9. Belle #2
I ponder her words, as much as a starving person can muster up the brain power.
She’s given several reasons for me to end my hunger strike: to potentially seduce the Pans to set me free—seems stupid, to find a way to break the Darling curse—unlikely but would require me to eat and leave my room, and lastly, to show the Pans I’m a human worthy of decency—I highly doubt they care.
But still, all three reasons work together to somehow make my mouth spew, “Fine.”
She smiles and pulls me toward the clawfoot tub in my dressing area. She pushes in the wall behind her, and it recesses before hinging open. “Ladies, I need your help!” she calls into the dimly lit hall behind the hidden door.
Only seconds later, Julie and Clarette emerge from the entrance, bowing and looking to Rosalia for direction. “Let’s get her washed and dressed for dinner. We’ll have to work quickly to make her look more human and less woodland creature-like.”
“Hey!” I shout, simultaneously catching my reflection in the mirror above the washbin.
“Okay, wow.” Greasy hair lies against my scalp in some areas, while in others it sticks up like dried wheat.
My cheeks are hollow, and my eyes bloodshot.
Damn, I guess Rosalia’s comparison was nicer than I would assign.
I’m looking more crackhead-in-a-back-alley and less squirrel.
I see what she means about the need to humanize myself.
“Okay, fine, fix me up, ladies, but please not as much as last time. I don’t need to look like a fucking ornament. ”
Despite my request, two hours later, I’m staring at myself in the full-body mirror, looking even more done up than I did the last time.
“Guys, come on!” I whine as I half-whirl, checking out my accentuated ass by the large green poof.
It’s a green gown again, but this one has an overlay of sparkling gold, tulle if I had to guess, but I know shit about fabrics.
A boned corset sucks in my waist and pushes out my breasts, making me look like the epitome of fertility.
“Did we really need to show this much boob?”
Rosalia comes up behind me, placing her hands on my shoulders. “Remember, nice tits, tight arse, long way.”
I sigh. “Let’s just get this over with. I’m starving.” As we exit my room, I eye Weasel curled up into a ball at the end of my bed. God, do I wish I could be a mythical raccoon sleeping soundly instead of a starved girl about to have dinner with my cruel captors.
The ladies lead me to the dining room, and servants open the door.
Rourke’s back is to me as I enter, and Peter lounges at the head of the table, his head lulled back as if he’s asleep.
Rourke swiveles around, his eyes widening, and a piece of uncooked meat falls from his lips.
He jumps to stand from his chair, causing a loud scratch along the wood floor.
Peter jolts awake, eyes wide and red-rimmed as he clenches the table and stares at me with a scowl.
“Well, look who it is! Thought you’d be nothing more than a bag of bones at this point.
” He chuckles and takes a sip from a gold goblet before falling back into his seat and kicking his legs up on the table.
His shirt is unbuttoned, revealing tanned, lean muscle.
His amber hair is as unruly as it was last time I saw him, as if he drove in a top-down convertible across a wind-tossed beach.
He eyes me head to toe. “Seems your maids are quite talented at making you look presentable.”
I return his examining stare, crossing my arms over my chest as I walk closer to the table. “Perhaps you can borrow them, you look like utter shit.”
He roars with laughter, a surprised look on his face. “God, you're a smart-arse, aren’t you?” He sighs. “Ah, this will be so fun!”
As if summoning the fun he speaks of, Rourke scrambles to the chair next to him, pulling out the giant piece of furniture with ease, and looks at me expectantly.
Does he honestly think I’ll sit next to him willingly?
I grimace, walking around to the chair farthest away from him, trying not to let his wounded expression affect me.
I sit, and a group of servants rush out, placing full dishes in front of me and filling a crystal glass to the brim.
My hands shake as I stare at the small glazed bird, the charred corn, the pillow-like loaf of bread.
If I were alone, I’d stuff my face, likely resulting in vomiting, but I remember one of the reasons I’m here: eating among these monsters.
I want them to view me as a human being.
I pick up the gold cutlery at the side of the plate, cutting a small piece of meat and bringing it to my mouth, doing everything I can to suppress my moan.
I keep eating, forgetting my company entirely until the pain in my stomach lessens and I remember where I am.
Peter watches me with a bemused grin. “Odd. I guessed after starving yourself for nearly a week, you’d be a bit more ravenous.”
I glare at him, before switching my glance to Rourke who stares at me with wide eyes. I take a sip of my wine to suppress my shaking hands.
Peter carries on. “So what made you decide to end your pointless quest of killing yourself and join us? Are you hoping we might spare you some dignity when we claim you?” Peter’s green eyes sparkle, reflecting the gold from his goblet as he sips.
“No.” I calmly wipe my mouth with a green linen napkin. “And I promise if one of you small-dicked fucks lay a finger on me again, I’ll scream, and I’ll never stop until you must rip my throat out for the noise to stop.” My threat may be more like tempting them with a good time, but I don’t care.
“Again? Did Rourke already stake his claim?” Peter looks at the other half of me under the table. “No, you seem to be whole, so that can’t be right?”
“Oh, he tried!”
Peter passes a quizzical look between Rourke and me. “That doesn’t make sense. This brute doesn’t try.” He raises his finger. “Ah, perhaps he’s toying with you? I know how much he enjoys to play with his conquests.”
“What is wrong with you?” I scream, bringing my hands to my lap and knocking my fork off the table.
Rourke jumps to his feet and charges toward me.
My finger wraps around the knife at the other side of my plate.
It’s futile to defend myself if he attacks, but I can’t help but try.
He slows as he approaches, kneeling down and picking up the fork that I dropped.
He moves slowly as he rises and offers the cutlery back to me.
Peter’s forehead is scrunched, and he leans forward as if to get a better look at what his brother could be doing.
I snatch the fork away from Rourke, who startles. He loses his balance, his arms flail, and his hook swipes across my forearm.
“Fuck!” I yell, guarding my newest injury.
Rourke grabs my arm and brings it to his lip.
“What the fuck!” I yell, pulling away and attempting to kick him.
He releases me, blood—my blood—streaked across his face. His expression doesn't give anything away. At first, he seems to revel in my taste, swiping his tongue across his lips, his eyes closed. But then, he appears concerned, watching me freak out with pinched brows.
“Get away from me!” I yell, using my napkin to soak up the blood dripping from my arm.
Rourke rises to his feet and retreats, giving me one last longing look before exiting the dining room.
The silence breaks. “Well, that was definitely interesting,” Peter says with a raised eyebrow, taking a sip of his drink.
“He’s deranged!”
“Oh, clearly, but I’m glad to see he hasn’t gone completely soft. Father must have his heir and all, and I’m in no position to be shackled.” He takes another long chug of his drink, lounging back in his chair even more.
I stand, blood surely streaming down my dress. “You’re a sick fuck you know that?” I charge toward the doors, hopeful that Rourke isn’t waiting outside for me.
“Oh, I know,” he hums. “I know. And there seems to be only one way to fix it.” He tips his cup to me and takes a long gulp. I tear my gaze away from him and throw myself out of the doors.
It’s pointless to get them to humanize me. They don’t care for humans or anything at all. They’re monsters. And if I have any chance of survival, I must show them my own claws and fangs.