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My hands tremble as I grip the black marble counter beside the sink. One hand holds me partially upright; the other seeks out the hem of my dress.
Wincing, I gingerly brush up the length of my inner thighs. Running my shaking fingers across the surface of my skin to check for bruising. My underwear is still in place, but that doesn’t guarantee nothing happened to me in the hours I’ve been knocked out. I take my time lowering the fabric to around knee height and begin slowly testing around my core. With two fingers, I press at my entrance while dread lurks within my mind at what I might discover there.
I gently, and carefully, examine myself.
All the while focusing on drawing in long, deep inhales through my nose.
That’s about all I can do, considering the circumstances.
My skin feels smooth. There’s no foreign residue left on my flesh that would send me into an immediate anxiety attack. No bruises that make me wince. No swelling or other indication that something happened to me while I was drugged.
Relief pours through my veins like a monsoon. Followed by violent nausea, which rushes at me like a wailing banshee, roaring in my ears and tearing me apart with teeth and claws.
The next thing I know I’m clutching the rim of the toilet. Hurling up nothing but bile. My stomach empties itself, convulsing while my body spasms with each disgusting, retching noise.
As the urge passes, I slump to one side and rest my clammy forehead on the cool floor tiles. It’s hard to know if my being sick is purely from relief, or the after-effects of whatever drugs they shot me up with. Maybe both.
Eventually, the foul taste in my mouth gets the better of me. While my hands are nothing but a jittering mess, I manage to drag myself upright and hang over the sink. Focus on the small steps. Which means scooping some mouthfuls of water from the tap to my lips. Eyeing up the expensive-looking black marble and modern copper fixtures of the hand basin as I swish and spit out several times, before ravenously gulping down a few handfuls.
There’s nothing in here to use as a makeshift weapon. I’m certain that is entirely intentional on the part of the fuck-faces who took me. Or, the more likely explanation, based on orders given by my father.
My feet are bare. Not having footwear makes the prospect of escaping more challenging—although not impossible—without something to protect my soles from getting cut to shreds.
But there’s no time like the present to assess my options. I’m not going to sit here waiting til someone comes and either takes advantage, forcing themselves on me, or finishes off what these men have started.
On rubbery legs, I move over to the door and twist the lock open as quietly as possible, taking a second to confirm the bedroom is still empty before leaving my place of safety. Being forced into captivity or stolen like this was always a risk, especially if my past was going to one day catch up with me.
The Anguis do not tolerate anyone—no matter what your family lineage might be—leaving their clutches.
I know what I’m looking for, and every suspicion is confirmed when my eyes fall on the symbol that has haunted me for decades. On the sleek, black bedside table lies a small card. Cut from a heavy-weight black textured card stock, on the back a gold embossed ouroboros serpent reveals itself. Curled around in that familiar circular shape, swallowing its own tail with bared fangs and wild eyes.
The eternal cycle.
Every Household within the Anguis has its symbol. This one belongs to Noire House.
My father’s legacy, that I have done everything in my power to escape from.
Wrapping both hands around the back of my neck, I exhale a shaky breath. Seeing that symbol tells me all that I need to know. While my imprisonment might not come with handcuffs and torture, yet, there’s no doubting that I’m here as a captive.
For how long, or to what end? Well, I can only imagine that is going to be up to my father.
I refuse to fucking cry.
That man deserves nothing but a slit throat and to have his insides strewn for the crows to feast upon, like in some medieval torture scene.
He doesn’t get my tears.
Crossing to the offending tarot card, I flip it over. As I suspected, the symbol of Death stares vacantly back. A gold skull surrounded by a snake that winds through the toothy mouth and reappears with a forked tongue protruding through the right eye. On the other side of the skull’s face, a moth hovers over the empty left eye socket.
My heart is thrumming a steady rhythm that keeps me alert to every possible nightmarish reality coming for me. Or, more to the point, whoever might turn up at any moment is the sickening reality now facing me.
I was never anything more than a piece of flesh for my father to bargain and trade with—a jewel in his crown of bloodied bones. There’s every possibility he’s made his deals, sold my body, and now I’m the prized lamb being readied for slaughter.
To be forced into a fucked up arrangement, all in the name of greasy, syphilitic, old men making grabs for power.
He’d threatened me with that future enough times before I’d even turned sixteen.
Those men would arrive day and night, and he insisted on parading me in front of them. Aged men who examined me with sick hunger in their eyes and only saw the keys to the Noire House empire.
