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Lasers of hate beam from Agatha’s eyes when she spins around to face him again. “You want to fuck her for pleasure, Remus? Fine. But you can sleep by yourself, if you do.”
He jumps in her personal space, hands balled to tight fists. “You know I can’t sleep by myself!”
Agatha smiles in victory, and to a large extent, I do, as well. Inwardly, of course. “Then, you’ll wait until she’s fertile.”
The exaggerated huff he expels reminds me of a puppet show I watched back in Szolen when I was a child, and I’m waiting for him to spin around dramatically with his arms outstretched, as if hands are propping them outward, and smack his face against the bed. Instead, he gives me a sidelong glance, eyes brimming with irritation. “But she’s so … beautiful. And I’m horny.”
Lips creased to a smile, Agatha drags her fingertip down his cheek. “I never said you couldn’t play with her.”
When both gazes swing toward me, my heart hitches, and I pull the dress up higher. I back myself toward the wall and, like a cornered animal, search my space for an opportunity to escape.
The guard steps toward me.
Remus holds out a hand, his smile every bit as slimy and fake as the tone of his voice, when he says, “Come here, Dove.”
Muscles keening with the urge to run away, and hands curled into tight fists at my sides, I shake my head. Prior to whacking the priest over the head, I’ve never hit a man besides my father, and only in play. I’ve never engaged in a physical fight in my life before getting myself kicked out of Szolen, though I’ve had a fair share of heated verbal debates. I can be sharp in tongue, but I’m no match for a man as ruthless as Remus.
As if elated by my defiance, Remus breaks into a full-on grin and gives the guard behind me a nod. By the time I turn my attention to him, he’s already launched his fist toward my face, and the crack of his knuckles against my jaw shoots a jolt of pain to my temples. I stumble backward, and the wall crashes into my spine, while circles float before my eyes. When the blurry world finally sharpens into one view, Remus is crouched in front of me.
“Your defiance is music to my ears. The more you resist, the quicker I paint your flesh in pain.”
I want more than anything to hear the crack of cartilage in his nose as I kick him square in the face. Tears blur my eyes as I stare back at him, the dull ache of the punch serving as a reminder not to act on my urges.
He reaches out a hand, and when I don’t accept it right away, he lifts his gaze toward the guard standing over us who lurches forward.
I reach out before I have to take another hit, and as Remus threads his bony fingers into mine, he waves off the guard.
From the time I was a child, I’ve always had a plan for my life. I’ve always known what I wanted from this world.
As I hobble behind Remus, who leads me toward the strange, angled cross at the other side of the room, all the plans for my future converge into one single objective: survive.
Chapter 13
No matter what happens to me. What they do to my body. What they take for their pleasure. I have to survive. For my sake and for Will’s.
Locked away in a cell, he has no chance for escape, which leaves me his only option.
I’ve guarded my virtue for far too long, and at the end of the road, I’m still grasping to hang onto it. And what will happen if I do?
If I fight Remus, I may die. My best friend might die.
With his soft, skinny hand, Remus guides me toward a set of tools that hang from a wall beside the cross. “As a gentleman, I’ll let you choose,” he says, running his knuckles through the hanging braids of each whip.
I’ve never been so much as spanked before, not even as a child when I did something wrong. I have no idea what these objects might feel like against my flesh.
While my head scrambles to disappear from all of this, Remus waits expectantly, tipping his head.
“Or I can choose, if you’d prefer.”
“Wait.” Too thin might break the skin. Too thick will undoubtedly hurt worse. I opt for the whip that looks like it’ll do the least damage and lower my head as I point to it.
“Excellent choice.” Taking my hand in his, Remus leads me toward the cross, where he yanks away my dress.
All at once, I feel vulnerable and cold, small and feeble. Weakness in my knees begs me to collapse, and a layer of tears blur my eyes as I stand before the object, now realizing its purpose. Both Remus and Agatha secure my wrists and ankles into the cuffs, which are attached to metal loops that have been nailed into the wood.
The unforgiving object doesn’t move as I tremble against it, my forehead resting against my outstretched arm. Every intimate part of me on display for his grotesque pleasure. In the stillness that follows, I try to imagine the sting on my skin. The chasing burn. Bruises from the small knots of leather at the end of each braid. I once saw a gypsy publicly whipped, after he broke into a house for some food. The crowd cheered, but all I could do was cry for the man and the horrific grooves left in his back.
A warm, shuddering breath falls against my shoulder at the same time as Remus’s soft, clawed fingers skate over my hips. “You are an exquisite canvas,” he whispers. “Creamy white skin. Flawless.” He squeezes the cheeks of my ass and moans.
