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I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here for. The days I don’t see a window have blurred into one, and I’m not fed frequently enough to keep track of it that way either.
If I had to guess, I’d say it’s been at least a year, but it could have been an eternity for all I know.
His hand rests on the top of my head, but he doesn’t say anything. The position we find ourselves in isn’t abnormal. This is how he eats most of his meals, with me kneeling at his feet, usually starving. But the rest of the evening is out of the ordinary, and it’s making me uneasy.
I don’t know how long we sit like this, but it’s long enough that I fall deep into my own mind, the blissful silence allowing me to rest for the first time in what feels like days. Sleep doesn’t really come to me here because in my first few weeks, Cyrus would wake me every few hours with a new form of torture. But sometimes I get these moments where I’m expecting the worst already, but that expectation is almost comforting to me.
Footsteps in the distance register in my mind, but I don’t move. I know better than that.
Cyrus makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat as his fingers glide over my perfectly straightened hair. It’s rare for it to be styled these days because I’m not normally given that kind of time to bathe, but it’s nice to feel completely clean for once.
“You made it.” His cold voice crashes through my calm mind.
“You have her well trained, I see.” A man speaks, but I don’t think we’ve met before.
“Aren’t Cyrus’s whores always?” A woman laughs, and a cold sweat breaks out over the back of my neck.
“I suppose you’re right,” the man says. They’re getting closer, and each step they take toward me has bile climbing higher up my throat.
He’s never brought anyone else near me aside from the staff, and even they have strict instructions not to interact with me. So why are these people here?
I swallow heavily, fighting the urge to look up and to remain as still as possible.
Don’t embarrass him.
Don’t embarrass him.
Don’t embarrass him.
The words chant over and over in my own mind. I can’t take another punishment, not after the last one. I still can’t sit comfortably on the cuts up the backs of my legs where he sliced into me repeatedly before rubbing sea salt into the wounds. My wrists ache from how hard I fought against the binds, and from where the healing process is, I think that was at least a week ago.
I imagine embarrassing him in front of company would result in a much more vicious punishment, seeing as that was the result of me asking for something to eat after being starved for three days beforehand.
“She’s a very good girl,” Cyrus praises me as he stands.
I remain in my place, knowing that unless I’m instructed to move, I must stay where he put me.
“Up,” he commands.
I take a steadying breath and carefully stand, making sure not to hold on to the couch for support. He expects me to be elegant and graceful at all times, especially when there are other people around.
My gaze remains on the pristine cream carpet. If I hadn’t seen Cyrus in here some nights with a glass of scotch, I would think no one ever steps foot in this room, and yet right now there are four people in here.
A pair of red heels appear in my vision. The glossy leather is expensive, a pair I could have only ever dreamed of in my old life.
The woman’s perfectly manicured finger presses beneath my chin, forcing me to look up into her ice-blue eyes. As expected, her blonde hair is styled to perfection, not a hair out of place, and her makeup is flawless. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s in her early forties, not that she looks it, and her knee-length black dress hugs her frame like it was made just for her.
“Pretty eyes,” she comments, but not to me. Never to me.
“Yes, they’re quite unusual,” Cyrus agrees. “It’s been quite the treat watching the hope dim from them.”
I fight the urge to flinch at his words. I thought I was broken before I came here, that my last owner broke me with all the disgusting things he did to me and forced me to do, but I had no idea how bad it could be until I was dragged through the front door of this mansion.
Cyrus is sadistic.
His tastes are pitch black, and he treats me as nothing more than a toy for him to do whatever he wants with. I used to think once he trained me, things would get better. That once I was a perfect little toy for him, that his sadistic needs would ease. But if anything, they’ve gotten worse.
“Strip,” the woman commands, and for a second, I’m frozen in place. I don’t know if I’m allowed to follow her orders or if Cyrus will be upset by that. He’s never introduced me to anyone before.
