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“Be careful, Willow Girl. I can crush you.”
When she blinks, tears streak down her cheeks.
I watch her; wild horses couldn’t drag my attention from her right now. I am lost in her sad, frightened, midnight-colored eyes. The blue is lighter when she cries and she’s so fucking pretty right now, so soft and vulnerable and afraid with her wet face, her swollen lips and wide eyes.
Some women are prettiest when they cry. She’s one of them. And I want her tears. It’s sick, I know. A disease. I’m sick. But I want them.
“Won’t you crush me anyway?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. “But is that all you’ll do? All your brothers will do?”
I release her and step back. I understand her meaning. We don’t take the Willow Girl for her conversation skills. She’ll be our toy in every way. And this part, I can’t kick the fact that it bothers me.
“You stay in here and try to wrap your brain around your situation.”
“Stay in here? Where would I go? We’re on a fucking airplane.”
“Take this time to come to fucking terms with the fact that I own you.”
“Fuck you.”
I snort. “Want some advice, Helena?” I ask, taking her by the arms. Squeezing. “Try to figure out how not to piss me off. It might help you to remember that you belong to me. That I am your master, and that I will be obeyed. Are we clear?”
When she doesn’t answer right away, I give her a shake.
“Are we?” I ask.
“Yes!”
“Good” I go to the door,
“I saw Libby,” she whispers. “She was my aunt.”
I stop, my hand on the doorknob.
“The last Willow Girl,” she says, as if I need that clarified.
I straighten. I know.
I remember Libby.
I turn to her. “Have a fucking drink. Have ten. Get yourself together.”
Her chest heaves with a sob, and she wipes the back of her hand across her face.
I open the door and walk out into the main room where my family, my fucking family, has been enjoying the entertainment.
“She givin’ you some trouble, brother?” Ethan asks, picking the olive out of his drink and tossing it into his mouth. “Told you that you should have taken one of the others. They were prettier anyway. Mama, don’t you think so? They were prettier.”
Lucinda ignores him. “You should whip her, Sebastian. The instant we arrive. It’s the only thing that works on the Willow whores.”
She drains her martini.
I go to the liquor cart, yank the glass out of the attendant’s hand, and pour myself a double. I take a long sip before turning to them.
“I’m glad you enjoyed the show, but where it concerns my Willow Girl, mind your own fucking business.”4HelenaI do as he says, but only after sitting on the bed for a while and feeling sorry for myself.
I’m wasting tears on them, on my enemy. I’m weak. God, not twenty-four hours ago, I was staring him down, ready for him, wanting him to choose me only because I thought he wouldn’t.
But I’m pathetic and weak.
I get up off the bed and pick up the glass he left unfinished and drain it. I don’t especially like whiskey, but I force it down and pour more. Pour another, generous glass of the stuff. It’s inelegant, I know, but I don’t care.
I sit on the edge of the bed and drink it like it’s water, and when I’m finished with it, I crawl onto the bed with my hideous shoes still on my feet and lay down on my side and I cry some more.
He’s right. I need to get myself together. But first, I need to get this out of my system. Get my fear gone.
I look at my aunt’s ring. She thinks I’m strong, but she’s wrong. I’m weak. So weak. So opposite her.
When my mother sat us down on our sixteenth birthday and told us this part of Willow history, I swore I wouldn’t be the Willow Girl because it scared the fuck out of me. And as soon as I could, I made sure I wouldn’t pass the virginity requirement, thinking it would save me.
So yeah, I’m weak.
A coward.
“There’s a reason it was you, child.”
I sit up, reach into my boot, and take out pocketknife. I’ve had it forever, but never even dissected a worm with it. I open it now, touch the sharp point, press it into the tip of my finger until I draw a drop of blood.
“They chose you, Helena. The Willow ancestors chose you.”
I wish I knew more about our history. I wish I’d studied the books in the library rather than pretending it wasn’t real. That it was an archaic tradition. That I was safe.
I don’t know what binds the Willows and the Scafonis. What has bound us for generations. When I was little, and my Aunt Libby returned home, we were told she’d been on a trip. I was too young to ask questions. That same summer, she slit her wrists on the old bed in the attic of the Willow family home.
