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He clicks the safety of the gun back in place, grabs a clean white silk napkin from the dining table next to him, and wipes his gun down as if splatters of blood dared to stain his weapon of choice. He does it nice and slow, allowing the silence to draw itself out before he slides the gun back into its designated holster. Discarding the napkin with a flick, it slowly flutters onto the guard’s lifeless body.
When his eyes meet mine, my tears run down my cheeks.
He doesn’t react to the sight.
Those eyes of honey and hazelnut just bore into my glassy ones.
Merciless.
“Let this be a fucking warning to all of you,” he announces. “Touch what’s ours again, and you’ll enjoy the same fate as that piece of garbage.”
His words are heard loud and clear without anyone saying a single word. When a full minute of quietness appeases him, his focus is solely on me.
“Iva.” I must be hallucinating with how his voice has softened just a smidge to say my name specifically. “You may leave. Don’t go against your Kings’ orders again.”
“Yes, my King,” I manage to say, realizing how my lip slightly trembles. My reaction has to be based on shock. Yet the way heat rushes to my core and how my nipples harden from this display of dominance is what one would call mindfuckery.
Swallowing the lump forming in my throat, I managed to get up without looking like a wobbling fool and turn away. EnsuringI avoid anyone’s gaze, the sound of my heels clicking against the marble floor confirms my departure from these hollow walls.
Even as I get further away, I can’t catch a sound. No spoken words. No shifts in movement. It’s as if I’m living alone in this massive, lifeless mansion.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long, and I manage not to stain my dress with water after washing my mouth far too many times. I don’t know where to go to try to leave this place without being “seen.”
I want to follow orders, but the lingering heaviness of what happened to me is beginning to weigh me down.
Step by step, as I walk through these familiar walls of white with their ceiling-high windows and various works of neutral art, I’m fighting not to completely lose myself.
It’s not until the chilled air hits me do I realize I’m on the balcony on the other side of the mansion. It’s the space I used to sit and wait for Father to pick me up after he finalized things with Mr. Leighton.
Domino isn’t one who likes heights, so it’s the one place I could manage to hide, knowing he wouldn’t come and bully me some more after a day of endless scrutiny.
That could be why it’s so easy to crumble down, curl up in a ball, and cry my fucking eyes out. I want to scream. Shout. Let the whole world feel my wrath and anguish. Instead, all I can get out are whimpers as I slam my fists into the concrete floor. It’s to the point where every slam is utterly painful, but I need the agony.
The physical trauma reminds me that I’m a survivor.
I survived my shitty childhood.
I endured the endless taunts and the ongoing ridicule from peers.
The burns, the nightmares, the forced instances to be nothing but quiet and entertain those who control my fucking life.
I went through it all… and lived.
This isn’t any different.
Does it make it easier to endure? No.
But I’ll face it. Overcome it.
Then, when the time is right, I’ll seek vengeance.
I try to slam my hand one more time to affirm my thoughts, but it’s caught in another’s palm.
The touch forces me to lift my head, only to still at the person holding my clenched fists. My eyes widen, and I wonder if I’m hallucinating because of my unintentional hunger strike.
Blinking my eyes a few times, I confirm I’m not seeing things.
A man is crouching on the ledge of the balcony, their hand the culprit in holding my fist that I realize isn’t just bruised but bleeding.
