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She touches it, traces one part of it, then turns the heavy sheet backward and stops.
Her Aunt Libby is staring back at her. Two photographs. One when she arrived on property, and one on the day before her release.
Beneath each image is a date and a signature, one belonging to her, the other to my father. The oldest son is the one responsible for the girl over the three years.
Helena stands to get a better look. She touches the photograph, then turns the page backward again, to the ones containing the two photographs her great-aunt.
“There aren’t many of you born with dark hair,” Joseph says. “Or at least not the chosen girls.”
She looks up at him with hate in her eyes.
“I guess the Scafoni men have a preference for blondes, but I don’t think chosen is the right word. This isn’t a privilege. It’s a condemnation.”
“Helena,” I warn.
She ignores me and returns her attention to her aunt’s image.
I don’t need to look to see what she sees. I’ve memorized this tome. And I know that as she scrolls through the pages of the Willow Girls who came before her, her namesake will be the only photograph where in the second image, the girl still has life in her eyes. Is still wearing a smile.
In the case of her aunt, the smile appears almost demented. Maybe she’d gone insane by the end.
Joseph begins explaining what will happen today. She’s still looking through the book though, back to when photographs were black-and-white, back when instead of photographs, hand-drawn sketches fill the pages. She then turns through the rest of it, flipping through all the empty pages, the destinies of the future Willow Girls, until she has enough and slams the book closed.
“Let’s get this done, then. Where do you want me?” Her hands are fisted.
I rise to my feet.
She’s looking around the room like she’s searching for a spot.
“This is your second warning,” I say, squeezing her elbow.
She turns to me, fire burning in her eyes. “I don’t care.”
Joseph rises, clears his throat. “This way,” he says, not an ounce of formal elegance lost as he opens a door to a smaller room off his office.
Helena doesn’t move at first, doesn’t move until I nudge her. When we pass Joseph into the room, he gives me a knowing smile.
“There’s always a bit of this at the first photograph,” he says, emphasis on the word first.
She turns to him, and I wrap my hand around her arm because she’s going to leap at him.
Joseph holds up a hand. “She’s new, Sebastian. Hasn’t yet learned. I promise it will be very different very soon. As soon as you get a handle on her.”
“A handle on me?” Helena snorts. “Like a leash? How do you know, anyway, that it’ll be different?” she asks. “Do you visit the island? See what they do? Join in?” She tries to pull free, but I squeeze. “You’re all sadists, you know that?”
He only smiles.
“Give us a few minutes, please, Joseph.”
“Of course.” He leaves the room, closes the door behind him.
I release her as soon as he’s gone and unbuckle my belt. “Against the wall. Lift your skirt.” I pull my belt loose of the loops and watch her jump at the whooshing sound of it.
“Go to hell!”
I stalk over to her, covering the space in just three steps. Frantically looking around, she picks up the only thing in the room besides the camera set on its tripod, which is a wooden stool.
“I’m warning you, Sebastian!”
I almost chuckle, grab a leg of the stool and tug, pulling her off balance, relieving her of it. She stumbles as the stool goes clattering to the ground, laying on its side. She takes a step backward, presses her back against the wall. I double the belt in my hand, squeeze the buckle of it in my palm, feel the metal dig into my skin, breaking it.
“Turn around and lift your skirt.”
“Like I said, go to hell.”
“Oh, Helena. You are fun. Turn.”
“You’ll have to make me.”
“With pleasure.”
I spin her around and wrap one hand around the back of her neck and, without a second thought, I raise my right arm and bring the belt down on the backs of her calves.
She cries out, tries to cover herself.
I raise the belt again and this time, bring it down on the crease of her knees, the sound of leather on flesh making my dick hard.
Her cry is louder this time, and I quickly follow it up with a third stroke.
“Ready to lift your skirt?”
“I hate you. I hate you so much!”
I lean in close, my mouth to her ear. “I don’t care.” I strap behind her knees once more, and they buckle.
“Your ass, Helena. Now. Or you won’t be walking for the next few days.”
She’s crying, and she moves slowly, but finally her trembling hands raise her skirt up to her waist.
