Chapter 33 #2
"You want to perform for him?" I challenged, my voice rising, bordering on hysterical.
"Go ahead. But know that whatever you do...
it will be a pale, pathetic shadow of what he has already done.
You will never be him. You will never have his power.
And you will never make me feel anything but disgust."
Silence slammed into the room.
For a heartbeat, I thought I had won. I thought I had shamed him into backing down.
Then, Malathor’s expression shifted.
The shock vanished. A dark, twisted flush crept up his neck. His pupils blew wide, swallowing the irises.
I had made a mistake.
"Is that so?" he whispered, his voice thick.
He stood up, towering over me, the air around him crackling with a terrifying, perverse energy. My defiance hadn't repelled him; it had excited him.
"You think I can't match him?" He began to undo the buttons of his coat, his eyes never leaving mine. "You think I can't make you scream louder than he does?"
"No," I gasped, the bravado shattering instantly. I scrambled backward, but I was already against the wall. "No, stay away!"
"You challenged me, little Aenite whore," Malathor snarled, dropping to his knees between my legs. He grabbed my wrists, pinning them to the wall above my head with one hand, his grip bruising. "Now you get to see who the real master is."
"NO!" I screamed, struggling, kicking, but he was too heavy. He pressed his weight against me, his free hand tearing at the hem of my gown.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a scream trapped in my throat, the memories of my childhood, of my father’s fists, of the helplessness, crashing over me like a tidal wave. Cain. Cain, please.
"WHAT are you doing?"
The shriek cut through the room like a knife.
Malathor froze.
He didn't let go of me, but his head snapped toward the door.
Rosette stood there. Her chest was heaving, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her snake was coiled around her arms and was writhing, reacting to her fury.
"Get off her," she hissed.
"Get out, Rosette," Malathor growled, his hand still gripping my thigh tight enough to leave marks. "I am busy."
"Busy sticking your cock in the filthy Aenite?" Rosette stepped into the room, her face twisted in an ugly snarl. "Is that the plan? We capture her to lure Cain, and you lose your mind over a pair of green eyes?"
"She needs to be broken," Malathor snapped, but his grip on me loosened slightly.
"You are pathetic," Rosette spat. She marched over, grabbing Malathor’s shoulder and yanking him back. "What is it about her? What is it about this filthy, magic-less Aenite cunt that makes every male lose his senses? First Cain, now you?"
Malathor stood up, adjusting his coat, trying to regain his composure. He looked at Rosette, then down at me—huddled, weeping, exposed.
"She has a mouth on her," Malathor muttered, brushing Rosette’s hand off. "She needed a lesson."
"Save your lessons," Rosette sneered. "If you touch her before Cain gets here, you ruin the game. You want him to see you take her? Fine. But do it when he’s actually here to watch. Otherwise, you’re just another dog chasing a bitch in heat."
She looked at me with pure loathing.
"Cover yourself," she commanded.
With a final, disgusted noise, she grabbed Malathor’s arm. "We have movement on the southern ridge. Come. Now."
Malathor looked at me one last time. His eyes promised retribution. "We aren't finished, Ophelia."
They left.
The door slammed. The lock clicked.
I slumped sideways, the adrenaline crashing out of my system so fast it left me dizzy.
I pulled my knees up to my chin, burying my face in the torn silk of my gown. My breath was coming in short, jagged gasps—shallow, panicked puffs of air that didn't seem to reach my lungs.
One, two, three.
I tried to count. I tried to ground myself.
But the room was spinning.
I could still feel his hand on my thigh. I could still smell his breath.
A memory flashed—sharp and bright. My mother, weeping at the kitchen table, holding a cloth to her eye. My father standing over her, his whip in his hand, telling her she should have known better than to speak back.
I am her, I thought, the panic constricting my throat. I am just like her. Helpless. Weak. Waiting for a male to decide if I bleed or not.
"No," I whimpered into the dark.
I dug my fingernails into my palms until the skin broke, using the sharp sting of pain to tether me to the present.
I am not her. Cain is coming.
The thought was a lifeline. A fragile, terrifying lifeline.
I focused on the faint, dull thrum of the bond with Poppy somewhere in the distance. I focused on the memory of Cain’s eyes—fierce, angry, and mine.
The darkness pressed against my skin like wet wool, triggering the old, jagged memory of the Academy greenhouse—the smell of damp earth, the weight of bodies pinning me down, the realisation that screaming only made them laugh harder.
My brain, usually so sharp, so ready to bite back, had short-circuited into a terrifying, frozen silence.
I hated myself for it. I hated the trembling in my hands.
But God, I was so tired. I had spent my entire life wielding my spine like a weapon against my parents, against the world, against the loneliness.
I had been the soldier, the shield, the unbreakable girl.
But even steel snaps if you bend it enough.
Tonight, huddled in the dark, the axe felt too heavy to lift.
Tonight, I didn't want to be the hero of my own story. I just wanted to be safe.
I rocked back and forth in the cold dark, fighting the panic attack with every ounce of will I had left, praying that the monster I was beginning to crave would arrive before the monster I already hated returned to finish what he started.