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As we leave the office area and head toward the room where my mother is kept, I notice the staff deliberately avoid eye contact. They whisper to each other, casting furtive glances in our direction as they scurry away. I know the reason behind their unease—it isn't just because of Wolf's infamous treatment of me. It's also because of the woman trailing silently behind me, a part of this twisted scenario yet somehow separate, her presence unsettling even to those accustomed to Wolf's ways.
As I walk with the maid toward my mother's room, the weight of isolation presses down on me. The staff's eyes dart away as they pass, their silent judgment echoing the maid's betrayal. She has turned them against me, a cruel revenge for a moment of anger I had let slip through my control. Now, no matter how violently Wolf treats me, there is no sympathy to be found among the staff. No one brings washcloths to dab away the tears and blood; no one whispers warnings when he approaches with fury in his eyes. They all turn their backs, leaving me alone to face the storm. But, I brace the storm each time; I’m stronger than any of these foolish women think.
I've done nothing to deserve this abandonment, this collective cold shoulder. Yet, here I am, ostracized within my own home.
When Wolf sobers up, his wrath will undoubtedly be fearsome. He'll be furious that the staff has neglected their duties to care for his prized possession—me. In his twisted world, he is both my tormentor and protector, providing me with the strangest mix of pain and security. It's a bizarre, unsettling balance that keeps me tethered to him.
I know my situation is dire, but I cling to a small comfort: I am the only woman here. Diarmuid had once offered a different life, one that might have been kinder but one where there was no guarantee of permanence. Leaving Wolf meant risking an even more potentially grim fate. This rationale, this desperate grasp at a known devil over an unknown angel, is the only thing that sustains me.
But as the situation deteriorates further, I begin to question how long I can endure this existence.
My mother's voice echoes down the hallway, a series of desperate howls that chill the air between us as we approach. The scene that greets us as we enter the room is even more harrowing. My mother slams her body against the bars of a cage, her movements wild and uncontrolled. The floor is slick and wet—someone has recently sprayed her down, a dehumanizing method now routinely used instead of a bath. It doesn’t get rid of the stench of urine and sweat and the underlying smell of decay. I’m sure my mother isn’t the only inhabitant in the basement. I often hear the scurry of rats, yet I never seen them.
Walking over to a table lined with essentials, I pick up a handful of unwrapped protein bars and approach the cage cautiously. Sliding the bars through the gaps, I watch as my mother snatches them up, devouring them with the frantic energy of a starved animal. It's moments like this, watching the primal desperation, that I struggle to recognize her as the woman who raised me. She doesn’t even bother to remove the wrappers; everything gets devoured like she can fill the void of hunger that isn’t food related. I know that some part of her hunger for freedom will never happen. I’ve resigned myself to that fact that she will be caged forever.
Standing back, I fix my eyes on her, painfully aware of the maid's presence just a step behind me. The room fills with the harsh sounds of my mother’s ragged eating, the silence between us stretching uncomfortably.
"It makes you think, doesn’t it?" I finally say, my voice low, almost lost amidst the noise.
"What does, ma’am?" the maid replies, her tone neutral, perhaps cautiously curious.
"That all of us, underneath all of our upbringing and laws, are this," I gesture toward my mother, her frenzied state a raw, unsettling exhibit of stripped humanity.
"I don’t know if I agree with you there, ma’am," the maid responds, her tone cautious yet disagreeing.
"Oh, really? Hm." I lean in slightly, lowering my voice with a hint of venom. "It is interesting that, right before I arrived here, you were the one in Wolf’s bed. And now, you are also the one who is actively making my life a living hell."
"This is a tough business, ma'am. Not everyone is made for it," she replies, her voice a blend of defensiveness and resignation.
"Bitch, this business was made for me." The words slip out, icy and sharp, as I reveal the gun strapped to my thigh and raise it to show the maid, who gasps, her eyes widening in shock.
I nod toward the cage. "Open the door."
The maid hesitates, fear flickering over her face, prompting me to fire a shot at her feet, causing her to jump and whimper, the dance of someone trying desperately to avoid being hurt. The noise shatters the calm inside me. The want to draw blood almost consumes me.
"Open the fucking door!" My voice is louder now, harsh and commanding. My heart races with excitement, and a sense of not belonging in my own skin tightens the flesh to my bones.
Tears stream down the maid's face as she begs, "Please, be merciful."
I step closer, flashing a coy, cute smile that masks the brewing storm within me. Grabbing her by the hair as roughly as Wolf has grabbed mine, I draw her close, my voice mocking, "This is a tough business, ma'am."
With a forceful shove, I push her into the cage and swiftly lock the door behind her. My mother, driven mad by whatever chemicals course through her veins, drops the protein bars and lunges at the new prey trapped with her.
My mother’s dig into the maid’s face is fast and animalistic. The maid tries to cover her face, but she is no match for my mother’s insanity. I want to stay and watch, but I’m also aware I fired a gun, and the noise may attract Wolf. A plan had already formed in my mind, stating that the maid had hidden a gun and fired a shot at me as I fed my mother. I had wrestled the gun away and pushed the maid into the cage in a frantic plea to get away. I smile.
As I step away from the cage, the maid's screams join my mother's, filling the corridor with a chilling duet of terror. Walking down the hallway, the reality of what I've done sets in. But around me, silence reigns—no one dares complain or intervene. In this twisted world of Wolf's creation, I've just rewritten the rules, proving that I can play this game just as ruthlessly.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Diarmuid
THE CHURCH, THE bar where men like me convene, welcomes me with the scent of stale beer and old smoke that clings to my clothes instantly.
Lorcan's outside one of the private booths when I spot him. He's leaning against the wall, an impatient smirk playing on his lips as he catches sight of me. He jerks his head, motioning me to follow. The bass from the speakers makes the floor thrum under my feet as we navigate through clusters of drunken revelers.
We push through the velvet curtain into a dimly lit alcove. Ronan is there, the center of a scene that's more steamy than stylish. A dancer straddles him, her movements slow and purposeful, barely clothed and less concerned with dancing than with the man beneath her. Ronan's hands are a mix of tenderness and possession as he traces the curve of her spine, his lips worshiping the exposed skin of her chest.
The moment fractures when Lorcan whistles sharply. Heads turn, and the music seems to fade into the background. Ronan looks up, annoyance flashing in his eyes before he resettles them into a kind of resigned mischief.
