Page 18 of The Price Of Possession

I pass through the threshold. Old, mirrored dressing tables and tufted stools line the back wall. I sink into the olive cushioned stool. The reflection staring back at me feels wrong. Stringy blonde hair, sad crystallized eyes. Purple bags stamp under my eyes. My skin is marked and bruised from Kieran. I peer down at my thighs. A branding from Kieran.

The woman comes behind me, meeting my reflection in the mirror. She picks up a strand of my hair. “Don't fret. I can see this life is nothing new to you.” She offers me a pained smile. It's sympathetic. Am I that easy to read? Do I scream walking disaster?

She dolls me up. Mascara, eyeshadow, and eyeliner. It's heavier than I usually apply it but still fitting. She disappears into a room I can only assume is the bathroom. She returns with a washrag and a bowl of soapy water.

She slams it on the wooden vanity in front of me, sloshing it over the rim. “Wash your intimate areas. They want you clean and presentable.”

I wait until she scurries off before I pick up the warm rag. I let the water bead down my hand and wrist. The warmth is welcoming. The pill circulates through my system. It's different from my usual high, more euphoric. My fingertips turn prickly, and my eyes grow heavy.

Hang on, Clara. You can get through it.

Memories flood through me. I can't escape it. I haven't set foot in here since that day. That was the last time. My hands shake at my sides, but I rein in a sense of control. I slip through the double wide metal doors. Familiar faces greet me. High End Elites. Their fathers. Miscellaneous women. The smell of sex and liquor assault my senses. I knew she would make this choice, and I'm eager to do what needs to be done. My father wasted no time calling me to tell me she was the newest addition, as if I didn't already know. I just assumed I had more time to figure shit out. The pressure builds. Nothing could prepare me for the scene before me. My heart spasms hard against my chest cavity.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The picture painted before me is all too familiar. Guilt slams into me, but only for a fleeting moment. I'm different from the boy who was here years ago. I bite my tongue until it bleeds. Resentment and disgust leave a nasty after taste. The cool metal along the roof of my mouth from my tongue piercing distracts me from the endless stares.

I'm shaking. I approach the same corner. The corner where she is set to be displayed as an offering. My breathing is deafening through my hellhound mask. The same mask I had on when I defiled her, whipped her and forced her to my will.

Clara kneels on the cold, hard floor. Her wrists and ankles are bound with a thick chain. Her blonde hair clings to her sweaty, tear-stricken face. She's high as hell. Her make up flows down her cheeks, leaving black streaks on her gorgeous face. She's almost unrecognizable. The Elites have nearly effaced her, but her sharded remains linger. They strapped a collar around her neck like an animal. I can taste her in the air, on the tip of my tongue. Some of the top Elite members surround their sans masks while others are masked for anonymity. She's been used and degraded, only she doesn't look as defeated as the blonde woman did. My Nightshade is stronger. Resilient. I refuse to let these assholes touch what belongs to me. She will be my plaything.

My brain short circuits. Flash backs assault my psyche. Then I see the blonde woman kneeling before me, begging me to free her from this prison. Instead of the hand that freed her from the abyss, I was the weight that ensured she never left it. I'm going to turn her fantasies into a nightmare.

They have her bare on the cold, concrete floor. She's too far gone to notice my presence lurking. Good thing, I'm the last person she wants to see. The disguise helps keep me anonymous–my hellhound mask. My eyes slide closed as I rein in my crazy. I hate what it does to me. The sick cravings I've grown to love. It's a depraved compulsion I can't control. Seeing her so helpless, laid before me as an offering has my insides pricking with a perverse appetite; she hypnotizes me. The need to dominate, to destroy her from the inside out is too great.

The insidious hunger is coming to a head, drowning out the daylight.

I'm not him. I'm not him. I'm…not…him.

My father sits across the room on one of the velvet couches nursing an amber liquid. His presence dominates the room, commanding respect. He will get none from me. Nothing is left of the old Kieran. He took it all, left me to pick up the pieces of myself.

I'm not him.

He pushes off the sofa and approaches cautiously with a smug smile. He knows my mask. The asswipe wants me by the balls. I hate being controlled. I'm letting this play out for now. There will be a time he falls to my feet like the pathetic excuse of a prick he is.

He slithers forward, “I knew you would come to your senses. You are a Grimshaw. We take. We control. We seep power from our veins. She is your vice,” he hisses.

He snakes his arm around my shoulder. I shrug him off. “Fuck you.”

His face becomes stony. “Don't embarrass me. You are who I made you. You can't run from who you are.”

His words slam into me hard. He's twisting my insides with a knife, hoping for my surrender. He knows I cannot resist the temptation laid before me. His strangulating grip threatens to keep me prisoner in his fucked up world.

The dark, fucked up impulse to fuck Clara grows with each passing moment. Each salivating glance thrown her direction sets my insides on fire. This is open warfare, and I refuse to let them win.

My fists clench at my sides. Without thinking, I step back and approach the bar. I sink into the leather stool. Instead of grabbing a single glass, I take the whole bottle of Absinthe. My hands shake along the glass bottle as I bring it to my lips. The burn warms my skin. My free hand finds my pocket. I find the loose pill, running it along my forefinger and thumb. I should keep her sedated, but I want her lucid when I take her. I’m not playing fair, but fuck that shit. She's not been fucked sober enough, time to change that. I know this will shatter her resolve.

Showtime, Nightshade. I'm going to drag you down to my hell. Now that I've got a hold of you, I won't let you go. You are mine.

I push off the barstool. The Elites openly grope her perky tits. She does little to halt their advances. She can't escape it. They've drugged her so heavily, but it's clear she's becoming lucid with each passing moment. The Elites part for my approach. They know exactly who I am, despite the disguise. It's more for her than everyone else. The room goes silent. Her big doe eyes stare into my black abyss. Blank, hazed, and destitute of hope. I crouch down, tilt my head, and free the hair stuck to her cheek. She doesn't recognize me, if she did, she would fight like hell. She's such a beautiful nightmare, drenched in sin. Her anguish fuels my sexual depravity.

Her eyes turn downcast. I grip her chin, forcing her eyes on my mask. I lean forward so only she can hear me.

“I'm going to fuck you until you crave my vitiation. You're such a fractured beauty. I am hellbent on destroying every fracture of happiness you possess and take it for my own.”