9. Fae #2
Even now, I register it clinically; worn limestone cover the floors as the weight of the building presses down on us.
It’s quiet in the way only underground places are, a silence that hums rather than settles.
Set into that silence are the coffins. They sit in rows beneath the arches, heavy wooden lids warped with age, iron handles rusted dark.
Beyond them, stone tombs are built into the walls, their surfaces scarred and flaking.
If what Father said is to be believed, these are all the ancestors of The Company that came before us. A place steeped in honour, apparently, but to me… all I see is horror.
The old wooden crucifix stands in the centre. My back aches at the ghosts of the splinters my younger body endured, the smell of earth and rot catching in my throat. I learned early that this room wasn’t built for the freedom of the dead, but for the control of the living.
Every month I was reminded how small I was, how easy I could disappear. Even now, my body remembers before my mind does as my muscles tighten and my heart rate spikes. Sweat beads along my skin even in the cold. This is what my life has always been.
To stay still. To be quiet. To endure.
And it started in this very room.
The door creaks open and I spin around. No matter how many years it has been since the ceremonies, I will never forget. Relief loosens something in my chest when I see Roman walking towards me and for the first time, I realise how safe I feel around him.
“What’s wrong?” he says, stepping towards me, his fists clenching like he can fight off something he can’t see.
“N… nothing.” I stutter, thrown by how quickly he picks up on it. Does he really pay that much attention to me?
“You’re lying.” He looks me over again. “Your left hand is twitching, I can see your pulse through your neck, and…” He steps closer, heat rolling off him as he reaches up, swipes his fingers across my forehead, then brings them to his mouth. “You’re sweating.”
“Did you just lick my sweat?” I say, exasperated, convinced my brain is malfunctioning from the stress of being in this room.
“Yeah. So?” Roman replies, like that’s a normal thing to do.
“You can’t… lick my sweat, Roman. What is wrong with you?”
“Every single part of you, I own, Fae. What part of that are you struggling to understand?”
I stay silent, because what am I supposed to say to that? This weird new game of his is already wearing thin. The back and forth over the last day has drained me. Roman takes my silence for something it isn’t as he keeps going.
“When I fuck you, I’m going to lick and suck so many different parts of your body that sweat is the least of your concern. Now… stop deflecting. What is wrong?”
Wait… what? He actually wants me like that? This isn’t just another game?
I’m not someone people want. I’m the one they use. I’m the one whose mum left her and whose Father despises me.
That can’t be right. I thought he was playing with me…
“Little one… I’m waiting.”
He palms the back of my neck, his thumb pushing my chin up towards his face.
It is the second time I have seen softness in his eyes in recent days and I don’t really know what to do with it.
Could he really mean what he says? Could he really…
want me? What am I even supposed to say to that?
How could he possibly understand what is wrong with me?
I doubt his father told him exactly what the secret society entails, but he will find out soon enough. When he does, will he still want me? Will I want him when I realise he is just as twisted as all the other men who came before him? Maybe it is better I know now.
As I go to open my mouth, the door slams open. Father, Dr. Fisher, Roman’s father, and Mr Sullivan walk in.
“Children,” Father exclaims, spreading his hands wide like we are an offering. “I hear you did a job well done.”
“It was successful, yes, Mr. Ackworth,” Roman states, shifting slightly so he stands in front of me.
Huh… that’s the stance of someone who wants to protect the other.
Has my brother told Roman what I went through?
Does Roman not trust Father? God, Roman might think he is protecting me, but I cannot show weakness around Father.
Relying on a man for security is a surefire way to land me in the box for a week.
I learnt that the last time Felix stood up for me.
I shift, so I’m not covered by Roman’s body, settling myself at his side.
“Good,” Father nods once, appraising Roman.
His sneer has only grown more sinister with age.
His brown hair and eyes used to shine, but now they are dulled.
Silver threads through his hair at his temples and along his neck, and at five foot ten he may be taller than me, but Felix outgrew him by the time he was fourteen.
He has kept himself in good shape. In fact, most of the founders have.
I guess when half your weapon is your body, you have no choice but to keep it honed.
“Fae, darling, please go through the method of execution,” Dr. Fisher demands.
God, he is a slimy prick. I think I hate him more than Father. Once I learned that doctors took an oath to do no harm, my hatred for him only grew. He knows it too. He loves to see me squirm. He told me so during one of my many training sessions with him.
He is smaller than Father, with eyes so dark they almost look black.
His hair is now completely silver and his beard is always well groomed.
Dr. Fisher stinks of onions. I asked him once why that was.
Of course, it didn’t end well for me, so I never asked again.
But still, I can’t help wondering how a man who is meant to be clinical and clean reeks of whatever he ate the night before.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Longstaff, Roman’s father, take out an iPad. Roman tenses, but I’m not sure why. I flick a glance at him, but he gently taps my left thigh, as if to tell me to speak the truth.
I’m already regretting not driving with him today. I should have used that time to come up with a story. Instead, I let my issues with Robyn and my sex-addled brain where Roman is concerned, mess up the prep.
Taking a deep breath, I explain everything that happened the night before.
How we administered the poison, how long it took him to succumb, and the procedures the police followed when they arrived.
I obviously leave out the part about my near orgasm.
The only sound in the room is my voice and the quiet tapping of Mr. Longstaff’s iPad.
“And who supplied the poison?” Mr. Longstaff interjects at the end.
“That would be me, sir,” Roman cuts in smoothly. “I was given freedom to create any new weapons that would be beneficial to The Company. This was one that I had just finished testing.”
“And who gave you this creative freedom?” Father asks.