Page 104 of Black Ledger

He reached my collarbone and the hem of the fabric covering my face, keeping him from finding out the full truth. His fingers danced at the fringe, but instead of lifting it, they dove under the fabric and circled my neck. Tightening and leaving indents in my skin.

“Are you going to kill me?” My nostrils flared, and I sank into him, closing my eyes for a moment and feeling his calloused hands around my delicate neck.

He said nothing, his dominant frame towering over me—easily able to end me.

“Do it,” I whispered.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his fingers squeezed for a moment, as if testing how easy it would be to kill me.

But as soon as he pressed down, he released my neck, instead curling the lace veil between his fingers and beginning to lift. But as much as I wanted him to see my face, to lay eyes on my hollow, empty features, see the damage he’d done, it wasn’t time for that. So I disappeared into nothingness, and he was left holding a veil no longer attached to anyone.

I had become a ghost.

Truly.

My physical form faded into the astral plane, my body no longer solid or visible.

The Lethean Order didn’t just violate me, torture me, and brutalize me. They also killed me.

I never made it out of my prison alive.

I died ten years ago. And now I was a Fury, like the violent spirits from Greek mythology; I was an undead monster who hunted the worst of this world.

I was a wraith.

At least some of the time.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Xeniya Morozova

Age 25

Ten Years Ago

Iwas a ragdoll. Played with and propped up for the pleasure of men. A doll. A pretty broken thing.

I must have still been beautiful, despite being unable to see for myself. The cult had no mirrors, and even if they did, it wouldn’t have mattered. All of the men loved to comment on my looks and caress my curves. They touched my face, neck, breasts, and lips. They loved to mold me like clay and whisper their pleasure into my ears.

But since losing my northern light, I was a shell. I slept, I ate, I shit, and I repeated the cycle again and again. I endured.

Empty.

Hollow.

A vessel.

Day after day.

The world was a blur, and I didn’t even try to make sense of it. The light was too bright, and shapes had no edges.

I didn’t care. What would be the point of making sense of a senseless world?

“She’s catatonic,” one of the guards said as someone entered my cell. “She’s lost all her spark and all her life.” He let out a long sigh. “The men have been complaining.”

“Yes, I know.”

The voice hit like a dagger, and I scurried into the corner like a rat in a cage.