Chapter 9 #2
My fingers twisted in the rough weave of the blanket, knotting tighter the longer I held on.
The taste of iron filled my mouth where my teeth pressed into the soft flesh of my cheek.
Every nerve in my body braced against the sharp, raw ache between my thighs, the kind of discomfort that made my muscles want to flinch and recoil.
I forced myself still, breathing through it, because moving would only make it worse—and showing it would only give him more satisfaction.
I know I should be putting on a show, especially for Rhodes, of all people it should be him. There was no doubt he’d be telling Kavish about this once we were done. Tonight was hard, though. I had little energy, and I certainly didn’t feel like entertaining an inexperienced male.
“Come on, moan for me baby,” Rhodes leaned down to whisper in my ear.
It took all of my willpower not to roll my eyes, but I knew the consequences if he told Kavish that I made little to no effort. So I smiled, and pressed my palms to his chest.
“You’re doing so well . . . yes—yes!” I arched my back, pretending to find pleasure in every thrust.
Rhode’s eyes darkened as he gripped my throat with one hand, his hips slamming into me, driving me further and further up the bed. It wasn’t unusual for men to find pleasure like this, usually it lasted mere seconds.
Yet something was different about the way Rhodes held me.
His grip was bruising, his hands roaming like a man chasing the finish line.
Each movement was rushed, desperate—like he wasn’t touching me, but conquering something.
There was no tenderness in the way he fucked, only the frantic energy of someone trying to prove something.
My breath caught, and a chill crawled up my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
His cock swelled thicker inside me, and his grip tightened.
He was one of those men—the kind that got off from choking women.
Rhodes’s face blurred above me, all flushed cheeks and wild eyes, spit shining on his lips as he panted.
I dug my nails into his wrists but he didn’t flinch—didn’t even notice.
The edge of the bedframe bounced against the paper thin walls as I squirmed, trying to force enough space in his grip that I could catch a breath.
I could feel the blood thrumming in my ears, roaring like a tide I couldn’t fight.
Maybe this was it. Maybe it wouldn’t be Kavish’s belt or some disease that did me in. Maybe I’d drift out on a stranger’s sigh, join Lily wherever she’d ended up. Maybe I’d finally be free—salt air, no more men crawling over me like parasites.
I almost gave in to the peaceful beckoning of death. Then Meeka’s sweet face flickered behind my eyes—the way she’d look at my cold body, all that guilt she’d carry. The way she’d end up alone here, without anyone to run to. My lungs burned, ribs shuddering under the weight of his hold.
No. Not yet.
I forced a smile. A mask I’d worn a thousand nights before. Let my hips roll under him, lips parted like I was hungry for it too. I dragged my nails up his arms, soft little gasps to feed his fantasy.
“Rhodes . . . slow down . . . you’ll get more this way,” I rasped, my voice cracked but sweet, a pretty lie. But he didn’t hear me. Didn’t care to hear me. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, lost in whatever dark place he’d crawled into.
“Rhodes—stop,” I forced out.
But he didn’t.
Panic flared, sharp and bright. I twisted, braced my knee between us. One hard shove, one sharp kick right where it hurt the most. Rhodes let out a bark of pain, hands flying from my throat as he tumbled off the bed, clutching himself like he’d been gutted.
I scrambled back, palm pressed to my burning neck, the bruises already blooming under my skin.
“That kind of behaviour will get you nowhere. Now, get out,” I hissed. My voice was wrecked but it cut through the small room like a blade. “Get. Out.”
He staggered to his feet, spit flying as he cursed me—called me every filthy name he could find on that forked tongue. But he didn’t dare touch me again. He shoved his legs through his trousers, grabbed his boots, half-laced, and slammed the door so hard the walls rattled.
I waited until the echo faded. Only then did I let the tremor shake my bones—just once—before I pressed it down, buried it deep where all the other broken pieces lived.
As I gathered my stolen breath, I waited for Kavish to come storming into the room. No doubt I would be punished for injuring his twisted, demented nephew. I’d take the lashings. Better than being dead.
However, three men later, Kavish still didn’t show, and I fell asleep just as Ree ushered the last drunkard out the door.
Something didn’t feel right.
~~~~~
The field beside the road on the way to the cemetery was scattered with winter wildflowers.
Pink peonies, white lily of the valley, and some magenta crocuses.
I stooped down to pick a few stems. Mother’s grave could use a little colour.
It’d been two weeks since I last visited.
Usually, I tried to stop by with fresh blooms at least once a week, but things had been different lately.
The flowers felt heavy in my hand as I squeezed between the large, rusted iron gates. Crumbling, grey tombstones grew from the ground like giant teeth, each one labelled with a name that only carried meaning to those who buried them.
I wove between the row of the dead, thick fog curling around my boots. Her plot was towards the middle of the grounds. She’d chosen the area the moment she realised the sickness that clung to her lungs was going to take her from my arms and out of The Grey.
I loathed the disease that had robbed me of her when I was barely ten years old. Knowing my luck, smoking cinderleaf might take me out of this world too.
Icy winds clutched the hem of my skirts, the chill seeping through me like I was made of a hessian sack—all thin threads and little shape. It was still early out. The sun barely peaked above the horizon. The perfect time to bare my soul to those who couldn’t talk back.
I reached Mother’s resting place, dropping to my knees in the frosted grass, the moisture soaking through my dress and clinging to my skin.
A glass jar by the headstone homed old, decaying blooms, void of colour and life.
I pulled them out, tossing them to the side, before replacing them with the new flowers I’d picked.
My hand rested on the stone that held my Mother’s name: Margot. Not even a last name or a mention about who she once was. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. Fourteen years of missing her. Fourteen years of being all alone in this world.
I sniffed, trying to shove the emotions back inside the glass case in my mind. “I know you wouldn’t be proud of me.”
Shame whispered through the cemetery, dancing on the wind of my past. Mother had me to take care of all those years and yet she’d still managed to keep her head up—for a while anyway.
I had only myself to care for, and somehow, I still managed to betray the memory of the only person who ever loved me right.
Mother did what she had to . . . but she’d rarely let me see the dirt under her nails. Me? I’d worn it like perfume.
I curled up against the stone, tucking my knees to my chest, cheek pressed to the rough letters of her name. My breath clouded in the still air, companions that didn’t stick around long enough to keep me warm. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to your advice.”
Somewhere in my mind I heard her laugh. It was pure, and it was kind. My heavy heart cracked, bleeding all its pain onto the foggy ground. A sob caught in my throat at the thought of her gentle hands guiding mine—needle through fabric, pulling the thread, again and again.