Page 6 of Fangs

The word hangs between us like a noose.

“To whom?” I keep my voice level even as my bound hands begin to tremble.

“Wrong question.” One of them laughs. “You should be asking why.”

Another voice continues, ignoring the mockery. “At the auction you’re sold to the highest bidder. A lord. A lady. Anyone with enough coin to buy exactly what they want. And they’ll want you, Lucy. They crave fresh meat to feed their depraved hunger.”

My stomach twists. I keep my face blank. I may have grown up in a muddy village, but I’m not a complete fool. I know what men become when they believe nothing can stop them from taking.

“Enough!” The leader’s shout cracks through the carriage. “You talk too damned much. Focus. We must leave The Order’s territory before sunset. Speed up.”

No one dares another word.

I always dreamed of leaving that village. I thought freedom would taste like new horizons and clean air. I never imagined this. Bound. Stripped of every scrap of will. Delivered like a sealed package to four Masters and their mercy.

Four men will own me.

What the hell did I expect when I accepted this bargain? Hard labor in my father’s place? Simple work to clear a debt? The phrase refuses to leave me: ‘fresh meat to feed their depraved hunger.’

Time dissolves inside my own racing thoughts until iron gates scream open. The sound drives straight into my chest like a death knell.

“We’re here.”

I taste my own fear, metallic on my tongue.

Hands clamp my arms hard enough to bruise bone. They haul me out. I stumble on gravel, heels catching on stones. The blindfold is ripped away and light stabs my eyes like knives.

The manor looms above me, all dark stone and razor angles, windows staring down like hollow eyes. Torches line the path. Their flames twist and leap in the twilight, throwing long shadows that reach for my feet as if they already own me.

This is where I die.

No. This is where I survive.

My mother’s voice rises fierce and clear. You’re stronger than you know, my girl. Remember that. Remember who you are.

I lock my spine straight. I lift my chin. I let them see every inch of me: the tattered dress, the rope burns on my wrists, the raw defiance burning in my eyes.

“Move.”

A brutal shove drives me up the stone steps and through the massive oak doors.

Ceilings climb so high they vanish into black. Chandeliers of golden iron drip with candles that throw restless, flickering light across marble floors polished enough to throw my own reflection back at me like a ghost. Tapestries cover the walls with scenes of hunt and feast and darker things I can’t name.

And the smell. Wax. Woodsmoke. A floral scent, like lilies left to rot in stagnant water. Beneath it all the iron tang of blood, faint but unmistakable. I convince myself I invent it.

My cage. This place is a tomb.

“There she is. Our new pet.”

The voice is smooth as polished stone and twice as cold. I spin toward it.

Four figures descend the grand staircase. My breath locks in my throat.

They wear black and crimson, coats moving around them like living wings. Torchlight carves faces too perfect, too sharp, for ordinary men. Each one more striking than the last. Nothing in my muddy village ever looked like this.

One steps forward and addresses the men who delivered me. “Thank you for your service. Now take your gang and get off our land. You know these roads turn dangerous after dark. We wouldn’t want anyone to…linger.”

“Always a pleasure to serve the Order, Lord McAllister. Have a good evening.” The leader tips his hat and vanishes into the night.