles back to thoughts about getting out of my marriage. But as much as I’d love that, I can’t. The damn contract, the one only five people know about—well, four now that Dad’s dead—is the only reason I’m still here.
When I first met Michael ten years ago, he was nice, and despite our twenty years age difference, he never treated me as anything but his equal. He bought me flowers, jewelry, and paid attention to me. Took me on dates and acted as though he enjoyed spending time with me. So when he asked my dad for my hand in marriage, I was ecstatic… for all of five minutes .
“Absolutely not,” Dad seethed, shaking his head. “If you want my daughter, you have to buy her.”
Michael turned to me, his eyes filled with sorrow. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Dad,” I tried to argue, but he didn’t listen.
“Do you want me to buy you?” Michael asked softly, and I nodded eagerly.
“P-please. Yes. I mean, yes, please buy me,” I replied.
Happiness bloomed in my chest; this was it. I’d be free, and…
“Told you I could make her beg,” Michael boasts as he shakes hands with Dad. “You owe me, Caspian.”
Dad grunts and stabs his finger in my direction. “Good for nothing,” he said coldly.
Finding out that Michael had made a bet with Dad to make me beg him to buy me, that’s the last time my heart broke. That night, I swore I’d never again let anyone else own me. Which means that when Michael dies, I’ll find a way to die too. That is if the Knight curse, or superstition, hasn’t claimed me when that day comes.
The curse is clear; three heirs are needed to make sure one survives. In the history of our family, there’s a pattern where only one of the three children survives. It’s been that way forever, and it’s a story that’s been passed down for generations.
While it’s easy to pass it off as nonsense, I suppose the proof is in the family tree. I hate the thought of my life being predetermined, like nothing I ever do or don’t do matters since the dice have already been cast. But… I also know I’m not meant to survive. I feel it deep in my marrow; the curse is going to claim me.
I’m so lost in my head I almost miss the black dress pants on the hanger. Pulling them out, I throw them over my shoulder along with some shirts and other clothes that might make me look less out of place at the university.
It’s not lost on me that I’m obsessing over something as simple as what to wear, which is stupid. I’m looking at this all wrong. Attending Holloway is giving me a reprieve, something to do. What does it matter if I don’t fit in? It’s getting me out of the house, something I should embrac e wholeheartedly.
“I can do this,” I whisper to myself as I walk into the bedroom, placing all the clothes I’ve picked out on the bed.